Drool-Cup Award
Thanks to the unremitting efforts of two wives and a number of concerned girlfriends I have, over the years, become a fully domesticated man. I cook. I iron. I put the seat down out of pure reflex. And I clean.
Yes, I clean the house. I have a wide variety of products and tools for floors, ceilings, window, toilets, and counter tops (I’m especially good on counter tops since I not only have cleaning spritzers in plain acid wash and foaming bleach blaster, I also have a compound that renews the polish once the sanitizing has been completed.) I am the very model of the modern major traife buster.
I am, however, a bit sketchy on floors. That is not to say you couldn’t eat off my floors. You could because you’d find a host of food shreds there on any given afternoon. This is not because I like floors configured as mouse buffets but only because, being 6’1”, the floors are so far away I don’t really focus on them. My solution? The world’s most rapacious vacuum cleaner, “The Kirby.”
Actually, I have 2 (two!) solutions since I own 2 (two!) vacuum cleaners. The first is a kind of cheap, plastic metrosexual’s vacuum bought at some box store because it was cheap. Like all metrosexual items, it performs in a manner that lets you know all cheap things are worth much less than you spent on them. It sucks by not sucking as a sucker of floor dirt should. Very sucky. It is, at the best, back-up. Bags and parts for it are sold everywhere.
Then there’s “The Kirby” weighing in are over twenty pounds of solid chromed steel, titanium bristles that can skin a black rhino, and a woven cloth bag wrapped around the vacuum bag that could be made into an outdoor area rug. The motor in this bad boy is so powerful it can suck kittens out of my basement through the floorboards in the living room. It is the chopped Harley Hog of vacuums.
The bags for this hoovering T-Rex are built to blast stresses and are rare as dinosaur eggs. Finding them always calls for an expedition to a far-away strip malls and into some Norwegian albino's small appliance parts shop sandwiched between a sketchy Malaysian smoke shop and a lap-dance rec room. It’s a chore.
So much of a chore that when The Kirby’s bag filled up about six months back I was too lazy to pack a lunch and go find new ones. My solution? Pure genius!
I took out the old bag which was almost rock solid with dust mites, hair, and the bones of desiccated kittens and, holding it over the toxic waste recycling bin behind the garage, cut the bottom open and shook the contents into the bin. Then, because there is nothing it cannot do, I duct-taped the bottom of the bag and slapped it back in The Kirby.
“There. I fixed it.”
Fast forward half a year and I am found manhandling The Kirby over the current mouse buffet and noticing that for a super-sucker its sucking sucks. So I say to myself, “Self, check it out.”
I open the military gauge zipper on the back of the bag and instantly a fibrous tumor of hair and dust mites oozes out. I retreat and don Haz-Mat suit. I inspect the superfund site that is my kitchen.
It would seem that my duct-tape resealing of the bag had, well, failed to hold the bag’s universe together some months back and that all creatures great and small that had been sucked off my floors was now compressed into a hair ball that threatened to expand into all of known space.
Seeing everything that has come off your floors in the last six months in one wad is a unique experience but I resisted the urge to perform an archeological dig on the site. Instead, I deployed a very large garbage back and, grimacing, transferred the dust mite condo from the bag into the bag. It was only the beginning.
Upon inspection of the inside of The Kirby’s bag I found that at least an inch of detritus was still impacted into the cloth on all surfaces. I scraped at it a bit but the dust cloud just deepened around me and drifted out onto the previously pristine floors. Disaster loomed. Then I remembered.
“I own two vacuums. I shall vacuum this vacuum with a vacuum!” Sooper-Genius!
In no time I had deployed vacuum two -- the previously mentioned “cheap, plastic metrosexual’s vacuum” -- attached the hose with the special little attachment that is used for sucking coins and popcorn kernels out of deep crevices in the couch, and switched it on.
Its puny little motor wound up and went to its wheezing limit. I tested the nozzle on my hand and felt the feeble suck but knew it would be better than scraping The Kirby’s inner bag surface with my fingernails. I deployed it inside the clogged bag and carefully and thoroughly went over all the surfaces until they seemed, well, “clean enough for government work.” Then I shut it down and carefully swept the dust and other detritus on the floor into a pile and sucked that up too. Then I mopped the floor of the kitchen. Twice. Until it gleamed.
I took a shower. I mixed a celebratory cocktail. I went to Amazon, found a pack of 12 bags for The Kirby, and ordered them on two day delivery. I went into the kitchen and thought to myself, “A wise man would now replace the bag in the weak little vacuum that has all the leavings from The Kirby in it.”
