Obligatory End of Decade Post - 1909

"You know that history repeats itself.
What you just done so has somebody else."
-S. Tallarico

Man, I can't wait for tomorrow. (Or to be more in tune with the zeitgeist: Jesus God, I can't wait for tomorrow. Or is it "Christ on a corndog?" Or on a Popsicle stick? Or some such phrase that suggests all at once how funny, irreverent and tragically hip you are.)

Tomorrow means we can start to stop recollecting 2000-20009, as if those 10 years were all that ever happened in the History of Earth. Such a bunch of myopic, egocentric, crybaby prima donna bitches we've become. Let's all make a list suggesting that the passing decade was somehow so monumental, momentous and epic, that it will be a long time before we ever experience ten years like the ones we've just been through. Make a list that will become ephemera before you even hit the "publish post" button. Most of these lists are a collection of rehashed scraps anyway; stuff someone heard or read and regurgitated for the amusement of a few readers; and more likely for their own amusement.

Let's travel back in time. Let's only go back 100 years.
Let's recall the years 1900-1909.
(Harp SFX)

Oh, dear readers! What an epoch we have come through! What an era of change! I dare say we are marked for it, and I know not whether we are marked for better or for worse.

Ah, 1900! Remember the promise? The joy of ushering in a new century? We were all so full of hope! And then, on the very first day of this new century, Hawaii asks for a delegate to the Republican Convention! We might've known right then that we were in for a decade of comic disaster. And then! The assassination of Kentucky Governor William Goebel! Things were starting off ever so bleakly. In March the decade was already officially ruined when in France they passed the law making the legal length of a workday for women and children just 11 hours. It seems so long ago now, looking back from the eve of 1910, but that one act would usher in a spiral of decline, perhaps making this the "What in The Name of All That is Good is Happening to Our World" Decade.

Boxer Rebellion, Philippine-American War, King Umberto I of Italy is assassinated, the devastating hurricane that killed 8,000 souls in Galveston! And we were only getting started.

The death of Queen Victoria. New York State requiring license plates on automobiles! (The tyranny!) Stock market crash of '01. The assassination of President McKinley! The Southern violence that erupted after Booker T. Washington was received at the White House. Were we surely not on the precipice of ruin by the end of 1901?

Cuba gains independence from the United States! If you could not sense the end of our nation's Providencially Ordained Dominance by then, my friends, you surely had your heads buried in a sandy San Juan hill! Miners striking, Guatemalan earthquakes. I shudder as I recall it all.

Mudslides in Alberta, the King and Queen of Serbia assassinated, flash floods in Oregon, Paris Metro train fire, theater fire in Chicago kills 600, Orville and Wilbur Wright defy God and all that is natural and fly through the air! The Great Baltimore Fire, Russia declares war on Japan, the Great Toronto Fire, the steamboat fire in the East River kills 1,000, Governor General of Finland assassinated, Moscow tornado, 20,000 killed in Indian earthquake, Norway achieves independence from Sweden, the beginning of the naval arms race, the start of the Russian Revolution AND the murder of Frank Steunenberg, ex-governor of Idaho!

Coal mine explosion kills 1,000 in France, the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, the San Francisco earthquake claims 3,000 lives while 20,000 were killed in the Chilean earthquake and 10,000 by the typhoon and tsunami in Hong Kong AND The Grand Duchy of Finland becomes the first nation to include the right of women to stand as candidates when it adopted universal suffrage!

The invention of the submarine, working class children in Rome get a school! School? For WORKING CLASS Children? Good God, Man! The Wall Street Panic of '07, more mining disasters in Pennsylvania and West Virginia, the King of Portugal and his son are murdered in Lisbon, the Young Turk rebellion and the earthquake and tsunami of Messina, Sicily and Calabria that killed over 70,000 people.

And as I write this, more progress, more tragedy, more immense undertakings the likes of which man has never seen continue, including the recent opening of the Manhattan Bridge, meaning the City will soon be teeming with Brooklynites! What hath we wrought, my dear readers?

