Rambling Rhodes

Apologies

Yesterday, I was taken down by the mother of all migraines. I slept as long as I could, and then, because you basically can't do anything during a migraine, I laid in bed with my eyes closed, throwing the occasional kitten across the room because their purring made my eyes hurt.

Today, I'll be traveling to the Cities for a Christmas party of sorts--we'll be going bowling--with all my MSP Communications employees. Hopefully, there will be a Christmas bonus forthcoming.

Anyway, the point is, I won't be blogging, probably not until Monday. So, I'll leave you with some pandas photoshopped as Kiss members, and leave it at that.

Hey, Look, A Bomb. . .Where Did It Go?

You know, as a guy who is about to get on a plane to Hawaii in a week, I don't find this kind of thing all that encouraging.

Side-By-Side

There's this. Then there's this.

Hard to believe the same emotion is being expressed in both.

Party Down, You Fat Vermin

Alcoholism, overeating chemically linked

KEY QUOTE: A new study examined the behavior of drunken rats, but has implications for humans, researchers say.

Top Of The Head Joke I'm Really Proud Of

Caroline says: how good are you at figuring out roman numerals?

Ryan says: So-so. Sup?

Caroline: What number is this?

Ryan says: You could ask your boyfriend. Of course, he thinks the Honda Civic is a Roman numeral.

Caroline says: Huh?

Ryan says: CIVIC

Caroline says: Does he really?

Ryan says: Jeez, I hope not.

Caroline says: hehehehe

Ryan says: I'm going to be proud of that joke for the rest of the day.

Caroline says: that's a classic

Ryan says: I made an instant classic.

Caroline says: you really did

BY THE WAY: For those of you wondering about the Roman numerals, the answer is "3, 6, 9, 12." I'm not sure of the significance of that, besides them being multiples of three.

Twas The Week Before Christmas

Twas the week before Christmas, and the television shows,
They were all really awful, no matter which one I chose.
The remote I kept clicking, but I didn't much care,
'Cause the programs that were airing, filled me with despair.

The History Channel, and I swear this is true,
Was entirely dedicated to World War II.
As they showed yet another battlefield map,
I quite nearly fell into a TV-induced nap.

When up from my floor, there arose such a clatter,
I flicked open my eyes, to see what was the matter.
I had dropped the remote, upon my hardwooden floor.
And it broke, so I couldn't change the channels no more.

Yet the broken remote, despite shattered panels,
Continued to flip through random television channels.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a straight guy being dressed by five guys who are queer.

Then the channel, it flipped, to the show Trading Spaces
Of good taste on that show, there are only scant traces.
More rapid than Kerry, the channels, they flipped,
And I spouted adjectives, yes, many I quipped.

"That's AWFUL! That's TERRIBLE! That's DISGUSTING! That's BAD!
That's ANNOYING! That's EXECRABLE! Oh, now I'm just getting MAD!
To the entertainment center, up against the wall!
To you television, I'm oh so appalled!"

On the verge of wet tears, a good hearty cry,
I asked of the television, "Can you please at least try,
To put forth some programs, that aren't quite so awful?
The stuff that you're airing, should be considered unlawful!"

And then, in a twinkling, the channel, it changed,
To a program that can simply be labeled "deranged."
Contestants were required to eat things so gross,
Although I didn't vomit, I came very close.

Just then, I was forced to watch Desperate Housewives,
After that, I'm surprised even one brain cell survives.
They created a show that no one should enjoy,
About unsatisfied women who all crave the pool boy.

I sat there just sweating, shaking, gritting my teeth.
The show couldn't sink any lower, there's no room beneath.
My mouth started to froth, which felt rather strange,
I swayed, somewhat light-headed, waiting for the channel to change.

Just then, the tube flickered, to the show, "The Apprentice,"
Where Donald Trump says, "You're fired," which is considered momentous.
And I sat there and thought, "You know, these shows are all idiotic,
The people who watch these things must be truly psychotic."

I then spoke not a word, but went straight to the tube,
And pushed the "Off" button on that flickering cube.
And then all was silent, except for my thoughts,
Which, as is usual, didn't amount to a lot.

So I sprang to my bookcase, and perused all the titles,
Mental stimulation I sought because, after TV, that was vital.
And I heard my brain exclaim in rapturous delight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and don't watch TV tonight!"

Heal Thy Nation

Dave Barry offers up some words of healing to our post-election country that has been torn asunder.

