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Swarming The EPA, Katy Perry-Style

Pretty soon, I’ll have to put alert Facebook friend Amy Barnes on staff, as this is the second post in a few days gleaned from her Facebook page, though if she were on staff I’d be very upset with her for not taking a picture of the girls in sexy bee suits she saw on the train this morning. Apparently, her concern was that the girls might not be over eighteen, and the bee suits were revealing, but listen – it’s a school day. There aren’t any kids skipping school to go and protest the EPA. If nobody was getting arrested, then document, damn it. DOCUMENT!

Apparently what they are protesting is a certain chemical which the EPA isn’t taking very seriously which is decimating bee populations. Einstein said that if the bees ever die off, humanity would be dead in four years, and I know he was wrong about some stuff, but he seemed like a pretty smart dude. Maybe we should listen to him.

And if not, we should seriously consider listening to the swarm of sexy bees. I tried to google image that to come up with my own photos of sexy bee girls swarming the EPA, but all I got was this thing, kind of summing up what was going on and not being at all clear about whether or not the bee suits should be sexy (Yes).

Swam the EPA

There was some debate on Amy’s thread about this topic as to whether or not the sexy bee suits were appropriate. Some folks found the sexiness of the bee suits to be distracting from the overall message – “They’re just a bunch of wannabes,” said Allison C. (I’ll do that Alcoholic Anonymous-style, since I don’t know Ms. Carver very well).

Whoops! Sorry, Allison, but as you know, there is no way to edit a blog.

Bumblebee ManAnyway it seems to me, here in America, if you want someone to listen to pretty much anything, it’s not a bad idea to dial up the sexy a little. The whole purpose is raising awareness, and by and large we don’t care about non-sexy, non-gun, non-cheeseburger things around here very much. So I say if you’re putting on a bee suit, and you’re not my daughter, then yes – put on a skimpy one. I did find several thousand of them by googling sexy bee suits, but oddly all of them are women. Can’t men rock a sexy bee suit? What’s wrong with you, google?

Which reminds me, I was thinking hey dudes out there – maybe head down there in a flower suit, see if any of them land on you, but scientifically that’s backwards and also profoundly disturbing and inappropriate and demeaning to women, etc. etc. etc.

Didn’t Amy tell you these ladies were no older than your average Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Model? We shouldn’t be egging them on, we should be grabbing them by the antennae and dragging them back to their mom’s house. (Don’t do that if you’re a dude, you’ll almost certainly be misunderstood and arrested.)

Similarly, Menzie Chase Campbell pointed out that it’s not a particularly courageous stand, is it? I mean, who the hell is anti-bee?

Well, that’s a good question, but I guess first we should ask ourselves, why don’t people already care about this? Why don’t we just go down there and drink whiskey, bust the place up old school? Why is the Sexy Bee Girl Swarm even necessary?

You might be asking, “Who cares, Tom? Don’t question the Sexy Bee Girl Swarm, embrace it.” And sure, fellas, I gotcha. But since Einstein already told us we need the bees, and since the news has been telling us (though probably not in a sexy enough way) about this for years, why aren’t we already there in normal clothes, blasting down the doors of the EPA and kicking the shit out of a bunch of crooked, lobbyist-owned, tools of The Man?

I mean, I used to be anti-bee, I guess, when I found out that their stings could kill me. I have to carry a little shot around with me and stab myself in the leg if any real bees get a hold of me. If anyone has the right to be anti-bee, it’s me, right?

Well, me and bees reached an understanding, despite our differences. Sure, they can kill me, and sure, I like to run over their house with my lawnmower, and yes, once I found out they could kill me, I dumped gasoline all over their house and set fire to it. Sure. But that’s just because I’m a Skynyrd fan, don’t take it the wrong way.

Everybody can changeNo, not really. But me and bees and Rocky Balboa and Ivan Drago all learned to respect each other despite our intense desires to kill each other, and if I can change, and bees can change, and Rocky and Ivan can change, well everybody can change.

So in summary, I think we owe the Definitely Over Eighteen Girls In Bee Suits On Amy’s Train not only an apology, but a debt of gratitude. They’re out there fighting for bees, and not in the dull, hipster, Occupy Wall Street kind of way, with their beards and their eyebrows and their clothing.

They’re doing it Katy Perry-style – last Friday night they did too many shots, danced on table tops, put some bee suits on, occupied the EPA.

God bless them, that’s what I say. What did YOU do for bees today? Eh? EH?!

Also, did you notice how many opportunities I had up there to replace the word “be” with “bee?” But no, I kept it legit, every single time. You’re welcome.

 

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Film At Eleven

I don’t want to sound like your grandpa, but back in my day the news had to shut the hell up for five or six-hour stretches at time.

