Rambling Rhodes

Happy 4th Of July

I probably won't be doing much in the way of blogging over the weekend. I have plans to cook out, and camp, and light fireworks, and rollerblade, and just enjoy the long weekend in general.

I suggest you all go do the same. Set aside your political gripes. Celebrate America because, for all its shortcomings, this truly is an amazing country.

Crack a beer. Fly your flags with pride. Go to a parade. Watch fireworks. Light fireworks. Visit your local burn unit. Get a skin graft.

Happy birthday, America. God bless us all.

The Slow Roommate

During my fourth year of college, living in the Shark Shack, I shared a house with four other roomies. They were all decent guys, for the most part, when they weren't blindingly drunk, I mean.

Well, one of the roommates, who went by the nickname "Spoon" (an eating utensil with which he shared roughly the same IQ) routinely offered up examples of why he wasn't doing the human race any favors by gracing it with his presence.

Some examples:

Spoon was a rather selfish guy. In addition to having one of the largest rooms in the house, he also furnished it with some of the loudest stereo equipment this side of Audio King. Unfortunately, my room was right next to his, so it was a common exercise for me to walk into his room and tell him to TURN THAT SHIT DOWN! He never seemed to grasp the enormity of his inconsiderate actions. Spoon did what Spoon wanted to do.

For about the first month or so, Spoon kept his television downstairs in the living room, for use by all the roommates. Then, one day, Spoon up and decided that he wanted his television up in his own room. Imagine our surprise when we sat down to watch the "X-Files" and there was no TV to be found. So, I brought my TV downstairs so we could, once again, have a communal television.

Spoon came bounding down the stairs, and he assessed the situation for awhile, and finally he spoke.

"I thought I brought my TV upstairs," he said.

"Yes, you did," said Rob.

"But, you guys are watching TV," said Spoon.

"Yes, we are," said Craig.

"But, whose TV is that?" asked Spoon.

"That would be mine," I answered.

"Sooooo, you brought your TV downstairs?" asked Spoon in all seriousness.

All heads turned in the direction of Spoon, with not one of us able to fully believe the dialogue that had just transpired.

...

Another time, Rob, Craig, Troy and myself decided to order some pizzas. So, we dialed up Little Caesar's. Shortly after the pizzas were delivered, as we sat there cramming our faces with greasy goodness, Spoon came home from work.

Spoon stood there for awhile, assessing the situation. He noted the two boxes, clearly marked "Little Caesar's," with the little Roman cartoon dude, and then Spoon spoke.

"You guys ordered up some Dominoes, eh?"

"Yes," answered Troy. "But we decided to put the pizzas in Little Caesar's boxes to confuse you."

"Really? Why?"

All heads turned in the direction of Spoon, with not one of us able to fully believe the dialogue that had just transpired.

...

One Friday night, Rob went for a beer run. He took down everyone's respective orders, and returned about half an hour later toting several 12 packs. Well, he got Spoon's order wrong, apparently. Instead of Bud Lite, Rob had accidently brought home regular old Budweiser.

Spoon was so upset over the bungled order, he went and punched a wall. Seeing as how the wall consisted of sheetrock, Spoon's fist pretty much went effortlessly through the wall, leaving a Spoon-fist-sized hole for all the world to see.

Spoon was extremely pleased with the result, and the damned hole in the wall was all he could talk about for the next hour or so. Apparently, he thought punching through sheetrock constituted some sort of major masculine accomplishment.

"If you're so damned proud of the hole, why don't you make another one?" I finally said, sick of Spoon's bragging over something so stupid. "You know, why not make it twice the pride?"

I really didn't expect Spoon to take the advice literally, but that's exactly what he did. He ambled on back to the wall, cocked his fist back, and punched at a spot about six inches to the left of the previous hole.

Except, that time around, the moron punched a stud. The sheetrock buckled, but the 2x4 stud steadfastly held its ground, and Spoon's hand basically folded in on itself and made a not-too-quiet popping noise.

At first, Spoon just looked surprised, but in short order he fell to his knees, cradling his hand, letting loose a low gutteral moan that indicated rather substantial pain. He stayed that way for about 20 minutes.

The rest of us watched TV.

So, I Have A Problem With This

The top news item on the MSNBC.com Web site right now features the following headline: "In court, Saddam says ‘real criminal is Bush’"

Now, call me old fashioned, but I just find myself thinking that a better, far less biased, headline might read "Saddam Faces Iraqi Court." But, no, the editorial minds at MSNBC.com apparently think the most newsworthy aspect of the whole thing is that Saddam says Bush is the real criminal. I mean, seriously, what did you think Hussein would have to say? Do you think he'd sit there and praise the man who knocked him from power?

