Rambling Rhodes

Jiu-Jitsu Perils

I continue to learn more and more as I train in Brazillian Jiu-Jitsu. It's a great martial art, unlike any other martial art I've ever trained in. The training is intense, and so far I'm enjoying it.

As with any martial arts training, there are risks, but it's particularly true in Jiu-Jitsu, where your goal is to make your opponent tap out by applying a variety of particularly nasty chokes, arm bars, knee bars and other assorted submission holds that aren't all that enjoyable to be on the receiving end of.

In other words, the potential for knee injuries and other joint-specific injuries is a definite possibility, so caution is required on the part of both opponents, and so far, aside from the usual aches and pains of intense workouts, I've escaped any serious injury.

Oh, and also, a little background on Jiu-Jitsu. It's a grappling form of self-defense, which means you're inevitably going to take a shot to the testicles. You kind of put that towards the back of your mind, but you just know it's going to happen some time.

Well, on Wednesday this week, I realized there is another peril to the Jiu-Jitsu martial art.

So, I was working Jiu-Jitsu drills with a partner of a similar belt rank, Pedro. We were working a technique called the "triangle," a technique that has the potential to both choke out an opponent while also applying an arm bar. I get caught in the triangle during live sparring so much, I'm thinking of lobbying to have the technique name changed to the "Rhodes."

Anyway, the triangle involves one person basically scissoring their opponent's head and arm between their legs and applying more and more pressure until the unfortunate recipient (usually me) starts to lose blood flow to the head, and also can't breathe. It's not a particuarly pleasant technique to get caught in.

Well, while Pedro and I were drilling the triangle, Pedro abruptly moved away and gently clutched his gut. I thought he had strained an abdominal muscle or something, not uncommon. Pedro mumbled something about eating spicy food prior to class and was experiencing stomach pains as a result of so much activity. He clutched his gut for a few seconds more and then returned to continue drilling the triangle.

And it was then, with my head locked in Pedro's legs, that I realized Pedro had released one of the most toxic blasts of flatulence to be unleashed by a living creature since brontosaurus walked the earth.

It was a horrifying odor, like something long since dead had decided to issue forth one last gasp of decaying smell. And there I was, trapped, my nose mere inches from the sphincter from whence that foul air had escaped.

And Pedro just laughed. He laughed, and continued to apply pressure to the triangle technique, drawing my head even closer to that stinking Sarlacc pit of his.

And then, mercifully, Pedro relinquished his hold on me, and I scuttered away to a safe distance, where I gulped down as much clean air as my lungs would allow.

And Pedro just continued to laugh.

So, I guess my point -- not that I really have one -- is, DON'T VOTE FOR PEDRO. Vote for Summer.

Is it sad. . .

. . . that cartoons like this make me literally laugh out loud?

Via.

UPDATE: Thanks to visitor Ernst Stavro Blofeld, I was steered to the true source of the comic featured above which, if you can believe it, is called The Perry Bible Fellowship. There are some hit and miss cartoons there, but there are also gems like:

Go on and peruse the others, and maybe you'll find a few that make you laugh, like this one:

Pondering the Powerball

Last night, I almost won $340 million. OK, I didn't come close. But, a man can dream, can't he?

I'm usually oblivious to the Powerball lottery, mainly because I'm smart enough to know that I have a snowball's chance in hell of actually winning. Come to think of it, how would one manage to transport a snowball to hell? What unlucky courier was tasked with delivering a mass of compressed frozen water to the underworld of the damned just to verify the accuracy of that cliché? I'm betting it was a UPS guy. Poor fellow; those trucks don't even have doors to shield out the heat. He must have been sweltering. . . and scared out of his mind.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. . . Powerball. As I said, I typically don't pay much attention to the lottery, because I understand that the odds are entirely stacked against me. As far as likelihoods go, there's a better chance that I'll discover oil, gold and a mummified Egyptian pharaoh by digging in my basement than winning the Powerball. So, I don't participate in the lottery all that often, because I'm obviously too busy digging in my basement for that elusive mummy.