Fred SanfordIt was as awesome as apple pie, and not just because that meant you could skip it entirely. It was more like they were forced to sit around thinking for a few hours before blurting out whatever anybody on the street would tell them. And even then it was sick – they didn’t distill it down to the most informative and tasteful material possible, just the stuff that would make you watch.

They’d bait you with it, stick their head in the window of Magnum, P.I. and tell you NASA found something cool, maybe you ought to tune in at eleven and they’d tell you what it was.

Today I’ve been listening to an entire civilization vomit. I don’t blame you, civilization – I just wish there wasn’t a hologram of it running full-time across the sky, across the universe, across anyplace I point my brain.

This morning I thought the radio was reading a Lucas Davenport novel to me. Somebody killed a police officer. A bomber got shot. Somebody was in his underpants and then they made him take off his underpants on television, in case he had a bomb in them. What the shit? Huh?

Then get on Facebook and it’s a Crazy Rumor Roundup. The conspiracy guys who’ve been barking across the Internet like loopy preachers at the park – they go bonkers. It’s feeding time. They boil out of the digital sewers like a bunch of bloodthirsty CHUDs.

Did Obama use a mind control ray on this otherwise nice kid, to get us all…

I Must Kill The QueenGet us all what? Sounded like it was to take our guns away, but I never caught the plan. That’s a weird plan whatever it is, using a mind control ray on a young kid to get him to make crude bombs out of pressure cookers and plant them at the Boston Marathon. You pricks know that’s bordering on the plot of The Naked Gun, don’t you? And if I am understanding you correctly, I need to OPEN MY EYES!

All right. Well, thanks for the heads up, boys – I’ll just keep watching the skies waaaaaaaayyyy over here.

Later in the day I turn on the radio and NPR’s got the suspect’s classmates on. Some of them sound really freaked out. Some of them sound delighted to be on the radio. Did you find anybody Dzhokar Tsarnaev got to second base with? What kind of candy bar did he like?

Good God. Can’t we just go back to Laverne and Shirley for a while, til you guys have something to tell us?

Ah, but what can you do? There’s no way to talk about anything else, they just shut down the whole city of Boston. Tommy Lee Jones wants these guys to go get a cane pole and catch the fish that ate him. This would be outrageous in a movie, so the media and their thousand unblinking eyes cannot look away.

Thank goodness I don’t have very many conspiracy nuts in my newsfeed anymore. Just wiseasses and people sending prayers and people wiseassing about prayers and a bunch of quiet people and then a weirdly large Etsy conglomerate. But just like in real Boston, a few heroes stepped up.

Like Alert Facebook Friend Melissa Gilmore – who did NOT give me permission to use her name so don’t tell her I did – brought this link to my attention, in which CNN Reporter Deborah Feyerick is on the scene in Boston and reports “we’ve got a dog, a dog that’s on his way. Interesting, that dog is barking. Whether that’s a canine, we don’t know..”

Which speaks for itself, we don’t need to sit here and pick on Deborah. It WAS a dog. What? And she’s just being a shrewd reporter – seals bark, for instance. We don’t know if it’s a seal or a dog or what. We’ve got to let the story unfold.

All throughout my day, thanks to Melissa, I’d just think about that big, silly puppy dog and smile. I wish there was a number for when a dog is coming, so she could have said “We’ve got a Five-oh-Two.”

By far, Facebook hero of the day was Amy Barnes, who seemed to realize early on what would happen, and she decided that instead of banging her face against her steering wheel and then blogging, she would actually do something about it. You know how in Boston when the explosions happened everyone talked about how some people were running toward the chaos instead of away? That’s Amy Barnes, looking out for all of us throughout this Category Five Media Shitstorm. All you saw on her feed all day was cute, cuddly animals, starting with this one:

Keyboard Kitty

See, the kitty is trying to remind us that we don’t have to spend all day breathing in the Internet news like a horrific, endless information fart. You should see her wall – the Etsy people attacked it with polar bear babies and puppies and upside kitties. It’s like the opposite of the Boston Marathon Bombing over there. My firm opinion is that she should get a Pulitzer for it.

 

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Action Blogging, Volume Two

Good lord, it’s a long, weird drive to Henry County, out of Columbus on 33 northwest about forty miles, then that’s it for the highway. Two lane roads all the way, remote roadhouses with creepy names, gigantic, lizard-eyed birds watching you over dead stuff on the side of the road. Is this an episode of Supernatural or what? Feels like it, and that stinks because it just started and that means I’m the opening gruesome death. Or you. I mean you’re here, too.

Farther and farther out of the city, we start to vaguely remember when things were slower, and you had no idea what was going on anywhere in the world if you just went outside and sat on a chair too far away to hear the phone. Are we feeling creeped out or nostalgic? Well, we were kids in the seventies, so – both.