I opened the “cheap, plastic metrosexual’s vacuum” and knew instantly that many moons ago I had taken a bag out of that vacuum and somehow failed, FAILED, to install a new one. A cloud of hair, dust, dust mites and the bones of small animals exploded from the case and drifted across the gleaming kitchen floor and the carefully polished counter tops. I stood in the cloud at ground zero and felt the dust of ages settle on me.
They say that “Nature abhors a vacuum.” Nature’s got nothing on me.
David Thompson, a discerning connoisseur of the crapulous in the world today brings us this assault on the senses and soul in Meanwhile, in the Arts...
"Here’s Austrian artist and choreographer Doris Uhlich, whose “vigorous and critical” hour-long performance More Than Enough “takes ironic revenge on the standardisation of the body.” It’s a “bodily and textual discussion of flesh and opulence,” in which Uhlich “asks herself and her audience how the body can become a trademark and what this means.” This radical feat is achieved by reciting Baudelaire, throwing talcum powder around and making several phone calls: 'I’m calling you because I’m fat...' Brace yourselves for the finale."Brace yourself indeed. As one of his astute commenters remarks, "Worst. Nudity. Ever."
You have been warned, but when has that ever stopped you?
Continued...When it comes to tone-deaf DC twit of the year, she really has no equal except when her husband is talking: Party time again: Michelle Obama explains the Angela Merkel state dinner for you guys without invites
Continued...That is not a typo.
Continued...Australia’s CO2 rules may lead to sinking of desert ships
Continued..."I am laughing....
Continued...WaPo's Monica Hesse asked a few average, ordinary American women --
Continued...The new food icon will be a "simple, plate-shaped symbol, sliced into wedges for the basic food groups.... "
Continued...
For many days now, the Right/Libertarian side of the blogosphere seems to be consumed and obsessed with 1) what may or may not be a Democrat congressman's underwear-clad penis and 2) to whom a photograph of it may or may not have been sent. It's an unseemly, distasteful, and an ultimately meaningless obsession. Yet it seems to be impossible for many otherwise smart bloggers to let go of this particular congressman's penis.
In addition it would seem that many people as commenters or bloggers risk having their "Conservative in Good Standing" Nametag taken away if they don't choose to swallow the tweeted penis whole and stay on it until they receive full satisfaction. Sounds a little messy to me, sort of like humping, pumping and dumping a stock, but what do I know?
At this point the drive to see who can be the bigger dick in the whole matter has come to the point where the following 'good question I just thought of' seems to be of such turgid moment that it is fit for an email blast:
" Did Weiner ever sext others, particularly minors like the high school girl he followed for a time?"
That's a very sleazy line and reveals just how deep into the sewer everyone seems to have submerged. It's become a game of political "gotcha" that has got out of control and has spattered sewage on all who have touched it.
Long ago and in another universe, I worked for Penthouse Magazine. Everyone, even those who never read it in its glory days, knows Penthouse rose to "fame" in large measure on the back of the "Penthouse Letters."
The classic question I am always asked whenever this part of my odd "career" comes up is invariably: "Are the letters real?"
My answer is, invariably, "Yes insofar as they are delivered to the magazine by an official member of the US Post Office. Whether or not they refer to sexual adventures that actually happened is something we didn't really know."
Except that in cases of "fads in the letters" we always knew. And there were fads.
There were fads in letters about three/four/five-somes. There were fads in letters about bondage and discipline and new saddles for pony girls. There was a very memorable fad for letters about "monopediamania," a term we coined for the strange attraction that growing numbers of readers/correspondents, even those in the prisons, claimed they had for women who were missing one or more limbs.
Yes, it was grisly. Yes it was distasteful. Yes it sold magazines. And so we just tossed all the letters into the tiny office inhabited by the newest and most junior editor and let her wade through them all and pull out the choicest, wettest, and most fetid giblets of prose for subsequent publication.
In like manner it would seem that, first for the right and then for the left, the endless "Just askin'" questions, the meticulously written out timelines, the intense examination of the penis in question, the returning and returning to the subject like a dog returns to his vomit, has become a kind of "approved by the Right" witch-dick hunt.
The entire penis pumping crusade is a classic case study in the devolution of discourse. It's a get-even moment. It's a "I'm not talking about the penis but about the HYPOCRISY!" moment! It's the always tiresome and been-done-to-death "If a Republican had done this..." moment. And it's utterly and continually revolting.