But, when I'm driving home after work, and I see one of those Powerball billboards proclaiming that the winnings have ticked up to $340 million, well, my usual inner rational Scrooge becomes a sudden spend-head who says "Oh, what the heck. It only costs a dollar. In fact, buy five; improved odds!"

Of course, I wouldn't have actually won $340 million. The actual estimated cash value after Uncle Sam steps in to collect the "You're-Too-Lucky Tax" was about $164.4 million, which is still a respectable sum that could buy a few trinkets here and there.

I'm not totally naïve. Becoming a $164.4 millionaire over night would completely change me. I readily admit that. I'm not strong enough to say "I'm just a simple Minnesota boy who would never change." Of COURSE I'd change. Man would I change. I'd even stop buying Levi's jeans and upgrade to those Guess jeans that, for no particular good reason I could fathom, were so popular in the late 80s and early 90s. I'd also have all my teeth replaced with diamonds because then, man, I could chew anything, and I'd have the most sparkly smile in the world.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself here. I have to actually win the Powerball first, and I already touched on the snowball in hell aspect of those odds. But, let's say I actually did win. I've pondered what it would be like, to suddenly be standing in my living room, having just realized I hold a ticket worth millions and millions of dollars. There are not enough psychiatrists in the world to talk me down from the sheer paranoia I'd feel at that exact moment.

I once thought I had won $10,000 on a scratch-off lottery card and, man oh man, was my mind racing, creating all sorts of scenarios of how best to get that card to the lottery office in the Twin Cities. I was all set to take off work the next day and stay at a hotel that night. My hands were shaking, and there was a slight ringing sound in my ears. Ten minutes later, I realized I had only won $10, and the letdown, shall we say, was considerable.

And that was only for $10,000! Imagine my bowel-loosening paranoia if I actually won the Powerball! You couldn't pry that ticket out of my hands with a team of horses. It could very well be that I'm not genetically prepared for dealing with sudden, obscene wealth. I'd certainly like to test that hypothesis, of course.

But, anyway, I didn't win. Some person in Oregon did, and that person is no doubt right about now making a dental appointment to have diamond teeth put in, that lucky jerk.

Or, at least they should be making that appointment because, man, then they could chew ANYTHING.

Nonsense

Caroline says: There's a nerve or something just a-twitchin' away in my back.

Caroline says: Feels kind of funny.

Ryan says: Is that a country western song?

Caroline says: No, but it should be.

Ryan says:
There's a nerve or something just a-twitchin' away in my back.
And the guv-mint's getting ready to send me to Iraq.
My girlfriend has left me for my best friend's cousin, Joe.
And my dog ran off, where he is, I really do not know.

Ryan says: My talents are wasted at this job. WASTED I tell you.

Caroline says: Mmm, I love guvmints.

Caroline says: I'm WASTED at this job, WASTED I tell you.

Ryan says: Guvmints are bureaucratic-tacular!

Caroline says: Tasty too

LOL!

Via this Fark photoshop contest.

Staged News

Best laugh of the day.

It's Sunday, And Nick Coleman's Still An Idiot

As columnists go, you'd be hard-pressed to find any more moronic than Nick Coleman. This is a fairly well-established fact. But, sometimes, Coleman will write something so completely stupid, it even prompts me, the laziest weekend blogger in all of Blogger-ville, to rumble forth and fisk the man's complete idiocy on a SUNDAY.

A recent letter to the editor suggested that the Minnesota Vikings are cursed. Here's what is amazing: The letter was published before the Vikings plundered Lake Minnetonka.

Unless you've been living under a rock, on Pluto, wearing ear-muffs, you'll know that the Lake Minnetonka line is a reference to the now-infamous "Vikings Sex Cruise," which, though hilarious, has cast a dark pall over the Vikings' franchise, at least for those people who actually give a shit. Nick Coleman is one such person, and he believes the Vikings team should be disbanded, individuals flogged and clamped in irons in the public square.