Check this out:

County Road X

Are you wondering what’s down County Road X, my friend? Because I’m not. I would have to have a very good reason indeed to drive down County Road X while I’m this creeped out. Luckily, we don’t have to, we get to the Henry County Courthouse, hand things to people and smile at them while they stamp them.

Still feeling bizarrely Supernatural, like you know how Sam and Dean are always going to the library and helping themselves to a cardboard box of whatever obscure records they need from whatever time, to move the plot along? Check out the Henry County Auditor’s archiving system:

Analog records

You’re probably wondering if there’s stuff in those compartments up there and if so, where’s the ladder? Well, you’re in luck because I ask them. Of course I do. And yes there’s stuff in it, and there’s a special Pole they use to get stuff out. Better get Charlie in here with the Pole, is what they say, I imagine, and I don’t like the image. Not Charlie, not the pole.

The Recorder’s Office is similar:

Auditor

So in summary, Henry County is creepy, but good luck hacking their records. Let’s get the hell out of here.

We’re starving, so we’ll eat a horrific breakfast sandwich from McDonald’s which makes us cry and punch the roof of the car as we drive, and then we’re headed down to Mercer County, passing the County Road X again and feeling better as it slides away in our rearview mirror.

And by the time we get to the Mercer County Courthouse, we’re feeling like a million bucks, because holy shit – it’s the best courthouse in Ohio!

For example, come on up the front steps with me and look what they have just inside the main entrance – where most counties keep security guards and metal detectors:

Lounge Door

Lounge

Not saying I don’t appreciate it, it’s just what year is this again? I’m listening to the news all day in the car, and this place is the opposite of the news. It’s also clean as a whistle in here. I swear if I lived here in Celina, Ohio, I would haunt this place. They would be kicking me out all the time. Better go check the lounge, see if Tom’s in there in his underpants again.

All right, let’s quit screwing around and go upstairs, get some stuff stamped. Oh, the County Engineer has a question about the document I want her to stamp. The way we handle questions is we smile and shrug and defer to the question asker’s superior knowledge about documents and stamps, and nearly one hundred percent of the time, they figure it out for us. Again, ask yourself, what would a monkey with a sign around his neck do? But not literally, monkeys are gross.

On to the Auditor’s office. Holy crap, it’s the same woman from the County Engineer’s office, she just went through a door in the back while I went out to the hall and in a different door. I don’t comment, but somehow, vaguely, I’m not crazy about it. Let’s keep both stamps in that first room, or let’s have two people do the stamping. Is this a government office or a Monty Python skit? Cut it out.

Ah, well, she’s nice enough, nevermind. One more stop, and that would be the Mercer County Recorder, and they’re not going to stamp anything, they’re going to scan something and I’m going to give them a check. And I skid to a stop when I walk in the room, because the person behind the desk is none other than Actual Mercer County Recorder Angie King. I recognize her because last night I had to pull up the website for the address.

Most counties, the title of County Recorder is not so literal. Angie King shows up to work, and she records documents into official record. Rolls up her sleeves and does the job. Holy crap, I’d vote for her, if I lived in Mercer County, and if she was cool about letting me use the lounge.

Gotta hit the Men’s room now, and you can come along even if you’re not a dude – it’s not the kind of blog where I’m going to actually pee in it, dig? But there’s something in here you need to see.

One Handle To Flush Them All

Four urinals, but only one handle. A very special, center-mounted handle. One Handle – To Flush Them All.

Doesn’t seem very efficient does it? Flushing four toilets every time you use one? Well it’s apparently a little confusing too. Can you see those signs hung up on each side, above the fringe toilets? The toilets subservient to the One True Handle?

Here let me help you.

Sign1

Sign2

It’s a helpful picture of the handle just a few feet over, in case you’re really stumped. One of these signs on each side.

Now, typically when someone has to hang up a couple of signs, there’s been a real problem. This doesn’t strike me as Version One of the sign, either. Someone is making signs, and that person is getting impatient, but that person has to remain polite about it for some reason. I really wish I knew who that person was, so I could say, dude. Spring for a plumber. This is some of the craziest bullshit I’ve ever seen. Four toilets is too many. Pull yourself together.

But as I mentioned, I’m very busy and important, and we have to jump right back in the car and barrel back to Columbus, so we can review loan documents with people. On the way back, I spot a large chicken on the side of a country road, eating french fries out of a discarded Wendy’s container, and holy crap, the farm house is across the street. This chicken had to cross the road to get to the fries. I nearly crash my car, but there is unfortunately no time to take a picture of the chicken, but at least we know what happened, and why.