It began as a kind of sophomoric obsession by playing with the name of the congressman involved and it has ended with many otherwise sane and even-minded bloggers just fondling with each other's postings, coming up with questions they'd like to feed to the MSM since they have no power or access or stature to do it themselves, and drilling down into the mire well below snorkel depth. And every hour some one or another of these pearl divers seems to bob back up to the surface with some new semi-solid Baby Ruth-shaped object which they brandish in the air like a trophy.
The problem with the whole sordid and fetid mess is that no matter what the outcome it won't be possible to wash off the stink for a very long, long time.
What will these heroes of truth, justice and the American way have achieved from all their thrashing about in an onanistic daisy chain? The future of the republic will not be changed one whit. The congressman in question will go on being the congressman in question. The state of the world will remain as it was last week if only a bit worse for wear and a tad more slimey for all of their "efforts". They will not have improved the lot of their fellow Americans on tittle of an iota of a jot. Instead they will, at best, have gotten themselves and their readership off on a recurring session of the Two Minute Hate down in the sewer.
I feel sorry and disappointed with the right sphere over the last week. I was once a professional when it came to dealing with skeevy, sleazy, and turbid sexual fantasies and I know when a particular sexual fad is spent. Some one needs to tell them:
"You've done enough. Have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last? Have you left no sense of decency?"
I'm only showing you this so your mind will know to a dead certainty there are always new levels of bogglement...
Continued...If we could build a high wall around this entire group and then flood it western civilization might still be saved.
Or, as commenter Bill puts it with much pith: "Live from the Cafe Irrelevant on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams, a flea bitten melange of used-to-bes, never-weres and lame-o's singing an inane song about nothing as the tide slowly recedes on their tragi-comic lives."
-- Title and pointer via BrothersJudd Blog: :
Obamadumb: The state of deeper dumbness that comes from believing "With Obama all things are possible." An affliction affecting millions of previously merely dumb Americans. See:iOwnTheWorld.com Waiting For "Da Dough"
WASHINGTON Two weeks after President Barack Obama signed the big health care overhaul into law, Americans are struggling to understand how -- and when -- the sweeping measure will affect them.
Questions reflecting confusion have flooded insurance companies, doctors' offices, human resources departments and business groups.
"They're saying, 'Where do we get the free Obama care, and how do I sign up for that?' " said Carrie McLean, a licensed agent for eHealthInsurance.com. The California-based company sells coverage from 185 health insurance carriers in 50 states.
Case in point: This classic "obamadumbation:"
Continued...
"Is that a polar bear on your ass or are you just glad to see me?"
PARIS — Models in head-to-toe yeti suits picked their way around towering but quickly melting icebergs, sloshing through a deep puddle of Arctic melt in their shaggy fake fur. Call it climate change chic, Chanel style.
Nah. How about we call it demented, drooling, clapped-out, idealess, posturing pile of piffle? With a soupcon of really revolting designs carefully crafted to induce popping flashbulbs and projectile vomiting at fifty meters.
First day of deer season and she's a hood ornament.
"I am Merkin Twink hear me roar!"
Wags often remark that gays control fashion and use it to express their hatred of women. Not completely true on either score, although envy for the feminine while yearning for the mud can play a role. Overall, you've got to remember that although fashion goes to great lengths to convince weak souls it's an "art," it's actually a craft elevated to the level of an industry. As such it draws in a lot of creatives but also a lot of businessmen as well. Sexuality varies and nobody who actually knew or knows some of the cigar chomping guys in the schmata trade would mistake them as light in their Italian leather loafers. Make that mistake you you might find yourself cutting your teeth on the curb.
Continued...
From Curmudgeonly & Skeptical -- Your go-to source for demented insanity that somehow makes sense.
UPDATE: In the comments a representative for Cass and the Green Gym says it's not at all like this:
I want to thank you for writing this story and I just hope that I might have cleared up some of your questions or skepticism. We appreciate any and all support of Cass Community Social Services because they are dedicated to helping people in Detroit who need it the most!See the comments for the full message.
Yet another milestone on the endless road of our decline. It's one of those press releases you think has to be a hoax, but sadly turns out to be real:
Detroit Non-Profit Opens Green Gym -- DETROIT, Jan. 19 /PRNewswire/ --
The Green Gym is the nation's first workout facility created specifically for homeless men, women and children. The grand opening of the Green Gym will mark a revolutionary step by Cass to improve its carbon footprint, reduce its energy costs and improve the quality of life for Detroit's most at-risk citizens.
