Jason, Come Out of the Bathroom

Passengers making frequent and prolonged visits to airplane bathrooms caused concern because of the tight security surrounding the 9/11 anniversary Sunday. Fighter jets were sent to escort the planes and the caution is certainly understandable. Some may have misunderstood, however, and I envision the following scenario somewhere in flyover country:

MOM: (Knocking on bathroom door) Jason, what are you doing in the bathroom?

JASON: Seriously? I’m using the bathroom. Go away, Mom.

MOM: Jason, there is no reason why a 13-year-old boy should need to lock himself in the bathroom as frequently and for such extended periods as you are doing lately. Is something wrong?

JASON: I’m FINE, Mom. Go away.

MOM: Jason, I hear strange sounds when you are in there and you seem to be breathing heavily. Are you working on something in there?

JASON: Oh, god, Mom! Leave me alone and stop listening in on me.

MOM: Jason, don’t take that tone. One needs to be vigilant nowadays. I know you took your computer in there. What websites are you looking at? Are you looking at Al Qaeda? Jason, are you building a bomb in your underwear? Is that why they are stained?

JASON: MOM!! Stop it; I’m not building a bomb.

MOM: Jason, that’s good to hear. However, in the interest of national security, I’ve asked the Air Force to send an F-16. I believe it is flying over the house right now.

JASON: WHAT THE FU …

MOM: Jason, please remain calm. The FAA is here and, when you come out of the bathroom, they will have some questions for you. If everything is as fine as you say it is, it should not take long or result in any arrests.

JASON: For God’s sake, Mom, what the hell?

MOM: Jason, from now on you will be allowed no more than 3 ounces of hand lotion when you go in the bathroom. Just so you know.

Carmageddon Leads to Schwin-graLA

"Six bicyclists ... beat a JetBlue flight from Burbank to Long Beach by a wide margin"

Daisy, Daisy, this is how we'll commute
It sounds crazy, but saves money and time, to boot
We won't get stuck on the highway
If we traverse L.A. my way
Our shorts look dumb
And our butts get numb
But a bicycle beats JetBlue

Watch for news of L.A. gangs taking to committing crimes on bicycles and eluding police cars that can't keep up in traffic. Peddle-by shootings become the norm. Stars show up for the Oscars on custom-made bikes while Joan and Melissa Rivers ask, "Who are you riding?"

The Most radical College? Yeah, I went There

The Huffington Post lists "The MOST RADICAL Colleges" in the country. Number 1 is Occidental College, where I got my BS in Economics.

Oh, I wasn't there in 1970 when "Oxy students wrote 7,000 letters to Washington D.C., protesting U.S. involvement in the war in Southeast Asia" But a couple years later my friends and I did way radicaler stuff.

Once, the Director of Food Services started serving cheap, fake steaks with artificial grill marks on them instead of the real, cheap steaks we had before. We marched our partially eaten foodish substance into her office and politely set the plates down on a table in protest.

One time, during lunch, a band was playing on that quad seen in the picture above. When one o'clock came, someone climbed up on the tower and turned the clock back and almost none of us went to our one o'clock classes until almost twenty after one.

There was the time several of us stood on the balcony of the Student Union, overlooking that quad, and protested the poor economic conditions in our country of Germany. It was part of our history class, "1908", where each student took a role of some actual government official from a European country in the year 1908 and then played history out during our actual days outside the classroom. The course wrapped up with a ball where we all waltzed until midnight, or maybe 10 pm. They were such wild, radical day, it's hard to remember

Hopeless Carmageddon

Residents brace for closure of 405 freeway

On a West L.A. highway, we were getting nowhere
Hot smell of exhaust fumes, clumps of smog in the air
Up ahead around Westwood, I saw the CalTrans sign lights
My world grew shaky and began to spin
I would be stuck for two nights
They had closed down the freeway
Mulholland Drive as well
We can’t get through the Sepulveda Pass
Or as we call it: the Third Ring of Hell
As we inched toward an off ramp, taking most of a day
CHiPs were clearing out the diamond lane
I thought I heard them say