Here’s a picture of Foghorn Leghorn and Miss Prissy, instead. End transmission.

Foghorn and Miss Prissy

 
 

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Action Blogging, Volume One

Well, I don’t have much time today, I’m very busy and important, so you’ll just have to hop in my pocket and run around with me all day while I do the stuff I do.

Which means you’re up at six and we’re riding around in heavy traffic for two hours in a stony silence, because I can’t blog while I’m driving. Then it’s off to the park, where we run for two and a half very slow miles. So slow that at one point we pass a power walker long enough to have a brief conversation. Probably could have switched jackets.

But its cool, keep lurching. Finally it’s over and then again, no blogging in the bathroom so you’ll have to sit downstairs on the couch and then another short drive and I get to my building, and I find this going on:

Machine TwoIt’s strange. I have a lovely building and the staff is amazing. I have no complaints except sometimes the executives who own the place scuttle around in groups of six or eight, and they flat creep me out. Not because they all feel like they have to wear suits (which they don’t, it’s 2013), but more because I think they might be shapeshifting reptiles masquerading as humans. I have no concrete evidence, just the general vibe I was getting the other day when a bunch of them showed up in the sandwich shop and stood there watching me eat a bowl of chili.

But here’s the strange part. I have seen two types of window washers here at the Building I’m Not Going To Name. We’ll call this one Type A. The other kind is just a dude who sits on a board with a bucket and a squeegee and lowers himself down one story at a time from the roof. A time-traveling window washer from 1940. And it’s not like they got rid of him and then brought in this other guy with his gargantuan cherry picker. It’s more like they alternate. I’ve seen them both repeatedly, but never together.

I really wanted to ask the guy up in the cherry picker how they decided when to call him and when to call the guy with the board and the bucket. Does he know the guy with the board and the bucket?

Make a mental note, will you blogosphere? I need to remember to take that guy’s picture the next time I see him, and ask him if he’s just old school or what. He certainly does seem tougher than the man up there. Why does one get a 15-ton machine and one gets a rope and pulley?

Window Washer

So let’s go on over to his cherry picker, see if we can get him down here. But no, sadly, none of the buttons work and the brakes are on. I guess they make these things so that you drive them from up there, that way you only need one guy, and that way no one like me can stroll up while you are washing windows on the sixth floor, and drive you around the building to my window, go back up to my office, and then start asking you questions through the glass using paper and a Sharpee.

Clever bastards.

Oops, there’s security. Let’s go on upstairs and drink some coffee and Facebook for a while, make a few copies of stuff. Then back to the car and we’re headed out to the Licking County Courthouse where we have to walk into one office, hand them a piece of paper for them to stamp, and then walk into another office and have them stamp it, and then walk into another office and leave it with someone else. A monkey with a sign around his neck could do what we are about to do, but you can’t FedEx it in – someone has to walk it from room to room.

I’m their huckleberry. I love walking from room to room. Pretty soon we’re done and we are startled by this statue out front.

Statue One

First of all, I think it’s a pretty cool statue. It looks like real people, and that’s how I like my statues. It appears to be a little girl who is upset, and a nice gentleman trying to console her.

But look closer.

Statue Two

That’s a statue candy bar in the man’s statue hand. Does the little girl know this man? Or is this a statue of a little girl accepting candy from a stranger? We are getting a little bit creeped out by the statue, aren’t we?

Seems like I’ve seen these two before and the little girl’s outfit and her blankey weren’t painted last time. That’s a weird decision, out of the blue – Someone get out there and paint that freaky little kid statue’s outfit and her blankey.

All right now let’s take notice that people are frowning at us for examining the statues for too long. We’re just looking at them, dudes, that’s what they’re out here for, right? You guys painted them, some of you must have been looking at them. Do any of you clowns know where this girl’s statue mom is, I don’t like this guy. Dad Alert going haywire.

Yep, and there’s the crazy look, we get that a lot. Let’s just go ahead and hop back in the car and skedaddle.

 

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Well Look Who Wants Some Help From NASA

One thing Newt Gingrich, NASA, and I all agree on is that we need to get some guys up to the Moon and build a little city, and then we need to get some guys to Mars, get their pictures taken, and then build a little city there, too.

Yes, that’s a lot to take in, and if it makes you feel any better, that is an exhaustive list of the things Newt Gingrich and I agree upon.  But bear with me here.  I’m about one-third serious.

Sure – I know we don’t have any money to throw around turning the little pictures in my head into reality.  I do admit, that’s a giant chunk of it, for me – nothing intellectual, I just want people on Mars driving around in little bubble cars with ray guns on them, preferably fighting monsters (and preferably winning).