Of course, it's in vogue right now to call the Bush administration a bunch of criminals so, apparently, when Saddam Hussein, one of the most vile leaders of the last half century, takes the stand and calls Bush a criminal, well, that's big news.

I mean, see? Even Saddam Hussein is saying it, and Heaven knows that the only reason Saddam is facing a court full of Iraqis he's oppressed over the past three decades is because Bush went and pursued a war deemed illegal by a U.N. organization that had a vested interest in keeping Saddam in power and, as such, there was no way in holy hell that any action would have been taken against Saddam under the U.N.'s watch. So, there you have it. Bush is the criminal. Saddam's the victim.

Is this how screwed up the collective minds in the media have become?

Poor, poor Saddam.

Credit Cards and Buyer's Remorse

I've never been in debt. Okay, that's not entirely true. Yes, I've been in the kind of debt where I had to make car payments, and I'm currently in the kind of debt that says I have to make house payments.

I've never been in credit card debt, however. Truth be told, I've never even owned a credit card. I don't trust them. I've been conditioned not to trust them thanks to many years of living with college roommates.

Most of my college roommates had this weird outlook on credit cards. Basically, they thought credit cards were magical pieces of plastic that just magically paid for things and that they were somehow immune from the the ensuing debt that came about due to excessive credit card spending.

I'll admit it: I was sort of jealous of my roommates and their magical credit cards. After all, they always seemed to have money and, if they didn't, they just whipped out their credit cards. Books? Put them on the credit card. Food? Put it on the credit card. Night out at a strip club? credit card.

And yet there I was writing checks and budgeting like a fool. I remember thinking that I was doing everything all wrong. I mean, there I would sit, meticulously lording over my finances, while my roommates went waltzing all over town swiping their credit cards with the careless glee of a six-year-old with a loaded pistol.

Then, one year, I was a roommate with a guy named Chad. Chad was actually a former high school classmate of mine. He was, and is, a tech-head. He's one of those guys who was born to know technology. Way back in elementary school, he taught me how to write simple programs for the Apple IIc, and he always just seemed to know everything about computers.

But he didn't know shit about personal finances. He whipped out any one of his many credit cards with the swiftness and ease of a Old West gunslinger. By the time we became roommates, he had already accrued over $10,000 in credit card debt.

I remember thinking what an incredibly large amount of money that seemed to be, especially when I factored in the understanding that he also received financial aid, and that he also worked. Granted, he worked at the local Brach's candy factory on the Gummi Bear line, which paid about as well as you might imagine, but it was still money, so I came to the conclusion that old Chad was a pretty carefree spender.

Well, one day, I popped into Chad's outrageously messy room where I noticed, tucked between two huge bags of pilfered defective Gummi Bears, a credit card notice that was slugged "Urgent!" and another that was slugged "Immediate Payment Required" and still another that read "We Break Fingers And Toes."

Then the calls started coming in, usually two or three a day. "Is Mr. Haugen available? We really need to speak with him." No, he's not here. "Are you sure you're not really Mr. Haugen?" Yes, I'm sure. "Well, when he comes in, have him call Mike at Discover immediately." *sound of shotgun cocking* Will do.

Chad was masterful when it came to avoiding creditors. He always seemed to leave the apartment just two or three minutes before a creditor called. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. Which was all fine and dandy, except that I ended up being the intermediary between Chad and the creditors, so I got to absorb all the impatient anger and suspicion of basically every credit card company on the planet.

It was the day a creditor appeared, in person, at our doorstep that I realized Chad's debt situation was probably more dire than Chad cared to admit. There was a knock at the door, I answered, and a gentleman in a suit that looked both impressive and threatening stood before me. He asked to see a Mr. Chad Haugen, at which point I heard a little scuffling emanating from Chad's room as Chad scurried out the back entrance which, conveniently, was located at the far end of his bedroom.

We chatted together, the ominous creditor and me, for about an hour, waiting for Chad to get home, even though, of course, there was no way in holy hell Chad was going to make an appearance while that guy was in our apartment. I even had to produce my ID, so the creditor was satisfied that I wasn't, in fact, Chad Haugen.

After that, I believe, Chad ended up getting a loan from his parents, or somebody, so he could pay off his credit card debt at least enough to keep the creditors at bay. He eventually got a job working at IBM, which was a long-assed commute from Winona to Rochester, but paid a whole lot more than the Gummi Bear line.