Welcome to the hopeless Carmageddon
Won’t get out alive (won’t get out alive)
From the 405
No one will move in the hopeless Carmageddon
It’s your darkest fear
You are all stuck here

An Age-Old Health Problem

So we has a health assessment at work and I just got my results. I am chronologically 56 years old but my "health age" is 52, based on the various factors they measure (for example my low cholesterol and my general overall happiness). However, my potential health age is 49.5, if I address the 4 factors they indicated with check marks. The form states that items with a check mark "need attention". Were I to correct them, then, like the fate of Ebenezer Scrooge, 52 in health age is a mere shadow of what might be; I can have a fresh start as a vibrant 49.5-year-old.

But what then? In the coming December (coincidentally when my actual birthday occurs) I face turning 50 again. I would once again hit the half century mark just as winter approaches, a psychological setback that would surely age me to at least 53, what with the concomitant spike in depression and related consumption of fatty comfort foods that would ensue.

In the years between actual age 50 and 56, I gained a lot of weight. I only recently reversed that with a change in eating habits and a commitment to regular exercise. Perhaps if I can keep that up and psych myself into it, I can avoid the negative mental response to turning 50 in health years. I should focus on the positive aspects of good health and a longer life expectancy.

So what are the 4 factors that "need attention" and corrective action. Well, one is my age; at 56, I am a higher risk for certain health problems. Before I even start, I'm faced with a paradox and a Catch-22. I can make myself younger by addressing my creeping age problem. Maybe there's something I'm not aware of, but i don't think I can fix my age the way I did my weight.

There are three other factors: I need to get more sleep, more fruits and vegetables and do more stretching exercises. By fixing those three, maybe I can get down to 50.5 and then I don't have to worry about leaving my 40s again. And hey, that addresses the age problem, right?

Signs and Portents

A dinosaur at the new Kings Island exhibit "Dinosaurs Alive!" caught fire Tuesday evening.
Investigators say that there appears to be no connection with the burning of Touchdown Jesus last year, just a few miles west of the amusement park and that the two incidents are not part of the ongoing feud between creationists and evolutionists.
Suspects in the arson at the church are a Father, Son and Holy Spirit; the Father having forbidden people from creating graven images of the Lord and having boasted about raining down Hell fire and brimstone in the past. The Holy Trio were not reported being seen near the dinosaur exhibit around the time of the fire, though some charge that God is everywhere.

In related news, the Son of Beast failed to return to Kings Island on May 21st as was predicted by amusement park evangelists earlier this year. Park officials claim the date of the ride's return is unknown and likely not until at least 2012.

Cheney Undecided on Getting a Heart From the Wizard

WASHINGTON (AP) — Former Vice President Dick Cheney says he hasn't decided whether to seek a heart transplant. Asked about why he would hesitate, Cheney sang,

When a man’s an evil demon
A heart disrupts his schemin’
I’ve had none from the start
But Now I am presumin’
That I could be almost human
If I get myself a heart

When I was governmental
It would have been detrimental
To my practice of Dark Art
My soul’s been sold to Satan
And yet now I am debatin’
Should I get myself a heart?

Picture me, on the TV
On Fox and Friends news show

(Gretchen)
You and Bush were great, don't you know

(Cheney)
We were corrupt. Oh, whoops!

Just to register emotion, decency, devotion
Might split my mind apart
If they could install a zipper
So back and forth I could just flip ‘er
I would get myself a heart

Trump's Campaign Song

Obama was born a Kenyan man
Not a natural born citizen, not an American
They claimed he was Hawaiian, that’s just an evil plan
Barack was born a Kenyan man

His father was an African conspirator
Who wanted the US White House for his son
Barack was born on the mud floor of some jungle hut
U.S. birth certificate? I have not seen one

Obama was born a Kenyan man
Not a natural born citizen, not an American
They claimed he was Hawaiian, that’s just an evil plan
Barack was born a Kenyan man

They showed a birth certificate saying he was born here
Asked if I’m convinced and now believe
I responded, “How the hell’d he get in Harvard, Lord
He’s to bla... dumb to make the Ivy League