So don’t start lecturing me about the budget.  I’m a screaming liberal – you can jam that budget right up your ass, we’ll buy whatever I say we’re buying.  Now get out there and create some jobs you lazy millionaires, I’m running up quite a tab here for crying out loud.

Maybe there’s some indigenous Martians we can steamroll over – something for the both of us, right?

I do agree though – NASA could do a better job marketing itself.  To be blunt, they don’t blow stuff up very often, but when they do it’s big, crazy expensive stuff, there are sometimes people in the stuff, and it’s always right on camera.  They don’t get a lot of air time when they do it right, you get about five seconds of footage – There go those crazy astronauts!  Look they took a panda bear and a treadmill with ’em this time!

Sure but right when they blow something – good lord, it’s awful.  They usually have to spend most of their effort trying to sockpuppet their way through an explanation of how any of this is even possible in the first place.  Then we pick out words that stick out because we understand them, but which don’t make sense.

Tiles?  What the hell are you taking about, tiles?  Spaceship tiles?  Why does the sky burn spaceships?  It doesn’t burn me.  It doesn’t even burn the horizontal kind of airplane.  Shit, it doesn’t even burn the tiles!

So we get all mad at them, like we do at regular tech guys on Earth.  Just Old-Fashioned, Language Barrier At The Drive Thru Window frustrated and mad.  Except we need our computers, we use them every day and we realize it pretty quickly, so we tolerate the terrestrial Tech Guy.

But do we really need these smug Super Tech Guys talking crazy to us while they blow stuff up?  It’s hard not to run through it in your head – would I even notice if you guys weren’t in space, screwing around? 

Then sometimes they hold dramatic press conferences and make everybody think they’ve discovered life on some other planet or a freaking time warp or something, but instead it’s something else, something you don’t even know what the hell, and they have to explain to you why you should be so excited about it. 

Or other times one of them puts on a diaper, drives across state lines, shoots somebody.  They end up explaining that yes, they sort of wear diapers sometimes in space, and yes, you can go Space Crazy.  “We used to really keep that shit under our hat til the Internet showed up,” they tell us.

Yes, and nobody likes the price tag and nobody ever taught them how to fudge the price tag.  They just come out and tell us, yeah, we’re going to crash this robot into Venus, see what happens.  Be around eighty million dollars but it’s going to be sweet, get some whiskey.

They should just price everything they do in terms of countries.  The Moon Base, for example, will probably cost us a couple of annualized Canadas.  I mean, I know where we can get one of them, sure – but where the hell are we going to get another?

I don’t know, Republicans – that’s your problem.  Just get out your checkbooks, there’s a killer asteroid coming and I’ve been busy blogging, so I’ll have to get you back on the next one. 

You heard me.  See for yourself – here’s the article, right from one of your notorious neo-conservative websites:  Asteroid 2011 AG5 May Pose Threat To Earth In 2040.

Now, put down your hookers and your Monopoly hats and focus.  I need you to understand a few things.  1) Asteroids have hit the Earth in the past  2) Asteroids have wiped out entire species on Earth in the past and 3) There are still asteroids all over the place out there, a whole bunch of them that keep right on moving because there is so rarely anything Earth-like in their way.

But did you catch that?  Rarely.  We’ve always known a killer asteroid was a possibility, but it has always seemed so remote.  Somewhere south of lightning strike odds.  I think the last big one to hit the Earth was about seventy million years ago (and no, I’m not going to google it).  So if the odds are one in seventy million, then we are about due aren’t we?

What if the odds are 1 in 625?  Cause that’s what they are currently calculating as the odds that this 460 foot chunk of iron will strike the Earth.  Right from the article:

“Talk about the asteroid was on the agenda during the 49th session of the Scientific and Technical Subcommittee of the United Nations Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space (COPUOS), held earlier this month in Vienna.”

Did you even know there were peaceful uses for outer space?  I didn’t either.  Death Stars, Star Destroyers, X-Wing Fighters.  Plus don’t even get me started on the enormous hand-shaped Teeth Monsters that live inside the asteroids.  Just absolutely infested with Mynoks. 

Anywho, this is literally a Rocket Scientist Meeting in Vienna we’re talking about – a big one – and they were taking this as seriously as anything else. 

Guess what they agreed?  They said, well, we haven’t been watching it that long, so we can’t be sure yet.  We’d put that odds at oh, 1 in 625, we’ll keep an eye on it.  And anyway, we’d have until 2023 to get a deflection mission going if it’s really headed our way.

But here’s what I think.  I think they’re watching the rest of us.  I think they’re hearing us talk about how dumb it is to send people into space and how we need to keep our feet on the ground and gee, it would be nice to play Space Man but we have enough problems right here. I think they’re hearing the whole thing – who needs NASA?