The Green Gym will be the first of its kind. Nowhere else in the country have such innovations been implemented for the benefit of homeless citizens. In addition to standard fitness equipment such as two weight machines, boxing bags, and a treadmill, 10 Green Revolution Technology enabled stationary bikes will generate electricity to be redirected into Cass' power grid. Over one year of four daily classes, a full class of 10 at the Green Gym can generate enough power to light 36 homes for a month, or three homes for a year!Nothing like putting the drunk, hopeless, schizophrenic, and hard-core unemployed to work while working out, is there?
As Rob "reports" in email, the mind set might work something like this:
Continued...
(With deepest apologies to Henrik Ibsen and his play GHOSTS )
Andrew. Yes, yes; well, listen to me, Charles, You are very strong-minded, I know. Sit quite quiet when you hear what I am going to tell you. You mustn't scream or flounce. Will you promise me that, Charles?
Charles Johnson. Yes, yes, I promise -- tell me what it is.
Andrew. Well, then, you must know that this fatigue of mine -- and my not being able to think -- is not really the illness itself--
Charles Johnson. What is the illness itself?
Andrew. What I am suffering from is obsessional; it--(touches his crotch, and speaks very quietly)--it lies here.
Charles Johnson (almost speechless). Andrew! No--no!
Andrew. Don't flounce; I can't stand it. If I was man enough to have comments I’d ban you. Yes, I tell you, it lies here pulsing in my groin, waiting. And any time, any moment, it may break out.
Charles Johnson. How horrible --!
Andrew. Do keep quiet. That is the turgid state I am in--
Charles Johnson (springing up). It isn't true, Andrew! It is impossible! It can't be that!
Andrew. I had one erection while I was abroad and away from your handy handle, that pony tail. But with some manipulation it passed off quickly. But when I learned the condition my condition was in this dreadful haunting fear of flaccidity took possession of me.
Charles Johnson. That was the fear, then--
Andrew. Yes, it is so indescribably horrible, you know. If only it had been an ordinary mortal disease Juan the bell boy could have re-erected me in your absence, safely of course. I am not so much afraid of flaccidty; though, of course, I should like to boing-boing! as long as I can.
Charles Johnson. Yes, yes, Andrew, you must boing-boing!
Andrew. But this is so appallingly flouncy. To become like a helpless child on my uncle’s lap again -- to have to be fed, to have to be frittered. Oh, it's unspeakable!
Charles Johnson. Hush, hush, sweet Andrew. We shall progress progressively in our progress united as close as two can be. My child has his Charles to tend him....
Continued...
One struggles to find new realms of contempt in which to hold Charles "I'm writing as bad as I can" Johnson, but -- because he's a putz -- he always provides them. Latest realm? A sniveling bit of denial concerning the Sparkman death now revealed not to be an evil assassination but something even dumber: Census worker staged death to conceal suicide.
Johnson deftly conceals his own role in the matter by hiding his ostrich head up his own ass in a classic "Who? Me? Never!" bit of "clarification": Little Green Footballs - Update: Ky. Census Worker Committed Suicide
"Since this news came out, I’ve received several angry emails demanding that I apologize for saying Sparkman had been murdered by a right wing extremist. The problem is, I never wrote anything like that. For the record, this was my post when the story broke, and I don’t apologize for a single word:There’s not enough information yet to say for sure what was behind this killing, so let’s not jump to conclusions. But the description of the circumstances and the timing (around the time of the Washington DC tea party) raises a strong suspicion that anti-government sentiment may have been the motivation.[Emphasis added]
Sigh. What is one to do with this sort of copy? It wouldn't get by the newest editorial intern at Weekly World News. In effect it says, "I didn't say he was killed by those that I suggest killed him... those dastardly tea-partiers... and nobody can prove I did. All I said was 'strong suspicion'! All I said was 'I'm just raisin' issues and askin' questions."
People like Johnson fall into the category of true believers, those who are so far down the wrong path that they actually eat their own bullshit and called it "Pate." The blunt truth is that Johnson is so wrong he's "not even wrong." He's merely a piss-ant far down on the elephant of truth's ankle screaming "Take it all, bitch!"
It's a shame that Andrew Sullivan is already married. If he wasn't nuptials between Sullivan and Johnson would be the blogger society event of the season. Then again, it would never work out. In a gay marriage, both guys can't be the bottom.