Let Me Frost You Cinna Bon

Cinna, Cinna, Cinna, Cinna Bon
Cinna Bon, Cinna Bon, Cinna Bon
Cinna Bon, let me frost you
Let me frost you, Cinna Bon
Let me frost you, that's all I wanna do
Cinna Bon, let me frost you
Let me frost you, Cinna Bon
Let me frost you, let me drool for you
Cinna Bon let me tell you what I wanna do
I’ll unroll you then, I’ll stick a fork in you
Cinna Bon let me tell you what I wanna do
I wanna lick you, wanna bite you, wanna scarf you too
In the airport or the mall
I cannot resist your call, Cinna
'Cause you know how much I love you when you are warm
Cinna, I'll make you more than just a cinnamon dream
I wanna frost you, Cinna
Baby, cause you make me wanna scream
Let me frost you, frost you

Baby, baby, when I pick at you
I feel your warm, sticky inside
There's something about your cinna goo
That keeps me satisfied

I wouldn't lie to you, baby
It's mainly a physical thing
This hunger that I got for you, baby
Makes me wanna sing

CHORUS:
I drool for you
I think I love you
I drool for you
I think I love you

Cinna Bon, let me frost you
Let me frost you, Cinna Bon
Let me frost you, that's all I wanna do
Cinna Bon, let me frost you
Let me frost you, Cinna Bon
Let me frost you, let me drool for you
Drool for you

Baby, baby, when I sit with you
There's no place I'd rather be
I need a shower to wash off the goo-
ey things that you do to me

I wouldn't lie to you, baby
I'm physically inflated by you
This craving that I got for you, baby
The reason why my belly grew

CHORUS

Yes sir, one more bite
Say yeah
I drool for you (I think I love you)
I drool for you (I, I, I think I love you)

Cinna Bon, let me frost you
Let me frost you, Cinna Bon
Let me frost you, that's all I wanna do
Cinna Bon, let me frost you
Let me frost you, Cinna Bon
Let me frost you, let me drool for you
Cinna Bon won't you tell me what you wanna do
Do you drool for me, the way I drool for you
Cinna Bon let me tell you what I wanna do
I wanna love you, wanna hug you, wanna squeeze you too
Let me take you in my hands
Let's drip frosting on my pants, Cinna
'Cause you know that I'm the one to keep you warm
Cinna, I'll make you more than just a physical dream
I wanna frost you, Cinna
Baby, cause you make me wanna scream
Feel for you

I drool for you (Oooh, drool for you)
I drool it too (Oooh, drool for you)
I drool for you (Oooh, drool for you)

Fake Clouds and Belly Fat Faces

Pie in the sky! Qatar invents artificial clouds to beat the heat at 2022 World Cup


Water vapor, cooling air
Rising up, condensing there
Dropping rain drops everywhere
That’s how our clouds are made

But now Qatar can block the sun
With carbon structured helium
So heat won’t burn up everyone
And soccer can be played

There’s scientists on both sides now
Both here and there, and still, somehow,
There’s cloud illusions in Qatar
The US only makes fake barf

BONUS
Twinkle, twinkle, little star
In the sky above Qatar
If they can make fake clouds up thar
Then how I wonder what YOU are

Shocking True Confession:
Surgeon: I injected belly fat into Gadhafi's face

When Gadhafi says, “my punim’s a disgrace”
He gets fat, fat, injected in his face
Where does that come from? His belly is the place
He gets fat, fat, injected in his face

An Ethnography of Naples Beach Culture

Karen and I are visiting her parents in Naples, Florida. Tradition demands that a list be made of things we want to do because without being pressured into a detailed list of what you are going to do, you can’t possibly enjoy a vacation.

I grew up on beaches in Southern California. Naples’ beaches are somewhere between actual beaches and the wave pool at King’s Island, in that Naples has salt water and sand but the wave pools have waves. It’s like attending an Elvis impersonator concert: you can’t get the real thing so this is close enough. Therefore, going there and pretending I’m still 24 years old and this is a real ocean and a real beach is on MY list – but only mine.