Best excerpt:

And as Americans, we must ask ourselves: Are we really so different? Must we stereotype those who disagree with us? Do we truly believe that ALL red-state residents are ignorant racist fascist knuckle-dragging NASCAR-obsessed cousin-marrying roadkill-eating tobacco-juice-dribbling gun-fondling religious fanatic rednecks; or that ALL blue-state residents are godless unpatriotic pierced-nose Volvo-driving France-loving left-wing communist latte-sucking tofu-chomping holistic-wacko neurotic vegan weenie perverts?

Yes. This is called ''diversity,'' and it is why we are such a great nation -- a nation that has given the world both nuclear weapons AND SpongeBob Squarepants.

For Your Listening Pleasure

Strong Bad digs playfully at assorted radio genres, and it's a must-watch.

Winter Wonderland

Here in Minnesota, if you're wondering what kind of winter weather to expect, you simply have to consult me, Ryan Rhodes. That's right. Simply watch how I prepare for the winter season, and then do the exact opposite, and you should be adequately prepared.

I'm kind of like a Farmer's Almanac in Bizarro World.

Take, for example, the $600 snowblower I purchased back before Halloween. It was a difficult purchase to make, primarily because it cost $600 which, according to my own calculations, is a lot of freakin' money.

You may be wondering why I didn't just opt for a snow shovel and perform a little good-old-fashioned hard work in the event of a blizzard. Well, generally, I would have no problem with that. In fact, I tend to enjoy shoveling snow, provided I don't have to it every day, in which case I hate shoveling snow.

The problem, this year, is that I now own a house, and my house is on a corner lot, and my lot is half-a-block away from an elementary school, and it's Rochester city policy to demand that I keep my sidewalks free of snow for the toddling toddlers who toddle their way to school every morning. Also, in the interests of avoiding potentially expensive lawsuits from people unable to navigate my sidewalks, it's imperative that I keep my walkways clean and free of snow.

Being that I'm on a corner lot, there's a lot of sidewalk to work with, and because I tend to sleep until the last possible available minute, I don't have a lot of time in the morning to dedicate to shoveling. Therefore, I bought a snowblower.

Now, here it is December 13, and there's no snow on the ground. Granted, it's plenty cold and chilly, but you may be surprised to learn that you can't use a snowblower to clear away any amount of cold and chilly.

Therefore, my $600 purchase remains basically untouched, it's snowblowing capabilities untapped. Sure, I'd be perfectly happy if there would be no snow for the entire winter, which is improbably but, hey, it could happen. Still, I'd sure like that $600 back, if that ends up being the case.

Okay, fine, Kari Byron is one hot female. Kari Byron. Mmm, a Kari Byron. A Kari Byron would be fine.

Roid Rage

So, yesterday, following yet another typical Vikings loss in which those arrogant butt-munches once again went into a game just expecting the other team to hand them the game only to have said team actually play a football game, I then had to watch as the Green Bay Packers went and won another last second victory.

And then I looked at those very large men celebrating on the field, and I started thinking: you know, probably 70 percent or more of those huge sum-bitches are using some sort of steroid or other performance enhancing drug.

I'm not sure I understand the lack of outcry in the wake of an investigation that has uncovered steroid use in such big baseball names as Barry Bonds and Jason Giambi, and possibly sprinter Marion Jones. It's also been generally understood that Mark McGuire used a minor sort of steroid and, quite probably, a few others.

And that's just baseball (and track), which is, for the most part, a non-contact sport. It stands to reason that football players, particularly the hulking masses that defy genetic boundaries, are more than likely awash in some sort of steroid cocktail.

And yet the general consensus from the sports-watching world has been: "Ehhhhhhh."

I've always taken issue with the outrageous paychecks professional athletes recieve. It's just ridiculous to me that people can make millions of dollars based solely on their ability to catch a football, or swing a bat, or make a basket. With a few exceptions, professional athletes, though they can shine on the playing field, are atrocious members of society both in demeanor and speaking skills.

And now we're faced with the uncomfortable reality that these geniuses of physical prowess and not much else, more than very likely attain that level of prowess, not through hard work and dedication, but through chemical enhancement.

I don't know. I guess, for me, it takes something away from the game to realize that the players aren't really playing, well, fair. Sure, you can say "well, they're all doing it, so it's basically fair," but that's not a very convincing argument.

The appeal of professional sports used to be that the people playing were, basically, limited by the same human traits as myself and the rest of the world. To watch sports now, realizing that most of the players are probably all using performance enhancing drugs takes a lot away from the game. At least for me.