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
-- William Butler Yeats -- "The Second Coming" Analyzed
The secular infection of the post-post-modern mind is beyond virulent and oozing pus wherever one looks. One manifestation of the spread of the epidemic is the "fashionable" compulsion to declare one has no faith by declaring one's faith in atheism. This is becoming a fad among our self-styled artiste class.
This evening I was looking at some interesting work on Flickr and wanted to learn a bit more about the artist, one Michael Paukner. His short Flickr autobiography is "graphic designer, freelancer, musician, atheist, jack of all trades." That's it. That's all. Which of those five things is not like the other four? That's right, the compulsive addition of "atheist."
I must confess I'm always a little surprised by the "passionate intensity" of these childish and malformed souls. It's as if Paukner felt forced to declare himself "graphic designer, freelancer, musician, broken, jack of all trades." If he had he'd have been a bit more honest about himself. As it stands declaring one is a loud and proud "atheist" is I imagine a kind of advertisement for one's own brokenness in order to attract and gather around oneself others who are broken in the same way. I suppose it's a kind of dating behavior of the spiritually malformed in order to wall themselves off from redemption of any sort; a kind of forehead tattoo of the Tribe of Zero.
It's a continuing mystery to me that, faced in every moment with the self-evident presence of the miracle of all that is, people in western cultures can shroud themselves in the deepest dark of "There is no miracle." Then again, I am reliably informed that the grace of free will is what makes this possible and I cannot argue with grace. It has too often been granted to me for me to test it.
Still I wonder at the Tribe of Zero's compulsion to announce it's dark faith in Nothing. In a way, the passionate intensity of atheists is mirrored by the passionate intensity of Muslims who would kill and behead unbelievers and be convinced of their own "tough-mindedness" as they pulled the trigger or chopped at the neck. The difference is, of course, that our post-post-modern atheists, with their t-shirts and tattoos, their mumbles and tacky manifestos proclaiming their "faith," are unlikely to ever kill Muslims. That's not their role in today's global religious war between the submission and slavery of Islam and the liberty and freedom of the west. No, the role of atheists is similar to the role of pacifists. They hide behind those who believe in Liberty and Freedom and carry on their broken lives.
Their only other conceivable role, should the civilization that makes their "faith" possible is, if that civilization should lose, to become the first sheep slaughtered under Sharia law. (Unless of course their "tough mindedness" failed and their rushed to conversions as most would.) Those that stuck too their intensely passionate conviction in "atheism" would quickly discover the truth of the old saying, "If you don't believe in anything, you'll die for nothing at all."
The Obama talking while touring cure for world problems. How's that working out? ZZZzzzzzz.... And now, while we wait for Joe the Plumber to deploy the Roto-Rooter to remove that look from FLOTUS' face, some "traveling music:"
I'm hearing the light from the window,
I'm seeing the sound of the sea,
My feet have come loose from their moorings,
I'm feeling quite wonderfully free.
And I think I will travel to Rio
Using the music for flight,
There's nothing I know of in Rio,
But it's something to do with the night.
It's only a whimsical notion
To fly down to Rio tonight,
And I probably won't fly down to Rio,
But then again, I just might....
From your goto source for mainlining the soul of Michelle: Michelle Obama's Mirror's Blog: Blame It On Rio (and Racism)
"Megan fox could cause a hormonal imbalance in a comatose galapagos
tortoise." -- Commenter Flannelputz
Note to Asylum AOL nerds and nerdettes: It is fine to announce 'A Day Without Megan Fox' ...
But on August 4, that all changes, as Asylum bands together with the other manly sites of the Web in an Internet-wide media ban on all things Megan Fox. After the jump, see our explanation and find out how you can help..... we understand the pressure neutered nerds of all 6 sexual persuasions are under when it comes to:
MEGAN FOX. Here seen promoting environmentally-friendly faux fur.
But, puhlease dear nerd and nerdette...., never, EVAH, again announce it by making a video that requires us to see the dubious physique and hair coverage of one constrasted against the receding chin state and prolapsed cleavage of the other. It is the eyes to bleeding be....
Continued...A confused nation says, "Huh?" Obama: Economic crisis 'not as bad as we think'
"A smidgen of good news and suddenly everything is doing great. A little bit of bad news and ooohh , we're down on the dumps," Obama said. "And I am obviously an object of this constantly varying assessment. I am the object in chief of this varying assessment."Coming soon, a teleprompter embedded in the brain.
"I told you I had a pony in here."
Found at Tastes Funny: 1916 | Shorpy Photo Archive
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Dear Mrs. Obama,
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