KAREN: We have to make sure that John gets to go to the beach.
MOM: Of course, John wants to go to the beach so we’ll work that in somewhere. Maybe we can drop him off on our way to the store and pick him up after. An hour is good enough, right?
DAD: Does he want me to go with him? I hate the sand, the sun, and the water but I’m willing to go if he doesn’t want to be alone with no one to ask him when we’re leaving.

So I borrow their lawn chair and a couple beach towels and go by myself, unsure whether I should just make the best of it or sit in a passive-aggressive funk resenting the fact that these people – her parents born in New York and Karen born in Ohio – just can’t grasp the experience of going to the beach.

I wander onto the beach and trek past the clumps of people already there to find an open space to sit. Naples is on the west coast of Florida, on the Gulf of Mexico. In my previous ethnographic studies I learned it is local custom to sit on the beach facing the sun. This means that before noon people are facing east, away from the water. If they are not there to enjoy the gulf, they could have just stayed home and sat around the pool at their condo development.

I refuse to conform, so I walk to the outskirts of this tribal grouping and deposit my chair facing the water. As I pass the arrays of natives, I wonder if they should have been turned away from entering the beach, as they seem to have been over served. The oldest members, all born Caucasian, have skin tanned to a color that occurs naturally in hardwood coffee tables, but not in humans.

The texture of their skin is what you would get if a Mexican Hairless dog mated with a lizard and the monster spawn of that union were fried from a lightening strike thrown by a horrified God. The old women wear bathing suits that reveal cleavage resembling an ancient, dry riverbed. Bald old men sport bandages and scars from skin cancer surgeries on their darkly freckled heads.

I used to think that if smokers carried their desiccated, blackened lungs on the outsides of their bodies more young people would be deterred from continuing the habit. But the evidence at the beach belies that theory. Despite the obvious, outward destruction of the elderly bodies displayed in the sand, young people join in the sun worshipping along side them. It’s like an outdoor cancer ward where future patients can grab a bed in advance.

I spread my sun block and went for a run/walk down the beach, then jumped in the gulf waters and swam for a while. Returning to my spot I found that four women had placed their chairs not more than six feet beyond mine, facing back to the east so that when I sat down I would be looking right at them – and they at me.

Did they not see my chair right in front of them or was this actually a tribal effort to get me to comply? As there was now a row of people on either side of my chair facing the opposite way from it, when I sat, it was going to be as if I were in a glass elevator, looking to the outside while everyone around me was facing the door.

That isn’t the only thing that makes me uncomfortable. The chair I had borrowed from my in-laws was not a beach chair. They don’t own a beach chair, made for lounging with your legs splayed in the sand. This was a lawn chair, intended for sitting upright while drinking lemonade, remarking how the world had gone to Hell since they split the Major Leagues into divisions, and selling your used possessions to strangers roaming your driveway at the yard sale.

What makes me even more uncomfortable, depressed in fact, is that when I seat my pale, flabby body in it, I look as if I belong there. I wrap a towel around my shoulders as if to dry myself off and maybe shield myself from the wind, but I’m actually trying to hide. I can’t help looking at these women who have positioned themselves in my space.

But as I look, I realize I have no need to feel self conscious, the main reason being that the women have sunglasses on and are splayed in their real beach chairs so that they face upward, toward the sun and must either have their eyes closed or their retinas are burned worse than their skin.

The women are middle aged, in the interim stage between the supple, healthy tan of youth and the dried, stringy mahogany of beef jerky. So I observe them, not with hatred or prejudice on account of the unnatural color of their skin but with a feeling of being an outsider in a culture I don’t understand. I can choose to be intimidated or console myself with a false xenophobic pride.

I scrunch my lawn chair a bit deeper into the sand, put my Redondo Beach t-shirt on and return to the pleasure I felt when I first arrived. I am thankful that, with my failing eyesight, I can’t see the reflection in women’s large sunglasses of an old man facing a large body of salt water that is not an actual ocean, but a gulf full of no waves. I imagine myself instead as my 24-year-old self, sitting on a real beach in Santa Monica California - right up until my in-laws return to pick me up and transport me back to reality.