As for me, Chad's experience with credit cards pretty much scared me away from plastic for good.

Buyer's Remorse

So, over the weekend, my girlfriend and I hopped across the border to Wisconsin (okay, we didn't hop, we drove) in search of fireworks. Granted, you can buy fireworks in Minnesota, but they're the uber-wimpy kind, the kind that spark and fizzle like wet road flares. Still, I guess I have to give Minnesota a little credit for making SOME fireworks legal. Even sucky fireworks are still fireworks.

Well, it's a funny thing about fireworks' laws in Minnesota and Wisconsin. You see, Wisconsin, too, has restrictions on the type of fireworks Wisconsin residents can buy. If you're a Wisconsin resident, for example, fireworks that explode in the air, like bottlerockets, and dynamite, are illegal.

However, if you're a Minnesota resident buying fireworks in Wisconsin, well, you can buy whatever the hell you want, even though those fireworks are mega-illegal in Minnesota. The only catch is that, even though Minnesota residents can buy the illegal fireworks in Wisconsin, they can't light them off in Wisconsin.

So, basically, you can buy all the illegal fireworks you want in Wisconsin, but if you ever intend to actually light them off, you're going to have to break a law somewhere along the line.

I have no problem with that.

So, I bought the big stuff on Saturday. I bought the artillery shells that go boom in the air, and I bought bottlerockets so complex, they look like they were constructed for space flight. And I bought firecrackers, and I bought Roman candles, and I bought sparklers (okay, that wasn't my choice, that was the girlfriend). I bought about $100 worth of pyrotechnics.

And now I'm left thinking, "why the hell did I blow $100 on shit that's just going to blow up and disappear?"

I go through this every year. I get all excited about buying fireworks. I buy the fireworks. Then I wonder why I bought the fireworks. It's a nasty cycle. Thank goodness it only happens once a year.

Well, at least my 4th of July will be bright, colorful and loud. I sure could use that $100 though, because I'm kinda hungry.

UPDATE: Remember, folks, be careful out there with your fireworks and, for God's sake, don't play with grenades.

Dave Barry's at it again, needling the folks over at Poetry.com. For a reminder of one of his previous jabs at Poetry.com, go here.

Well, this time around, it appears the theme is to conjure a poem about a pustule or numerous putules, and sign each poem with the last name "Pustule" so people can view your creative genius. I'm nothing if not a sucker for pustule poetry, so here are my submissions.

"Pus Comes From Behind" by Freemont Xavier Pustule

I awoke today, as I often do, and felt a pain on my posterior
So I hopped up on the bathroom sink, and aimed my butt right at the mirror.

What I saw there frightened me, and it would have frightened you as well
A pus-filled mound was rooted there, but what it was I couldn't tell.

It was large, golf ball in size, and it was slightly leaking.
There wasn't much that I could do, except start pinching and start tweaking.

I cannot lie to you my friends, each pinch was filled with pain.
Shooting shocks went seering up, from my butt up to my brain.

Yet valiantly I pinched and tweaked, until finally I felt it,
The pustule popped with surprising force, and suddenly I smelled it.

My mirror was all splashed with pus, and the odor was intense.
So, I hopped down off the bathroom sink, and lit up some incense.

Now, of course, the mirror's clean, and my butt now sports three stitches.
But I can tell you, without a single doubt, butt pustules are real bitches.

Dang it! That one was denied! I'll have to try again.

"Farewell To Pustule" by Freemont Xavier Pustule

A pustule sprouted upon my thigh
Dribbling a white, foul juice
The pain was enough to make me cry
As if I needed an excuse.

To the sewing room I ran
Intent on only just one thing.
Find the biggest sewing needle I can.
And forget about the string.

Armed with a three inch needle lance,
Sharpened to perfection,
I proceeded to quickly drop my pants
And said a prayer against infection.

I jabbed the pustule through and through,
And the pain was just exquisite.
Like I was giving myself my own tattoo,
Or the In-laws paid a visit.

It was over quick, the deed was done
And the pustule diminished.
I can tell you though, that wasn't fun,
And I'm glad the thing is finished.

Fire Drill

During my first year of college, I had a dorm room entirely to myself. It was a harsh introduction to the realities of living on my own, such as it was, because I had no idea what it meant to decorate and furnish my own living space.

I'm a utilitarian kind of guy. I don't do aesthetics. My idea of decorating is, well, a picture of a tiger charging the camera. I've always basically kind of relied on whatever girl I happened to be dating to make decorating decisions, a philosophy that worked well provided I had a girlfriend.