Reader K. John Bradley traced the team's troubles to the day that Coach Mike Tice gave a Vikings jersey to George W. Bush during a 2004 campaign rally at Target Center that included a stirring attempt to make the knuckleheads of Minnesota throw off their liberal chains and put on bow-ties.

Nick Coleman does this sometimes. Okay, Nick Coleman does this ALL THE TIME. What the hell does being a conservative have to do with wearing bow-ties? Is the bow-tie now the replacement of the previous incarnation of all things evil and conservative: the fat cat?

At least Coleman admits that the state of Minnesota is awash in liberal ideology, to such an extent that we have such an inviting welfare system in place, people swarm in from Chicago and other locales to take advantage of low-income housing and other such pat-the-poor perks. Result? *gasp* A growing poor class in Minnesota, complete with all the crime and societal morass that that entails! We're not necesarilly helping the poor, but we sure make it a lot easier to BE poor. Well done, liberal Minnesota!

I wrote about this ill-fated mingling of politics and pigskin back then because it backfired: Minnesota voted Democratic by more than it had in 2000, and even Edina went blue.

Even Edina went blue! Oh, heavenly stars! EDINA! That crown jewel of. . . wait a minute. . . what the fuck? Who cares about Edina? More importantly, if I go back and check my calendar, I see that Bush still won re-election. If that's the result of an ill-fated mingling, I'll take mine with cherries on top.

I didn't blame Tice. The Vikings always welcome visitors heartily, be they presidents or exotic dancers. Nor did I blame Bush. He was just being a good sport, and the Vikings' troubles began way before he took the purple.

Oookayyy, so that pretty much negates everything that comes after that paragraph, but that doesn't stop Nick Coleman. No, Nick Coleman loves to set the bar nice and high so he can clothesline himself when he runs smack dab into it.

But we have had nothing but trouble ever since.

Yeah, they're the VIKINGS. We're talking about a team that trades Randy Freakin' Moss because he's a PR pain in the butt, but then the rest of the team goes and does something that makes Moss seem like an alter boy. We're used to this kind of thing with the Vikings.

Looking back, it would've been better for us if Tice just jimmied open an Egyptian crypt and pried a golden asp from a mummy's cold, dusty hands.

Did I mention that Bush won re-election?

Bush got his Vikings jersey on the eve of All Hallow's Eve (Oct. 30, 2004), a time of year when the ancient Celts believed spirits could slip through a crack in the universe and cause havoc on Earth.

You'd think a man like Nick Coleman, who is so adept at impromptu history lessons via Google, could go back just one year (just a few days after Oct. 30, 2004, in fact), and see that BUSH WON RE-ELECTION! Oh, the horrible, HORRIBLE curse!

Something sure spooked the Vikings: They have won only five times since that day - once this year and four times last season, including a wild-card playoff win over Green Bay before bowing out to Philadelphia.

Yeah, dammit! If Tice hadn't handed out that small-pox infested jersey, the Vikings SURELY would have won the Super Bowl!

The team is 5-11 since the Curse, a pitiful victory ratio of 31 percent.

Yeah, they're the VIKINGS! Without Randy Moss, our biggest threat and brightest (albeit pain in the ass) star. And Nick Coleman, moron that he is, was one of those insisting Moss should go.

But don't waste your worries on football. Bush didn't curse the Vikings. It could be the other way around: After all, a 31 percent success ratio is where Bush's ratings seem headed.

Which would maybe matter a little more, you know, if Bush were seeking re-election. But, as I think I may have pointed out here, BUSH WON RE-ELECTION, even after the "Curse."

What if there is a creepy connection between that Vikings jersey and Bush's misfortunes? What if it is a Vikings curse that has led to Bush's problems with Katrina, Iraq, earthquakes, Karl Rove and gas prices?

Wow. Just. . . wow. Let's see, Katrina is proving, more and more, to be a major case of media exaggeration. Iraq just voted on a referendum for its new constitution, with only extremely limited and basically unsuccessful violence. The recent earthquakes, as far as I know, didn't hit anywhere near the United States, and hasn't had much in the way of any political repercussions for the Bush administration. Karl Rove hasn't been indicted on ANYTHING, despite a rush to judgement by most of the media. And, just yesterday, I fueled up my car, and the price of gas was almost .50 cents less than it was a month and a half ago. Some fucking "Curse."