And I think that if they determine the asteroid is headed our way, they’re going to smirk and turn around with their hands on their hips and go, “Wellllllll, welllllll, welllllllll – look who needs a space mission from NASA to save eeeeevvvverrrrryboddy’s assss.”

Come on NASA, just deflect the meteor.  Ohhhh, I don’t know, fellas – that’d be reeeaaaaalll expensive and there’s nooooooo money.  We have enough problems right here on the ground!

Maybe turn out their pockets and shrug theatrically at us.  Member, fellas?  We don’t have enough money to goof around in space with our space toys, so you kept cutting our funding and second-guessing every single thing we wanted to crash into something else.  Every single hundred million dollar thing we want to fly to Mars and drive around.  Sure, maybe we could help you  – if we’d HAD MORE PRACTICE!

Anyway, that’s why I think we need the Moon Base.  It’s not why Gingrich thinks that, he was just running his mouth and something true flew out of it – the sun even shines on a dog’s ass some days, yessir.  But he’s right and it’s actually very simple. 

This is what the rocket scientists want to do, and we don’t want to offend the rocket scientists cause we’re going to need them when the asteroid finally shows up, whether it’s this one or another one.  The math is done – it’s coming, it’s just a matter of whether it’s now or fifty years or ten million, but oh yes, it’s coming.  I mean, they just now started looking in the last fifty years, and there’s one!  THERE’S ONE RIGHT THERE, GONNA BE CLOSE!

Are you betting on the fifty million?  Okay, well you do that.  I’m going to stand over here with the scientists, maybe shake ’em up a few martinis, take that edge off.

And speaking of which, we’re talking about NASA, so regardless of whatever plan they’re hammering together in Vienna, there’s a good chance they’re not deflecting it.  They’ll just spend four Spains and a Portugal trying to, and then go, “Aw shit.  Now it’s on fire and it’s going faster.” 

You see, we can’t be sure it’s going to miss us, and we definitely can’t be sure this crew is going to deflect it – God bless ’em but it’s not like they never screw anything up.  The only thing we can be sure of is that the asteroid is not going to hit two places, whenever it arrives.  So therefore we have to make sure we’re not all sitting around in one place – like the President and Vice President, yes?  Human race?  Carrying on?  Into the future? How many eggs do we keep in our basket again? 

Also, do you know how to check and see if there’s already a Moon Base?  Me either – if you asked me yesterday, I’d call NASA and ask them, but do you think they’re going to tell us about it now?  Good God, man – wake up.  It’s like, if you don’t let your kid on Facebook they’ll just get on there anyway and block you, so instead you let them and friend them and then do a standard Lurk And Watch. 

So building a Moon Base and getting actual, live people over to Mars is not just about ensuring humanity’s survival, it’s about keeping an eye on NASA’s otherwise-secret Moon Base and so on.  It’s about being paranoid and creepy.  And yes, it’s about spending money we don’t have on shit, just because I think it’s cool.

But mostly it’s about us, sitting here living in the toilet we just turned the world into and we’re flipping off the only people who can get us off of it.  I can’t shake my face hard enough for that to make sense. Everybody’s moving to freaking Idaho, like that’s going to help. First we decide the Nobel Prize sucks and now we’re all like, Shut Up Rocket Scientists We’re Trying To Eat Our Chicken Wings!

Like they’re not going to have chicken wings on the Moon.  Pull your head out of your ass, America.  Look down just a little and ask yourself:  Is this the future I want for my children?  And let’s be honest, we’ll be lucky to build one Blurry Triangle Asteroid Shooty Unit by 2040.  These two are fully operational, and they have their hands full.  We need to get busy, and we need to get busy NOW.

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Earlier:  2010: The Year We Find Weird Microbes In A Lake

And:  I’m Sorry Did You Just Say Supermoon?

And:  The Startling Mind Of God Coincidence

And:  Welcome To The Harmless Ice Monster Project

 

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Wyoming: The Doomsday State

I don’t know if they have gotten around to printing up new license plates with mushroom clouds on them or anything, but that does seem like the way they are headed.  As you can probably imagine, Wyoming is the most likely state to survive an all-out apocalyptic scenario in the U.S., because so many people keep forgetting it’s there.

Like did you know Wyoming just now, a few years ago decided to outlaw open containers in moving vehicles?  Yes, really, here’s an article from January 2007 (Panel OK’s Ban On Open Containers) announcing that the controversial No Road Pop Bill passed, and I couldn’t find the Time Magazine editorial where I first read about it, but it was written by a Wyoming cowboy writer guy, who said pretty much, “When we weren’t looking all of the sudden a bunch of liberals got a hold of the Statehouse and rammed this crazy bullshit through.  Does anybody have any idea how big Wyoming is and how boring it is to drive across it?”