Dems on the Run

State police in Wisconsin are hot on the trail of escaped lawmakers trying to keep the legislature from having a quorum and passing a law to limit collective bargaining by union employees of the state.


Republicans bustin’ unions
I fought the law in Wisconsin
I fought the law in Wisconsin
We won't let 'em get a quorum
I fought the law in Wisconsin
I fought the law in Wisconsin

They’re missing sev’ral of us Democrats
Can’t guess where we run
Now they’ve got the state police dispatched
I fought the law in Wisconsin
I fought the law in Wisconsin

We’re in Illinois on vacation
I fought the law in Wisconsin
I fought the law in Wisconsin
In Chicago on a deep dish pizza run
I fought the law in Wisconsin
I fought the law in Wisconsin

They’re missing sev’ral of us Democrats
Can’t guess where we run
Now they’ve got the state police dispatched
I fought the law in Wisconsin
I fought the law in Wisconsin

I'm Not Going

UPDATE:
EMBARRASSED BY THIS BLOG POST, MUBAREK HAS RESIGNED

The people of Egypt were ready for Hosni Mubarek's big video announcement yesterday, expecting he was stepping down and leaving. But they should have known something was up when Jennifer Hudson was rushed in to coach the dictator right before he came out to deliver this song:

And I am telling you
I'm not going
I’m the best man you'll ever know

There's no way I can ever go
No, no, there's no way
No, no, no, no way you’re living without me
You're not living without me
You don't wanna be free
I'm staying
I'm staying
And you, and you
You're gonna love me, oh ooh mm mm
You're gonna love me

And I am telling you
I'm not going
Even though the rough times are showing
There's just no way, there's no way
We're part of the same place
We're part of the same time
We both share the same blood
We both have the same mind

And time and time, we've had so much to see and
No, no, no, no, no, no way
I'm not waking up tomorrow morning and finding that you’re still in the square

Egypt there's no way
No, no, no, no way you’re living without me
You’re not living without me
You see there's just no way, there's no way

I won't go away from here
Staying here staying here
Hey, please don’t kill me
Hey, please don’t kill me

Please, hey don’t kill me, Egyptians,
Try and disperse, try and disperse
I know, I know, I know you can

Tear down the mummies
Yell, scream and shout like you can say what you want
I'm not walking out
Stop up the Nile, push, strike and kill
I'm not gonna leave you
There's no way I will

And I am telling you
I'm not going
I’m the best man you'll ever know
There's no way I could ever, ever go
No, no, no, no way
No, no, no, no way you’re living without me
Oh, you’re not living without me,
Not living without me
You don't wanna be free
I'm staying, I'm staying
And you, and you, and you
You're gonna love me

You're gonna love me, yes you are
Ooh ooh love me, ooh ooh ooh love me
Love me, love me, love me, love me

You're gonna love me

Star Mangled Banner

Oh say can you sing, in the stadium lights
Where so many have failed, while the fans are all screaming
Run-on lines and high notes, take a perilous flight
While the critics all watch, and are smugly live tweeting
As Christine Aguilera, blows her lines on the air
And proves our delight, when successful folks fail
Oh, say aren’t those star-mangled lyrics depraved?
Anyone who performs, at Super Bowls must be brave.

The Palmer

(TUNE: The Boxer)

I am Carson Palmer
And my story is not told
In my ratings and statistics
If you name the top ten (twenty?) premier quarterbacks
I’d make the list
Still the fans see just their fantasies
In leagues that don’t exist

First round draft pick by the Bengal team
I was in the minor leagues
In a company of misers
In the pocket without pass protection, running plays
Lo and behold! Seeking out post season playoffs
Where the Pittsburgh Steelers go,
Swiftly make it, then the first play, my left knee is blown

I will retire!
If the Bengals do not trade me
I’ll retire
If the Bengals do not trade me, I’ll retire

With a game plan so predictable
I still do a damn good job
But I get no credit,
’Cause I’m not a media whore like Ochocinco is
He’s everywhere! except where I have thrown the ball to
Why can’t he just be there?