Therefore, for pretty much my entire college career--and, trust me, it was a career--my wall decorations consisted almost entirely of posters of expensive sports cars I could never afford, and impossibly seductive women in varying stages of undress who I could never expect to sleep with. Oh, and I had a poster of Bruce Lee, too, which I can't really explain beyond the fact he's the toughest guy who ever died.

On the furniture end of things, I basically made use of whatever was available to me. During that first year of dorm life, for example, the school provided me with a really crappy single bed, a crappier desk, and an oh-so-crappy dresser featuring a chipped mirror. For me, of course, this constituted Martha Stewart living, and this was before Martha Stewart was even a household (or prisonhold) name.

At any rate, that first year of dorm life was a pretty spartan existence. The few women that I was able to entice into my room were less than impressed by my decorating prowess, and the general consensus was that any sex was to be done with the lights out so they didn't have to look at Nicole Eggert striking a seductive pose alongside another poster of an unknown female with fantastically large and dark areolas.

Anyway, all of this is entirely beside the point of this post. Well, mostly.

Towards the end of that first college year, there was a rash of incidences wherein some dorm students thought it was funny to set off the fire alarm. During a couple of weeks in the early spring, it was practically a nightly exercise to have the fire alarm tripped, requiring all dorm residents to shuffle out into the early spring air in our jammies at 2 or 3 a.m. Typically, it took about an hour for the fire department to give the all-clear, which was time that would have been much better spent sleeping.

The fire drill joke was funny the first two or three times, because there was a certain amount of fascination in scanning the pajama-bedecked females and ascertaining which ones were affected most prominently by the chilly early spring air.

But, after about the third fire drill, even checking out hard female nipples largely lost its appeal. After all, there was sleep to be had.

So, I hatched a plan.

My dorm room featured a fairly large closet, and it dawned on me one morning, after enduring the latest fire alarm prank, that it was large enough to lay down in, if I so chose to do so. So, after class that afternoon, I set about making a little nest of sorts in my closet. It was pretty comfortable and, with a little ingenuity involving a couple of towels, I was able to set up a sort of curtain that hid my nest entirely.

Sure enough, two nights later, some jackhole set off a bunch of firecrackers in the hallway, and the billowing smoke went and tripped the fire alarm. I dragged myself out of bed and went into my closet, where I made myself nice and comfortable in my nest and drew the towel curtain, hiding me completely from view.

On cue, the resident assistant used his dorm key to enter my room to ensure I had evacuated, and he checked my closet as well. But, thanks to my excellent curtain camoflage, I went undetected.

I utilized my closet nest several times over the following weeks, until they finally started cracking down on the idiots who kept tripping the alarm.

I guess, in retrospect, the whole thing could have backfired on me and I could have been burned alive in the event of a real fire.

But, at least I would have been well-rested in the after-life.

In other news Luciana Salazar is hot. I like to see Luciana Salazar. A Luciana Salazar would be pretty awesome. Mmm, Luciana Salazar.

The "W" Stands for Wild Man

I rediscovered this over the weekend. I can't tell you on how many levels this amuses me. Like or loathe the man, it's fun to make him dance.

Media Upset Over Early Iraq Handover

Media Outlets Had Next Two Days Mapped Out; Now Everything's fucked Up

WASHINGTON D.C. (Rhodes Media Services) -- Media organizations worldwide were thrown into a maelstrom after a surprise move by the U.S.-led coalition that turned over sovereignty to Iraq a full two days ahead of schedule.

Newsrooms, which had a stockpile of stories built up, ensuring the next two days would be filled with introspective analysis, criticism and foreboding prognostication, were thrown into a tailspin of journalistic "catch-up" following the surprise handover.

"Sonofabitch," said ABC News anchorman Sam Donaldson. "Here I had a two-part expose all ready on how everything that has been done in Iraq has been totally wrong, complete with unscientific graphs and everything, and now that's in danger of being scrapped entirely. This just really chaps my ass."

Katie Couric, taking a break from her crusade to encourage everyone in the world to get a colonoscopy, expressed her own frustration with the early power transfer.

"This is just another classic example of the Bush administration misleading people," said the one-time-cute-but-increasingly-sanctimonious Couric. "And just think of how this messes with the terrorist plans to upset the power transfer. The car-bombings and beheadings alone would have ensured a busy news desk for at least the next week, but now nothing is certain. Damn it! Be sure to schedule a colonoscopy today!"

UPDATE: Heh. Maybe this entry was more than parody after all. Looks like Tom Brokaw will have some time to sight-see. (via Instapundit).