And all that time MADD was on the rest of our asses, no one seemed to notice all the cowboys with beers between their legs, rocking around Wyoming like it was 1975.  And in fairness, cowboys are like bears – you know how you can fatally shoot a bear and it will still keep trying to rip your head off and eat it for a few more minutes?

No?  Well, they can.  Then they drop dead next to your headless body, and when Forest Police show up, they’re like “What in the Sam Hill do you reckon happened here?”

That’s how cowboys are when they’re cowboying around.  According to a recent MIT study, it is in fact physically impossible for a real, true cowboy to have an accident at all, regardless of his blood alcohol content as long as the vehicle he is driving is a truck or a golf cart.  And even if they are killed, they can – like bears – continue to cowboy for astonishing lengths of time.

Take the case of Jesse Blake, a Cheyenne rodeo cowboy who was decapitated in a freak accident while assisting the National Guard with an old-fashioned Billy Goat Roundup.  It was some kind of train accident, and the train was full of billy goats and it was moving slowly enough that they weren’t all mashed-up or on fire, they were just hanging around eating stuff like the one on M*A*S*H. 

Witnesses attested that Mr. Blake continued rounding up billy goats for a solid three hours after his head hit the ground, then he dumped a beer down his own neck stump, dug a grave for himself, and then went to sleep playing Johnny Cash on his guitar horizontally. 

You can’t argue with science, blogosphere.  You can’t argue with HISTORY.

So anyway don’t tell me cowboys can’t drive around drinking beer, and don’t tell me there is anyone else in Wyoming but cowboys, cause that’s bullshit.  What’s their football team called again?  All right then, so pipe down and soak up the cultural information.

But more to the point, that’s the first thing I thought of when Alert Facebook Friend Sonnin Dahl sent me this article, entitled Wyoming House Advances Doomsday Bill.  Wyoming probably figured, well, if the liberals got to our Road Pops, then the end is probably right around the corner.  We’d better hammer out a plan for when that Aztec God wakes up and starts kicking over buildings and breathing fire and whatnot.

Now.  Bear in mind that once the shit hits the fan, Wyoming is not likely to be like, “Oh, everybody come on up to Wyoming, we’d be happy to share our cowboy resources with you.”  So if you’re planning to get in on their doomsday plan, you’d better get out a map, locate Wyoming, buy yourself a cowboy hat and get over there, start knocking out some taxes.  Post apocalyptic freedom isn’t free.

Right from the article, with helpful translations added in parenthesis so you don’t get confused:

“The task force would look at the feasibility of Wyoming issuing its own alternative currency (Cowboy bucks), if needed. And House members approved an amendment Friday by state Rep. Kermit Brown, R-Laramie, to have the task force also examine conditions under which Wyoming would need to implement its own military draft (a large church bell), raise a standing army (posse), and acquire strike aircraft (Ducks-n-firecrackers) and an aircraft carrier (WHAT?)”

I’m trying to stay as open-minded as I can, here, fellas, but unlike the rest of the world, I know where Wyoming is.  If you are looking for an aircraft carrier to park in your landlocked state, just commandeer a Walmart and rename it The Texas or something. 

Actually, the whole thing’s not that big of a deal.  The budget laid out for the plan was $32,000 and now it’s been cut in half, so that’s like six teacher salaries – easy, Chicken Little. 

And the bill’s sponsor, suspiciously normal-named David Miller says that “he doesn’t anticipate any major crises hitting America anytime soon,” but that it’s just a generally good idea to prepare.  Which is what I always think when people start stacking up sandbags along the river – they’re not worried about anything, stacking is as stacking does.  Who knows what’s going to happen, Tommy C, we’re just stackin’ up sand bags.  It’s our way.

I guess really I’m just picking on Wyoming for dumb, blogger reasons:  (1) Alert Reader Sonnin Dahl told me to, (2) I don’t actually do stuff so it makes me feel better to criticize other people who do, and (3) Wyoming is WAY over there and they don’t have the Internet to my knowledge, so they’ll never hear about my wacky antics. 

And even if they do, did you see me kissing all that cowboy ass earlier?  Plus I got a case of beer in the garage if any cowboys show up and I know the recipe for steak and if I have to I can grow a moustache.  I got it covered. 

 
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Posted by on February 26, 2012 in News/Commentary, Uncategorized

 

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Coming To Terms With Conan

First let me just say that I’m not going to watch the new Conan movie anytime soon, and that yes, I’m going to go ahead and complain about it for a while here, so if that strikes you as unfair or irresponsible, might as well scroll on down to the comment box and get it out of your system.  But you should know, I’m not a journalist or a movie reviewer, just a guy drinking in front of his laptop at eight o’clock in the morning, so I can pretty much do as a please.  Can’t fire bloggers, know what I mean?