Maybe a Vikings jersey is the modern equivalent of a gnarled old monkey paw, a token of malevolence that brings only grief to its owner.

Maybe having Nick Coleman on your newspaper staff is the modern equivalent of having a three-year-old writing for you, a token buffoon who achieved his place in journalism largely through nepotism by marriage.

All I know is there sure seems to be something to this curse thing, and it seems to go the opposite way than our reader suggested.

Finally, a little honesty from Nick Coleman. He actually admits that that's all he knows. Granted, all he knows is entirely incorrect and stupid, but at least he's admitting that it's all he knows. Also, he seems to be suggesting that the Strib only has one reader, which may be entirely correct.

I don't even want to mention what happened in St. Paul when the mayor over there played footsie with the same dark forces.

Ah, so, the Bush Administration = dark forces. Duly noted oh unbiased one, thou non-monkey boy. Oh, hey, did I mention that Nick Coleman's brother, Chris Coleman, is running for St. Paul mayor? Did I mention that he's a Democrat?

Even the media have been off their game.

Yeah, for about 20+ years now. And, as long as Coleman is within their ranks, the media will continue to be off their game.

When Vikings quarterback Daunte Culpepper was irritated by questions about the boat cruise, he walked out of a news conference, snarling that he would only talk about today's game with the Chicago Bears.

Yeah, I know when people ask me about my past sexual endeavors, I just stand my ground and answer truthfully and honestly, with nary a hint of embarrassment or indignation.

Beyonce Knowles. Elisha Cuthbert . Mandy Moore topless. Kelly Clarkson. Rachel Hunter. Topless. Ann Coulter. Carmen Electra. Tina Fey. Jaslene. Jordin Sparks. Jenny McCarthy. Beyonce Knowles. Beyonce Knowles. Elisha Cuthbert . Mandy Moore topless. Kelly Clarkson. Rachel Hunter. Ahmo Hight. Ann Coulter. Carmen Electra. Tina Fey. Jaslene. Jordin Sparks. Jenny McCarthy. Beyonce Knowles. Beyonce Knowles. Elisha Cuthbert . Mandy Moore topless. Kelly Clarkson.

Not one of our local flowers of journalism had the wits to shout back:

OK, Culpepper: If the Bears took a boat cruise, do you think they'd make the crew want to jump overboard?

Yeah, that's what the reporters should have asked! Additionally, they should have asked similar dumbassed Nick Coleman-esque probing questions. Like, "OK, Culpepper, boxers or briefs?" "Okay, Culpepepper, is your pee pee hard right now?"

By the way, if Coleman is so incensed by the inaction of the local flowers of journalism, why didn't he attend the press conference and offer up his own Nick Coleman-inspired questions? If he's so mad that local journalists dropped the ball when it came to questioning Culpepper, what does it say about local flower Coleman THAT HE WASN'T EVEN THERE?

But don't cry for the Vikings. We have much bigger problems. Our purple curse has touched the president.

Oh, that's right. This column was about the President. Or was it about the Vikings? Or was it about bad local journalism? Or was it about Halloween? Or was it about a cursed jersey? Who fucking knows?! It's a Nick Coleman column. Like Seinfeld, it's about nothing. Only, unlike Seinfeld, it's not even remotely funny.

So Mr. President, please listen to Minnesota. We didn't vote for you, but we are pulling for you. And we beg you now: Burn your Vikings jersey!

Uh. . . huh. So, Coleman's pulling for the President, eh? Bullshit! *cough, cough* Bullshit! And, no, Minnesota didn't vote for Bush, but unless you didn't hear, BUSH STILL WON RE-ELECTION.

We already have disposed of ours.

Actually, I've been watching the game, and the Vikes are losing 14 - 3. And I'll be a love-hate Vikings fan no matter how many sex cruises they go on. Hey, they're the VIKINGS! This is the kind of season and scandal we've grown to know and love about them.