I will retire!
If the Bengals do not trade me
I’ll retire
If the Bengals do not trade me, I’ll retire


So I'm laying out my trade demands
To little Mikey Brown
Let me go
Where the Cincinnati writers are not beating me
Release meeeee, Mikey Boy

In the office stands a passer
Asking Mike Brown for a trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every sack, bad coaching call, or injury
Or missed route
For which he shouldered all the blame
He is pleading, Mike’s not heeding
And the quarterback remains

I will retire!
If the Bengals do not trade me
I’ll retire
If the Bengals do not trade me, I’ll retire

I Have The Target Incite

August 7, 2009 - Just to make a point, I guess




"Commonsense Conservatives & lovers of America: "Don't Retreat, Instead - RELOAD!" Pls see my Facebook page." SarahPalinUSA tweet 3/10/10

Nevada Republican Senate candidate Sharron Angle January, 2010
“Our Founding Fathers, they put that Second Amendment in there for a good reason, and that was for the people to protect themselves against a tyrannical government...In fact, Thomas Jefferson said it’s good for a country to have a revolution every 20 years. I hope that’s not where we’re going, but you know, if this Congress keeps going the way it is, people are really looking toward those Second Amendment remedies.”

January 8, 2011 - "At least six people died and at least a dozen were injured in the Saturday morning shooting at a Tucson, Ariz., grocery store parking lot, in which the gunman specifically targeted Arizona Rep. Gabrielle Giffords, Pima County, Ariz. Sheriff Clarence Dupnik said. Giffords was shot in the head, and the shooting continued until citizens tackled the suspected gunman, he said.

At a news conference Saturday night, a clearly emotional Dupnik, who has been close to both Giffords and Roll, repeatedly cited what he characterized as the "vitriol" that has infected political discourse. He said that his own state has become "the mecca for prejudice and bigotry."

There is reason to believe, he said, that the shooting suspect "may have a mental issue," adding that people like that "are especially susceptible to vitriol."

"That may be free speech, but it's not without consequences," he said.

Keith Olberman said it better

Jesus Christ's Face Appears in Local Song!

An local icicle was divinely formed into Christ on the cross and a Cincinnati man wrote a song about it.

I love stories about Jesus and Mary randomly appearing in various and sundry items so I did my own song which sounds sort of like "Along Comes Mary" by the Association.

Every time I heat some fried bologna, someone holy
Just appears to me
And every now and then a slender icicle at church
Reveals the Christ to me
Or else along comes Mary
And they show up in oil slicks and in my pretzel sticks
And that will trip a pilgrimage
And all the faithful gather round where they have found Cheeto formations
With the Lord’s visage
Jesus Christ has appeared in my lunch
And now the Virgin’s mug is in my grilled cheese crust

Fish Gotta Swim, Birds Gotta Fly - Or Not

Mass bird deaths are quite common; so say the officials trying to protect us from the reality that Doomsday is upon us next year. Fish kills are everyday phenomena, they assure us, as they privately make peace with their gods. Ohio State defeating an SEC team in a college bowl game is not a sign of the Apocalypse, we are promised.

Come on, be honest with us. If it’s the Rapture coming, they should tell us. Those of us who are pure at heart and without sin will be going to a better place. The rest of you, well, just wait around and you can have all our stuff when we’re gone. The point is, no one should panic.

The whole thing is fascinating and, while I don’t believe in the supernatural, I have to tell you that Karen Carpenter appeared to me in a dream and sang this song:

Why do birds
Fall down from the sky?
Are we all – going to die?
Could it be
We’re ‘bout to see
The End of Days?

Why are fish
Dieing in the sea?
Is this from – Prophecy?
Could it be
We’re ‘bout to see
The End of Days?

In Oaxaca, Mexico
The Mayan calendar foretells, some portents
That just might be coming true
It cycles every 20 years
And ends December twelve, two-oh-one-two

That is why all the birds fell down
The world is in, it’s final round
Just might be
We’re ‘bout to see
The End of Days.