I was pretty sure this movie was going to be terrible because the guys who wrote it had written nothing but terrible, awful, horribly flatulent crapfests so far, like A Sound of Thunder, a solid candidate for The Worst Mainstream Time Travel Movie Ever. 

But then okay, I thought – it’s just Conan.  All we need is a bad guy who maybe kidnapped a princess, a bunch of henchmen with various medieval weapons, at least one solid monster, and a ragtag band of sidekicks.  They kept it R-rated, after all, so at least they weren’t trying to water it down.  Conan’s pretty messy, yessiree Bob.

So maybe any random two guys with nothing but horrible movies under their belts could hammer out a decent screenplay.  As long as they had some cool swordfights, what’s the difference?  I mean, who wrote the original, Oliver Stone?

Oh.  Yes, it was in fact Oscar-award winning American icon Oliver Stone, just – as Spang insists – taking tons of weird seventies drugs and knocking out one of the greatest fantasy screenplays in American history.  So man, thinking about it like that, I’ll bet it’s pretty easy to screw up a barbarian movie.  For the love of God, you ever see Beastmaster? 

No?  Huh.  How about Beastmaster II: Through The Portal Of Time?  Why, yes, that is former MTV veejay Kari Wuerer on the poster with him there, years before her breakthrough role in Eight Legged Freaks with Scarlett Johansson – good question.

Okay, whatever, that’s fine.  You spend your time however you like, it’s your life.  But you really don’t need to bother – you know the Beastmaster talks to the animals, right?  So it’s like Doctor Doolitte the Barbarian, or Doctor Doolittle the Barbarian II: Through The Portal of Time.

My advice would have been focus on a genre, but what do I know, I’m just a blogger, etc., etc. etc.

And so anyway, you probably don’t know that the guy who plays Conan (Jason Momoa) is also the guy who plays Ronon on Stargate: Atlantis (you heard me).  And so if you look at a picture of him in his Conan suit, scowling, he looks like a pretty good Conan. 

But then when he moves his face, it’s suddenly all wrong,  Conan doesn’t smirk, and he’s not wry, and he’s got crazy eyes – cause the motherfucker is crazy.  You grow up without your mom and get enslaved and then gladiatorized, well, welcome to Crazy Town – that’s how it works.  He might crack a joke once in a while, but it won’t be a subtle joke.  His demeanor is stony and serious and gargantuan and stabby.  And he doesn’t get his goddamn eyebrows plucked.

Momoa looks like a smooth-talking guitar guy from Colorado, smirking at you like he’s about to utilize your own panic to steal your girlfriend.  It’s like he’s too relaxed or something, I don’t know.  He’s too hot – Conan’s not hot, he’s just so huge and homicidal it doesn’t matter if he’s hot.  Chicks apparently dug that in the seventies and in the Age of Steel.

And already I’ve had a couple of people try to tell me that I don’t like the movie I haven’t seen because I’m not familiar with the original paperback novels, written by Whoever The Guy Is Who I Don’t Feel Like Googling Right Now.  And that’s bullshit, I read a couple of those things, found ’em lying around at my cousin Brad’s.  They were awesome, so shut up, that’s not the problem.

I mean, listen, man I had my own sword (Brad’s fault, too), and I’d get it out and tap it against my hand the way other kids get out a ball and glove to watch baseball, except I was watching Conan.  At like ten years of age, by the way – Mom, you know Conan blarnies into a canniballistic orgy at the end of that flick, kills a bunch of naked swingers and dumps out their People Soup?  Rated R, Mom, and that’s a Seventies R.  Just sayin’.

I do realize that I said earlier that I’d watch this movie twice even if it sucked because Rose McGowan’s in it, but why not just set the DVR and watch Charmed?  I mean, screw it, right?

Hollywood’s always doing this to me, and I need to learn to manage my expectations.  They take some treasured childhood movie and they either wake it up just so it can sit there blinking at me (Tron, Land of the Lost, The Day the Earth Stood Still) or they reanimate it like a horrible, spage-age zombie and make it dance around in funny outfits and do godawful things to it that make us forget it was ever awesome in the first place (Star Wars, Highlander) or they do whatever they’ve done to Conan that’s making everyone tell me it sucks.

I’m not participating this time.  I’m a grownup and there are plenty of comic book movies to watch this year and anyway the new season of Doctor Who starts Saturday, and I have kind of a belly ache and school starts tomorrow.  I’m just taking my ball and going home, you bunch of dicks.

I’m sorry blogosphere, I get cranky if I don’t get a nap.  My mom will call your mom later and square it all up.  Good night.

 
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Posted by on August 22, 2011 in Television/Movies, Uncategorized

 

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