Here's to a more subdued and genteel 1910. Let us usher in a decade of new promise, of understanding and goodwill. We are surely marked for the time through which we have passed, but let us learn from it and forge on more learned, more reflective, and better for it.

(Harp SFX) Back to the present

Now, see? doesn't your Mark Sanford, iPhone, Obama, 9/11, Janet Jackson showed her tit at the SuperBowl, Bush-Cheney, Wars and Rumors of Wars list look kind of silly?

Get a grip. It's just another year.

Touch My Tarts and I Will Cut You

Lakeland, Florida, if you've never been there, is a place that breeds some interesting people, the kind of people that caused polite Southern women to invent the phrase "Bless his heart." So it isn't too surprising to find that back in April a woman in Lakeland was arrested for stabbing her boyfriend over a box of Pop-Tarts. As @thegirlriot said, "That's brand dedication."

This makes "Leggo my Eggo" seem so wimpy. Really, Kellogg's, you should run with this story.

Field Hockey By Any Other Name Will Still Fail

When Native Americans played the sport, each team had 60 players. That might be awesome. (Click image for cool view.)

Got your season tickets yet?

Heavy metal soundtrack? Check.
Overexcited announcers? Check.
Scantily clad cheerleaders? No.

But that omission won't be responsible for killing the latest sport to try to establish a foothold in Orlando. Here's what will: No one will care. This town can barely support an NBA team that made it to the championship last year.

Professional Indoor Lacrosse.

And trust me, no edgy slogan like "Stick It!" is going to help.

Lacrosse, a fun and fast-paced game requiring speed, stamina and toughness, was apparently tired of being kicked around the edges of college campuses with the likes of Ultimate Frisbee. So they established a pro league. I'm sure it's a huge hit in Edmonton and Calgary, but Florida ain't gonna play. Here's the crowd turnout in Minnesota, an established lacrosse hotspot. Everett, Washington is getting a team this year. Boston got one last year. How's it going, Beantown? Yeah, I didn't think so. Boston's average attendance for their new team is 8,470 in an arena that seats 18,000. That's not good business.

Down here, it will be worse. No one is going to go to the games. I give it two years. Two years of front office staff and players going on radio stations, hyping it up, encouraging people to come and "See what it's all about!" Two years of poorly produced local commercials. And then, just as they left New York, the Orlando Titans will move somewhere else.

Good luck, boys, but I wouldn't start establishing any roots here.

Mercy

It's the year's end and work is very slow, so I'm trying my hand at some genre fiction to pass the time in this scarcely occupied office. A writer's got to write, even if it's schlock shit.

Mercy

The start of a novel, written on a boring afternoon in late December

After the killing shot he would walk over to the fallen body. Even if they didn’t move, he liked to be sure. Any job worth doing is worth doing well. It was usually about a 100-yard stroll. He’d place the rifle in the trunk, tuck the handgun into his belt and get his dog from the backseat. By now, the dog was used to the routine. He’d sniff the head wound, work his way down the legs and then look up at his master, waiting for the silenced shot through the chest, head, groin, or wherever he felt a second bullet would be best placed.


“Who’s the best doggie in the world?” he’d ask the dog, pulling a Milk-Bone from his coat pocket.

Early on he toyed with the idea of leaving some kind of calling card, a note for police and the press, a token of his efficiency and style; something to link all of his “extinguishings” as he termed them. But the desperate people who did that were asking to be arrested, begging for notoriety. He didn’t need it, much as it angered him how off the mark they always were. One shot from 100 yards, another from a different gun at close range. That was calling card enough.

“Nighttime Terror Continues” the papers would blare. “29th Shooting Victim Was Respected Doctor” or lawyer, or researcher, or author, or business owner, or teacher – or whatever – as if their careers somehow made their deaths more tragic.

They all had one thing in common, one thing the detectives would never uncover with all their profiling, ballistics, forensics and sophisticated guesswork.

The first extinguishing came about quite unexpectedly, and to read that he was a meticulous planner of these executions gave him great pleasure. He was nothing of the sort. His victims selected themselves. They placed themselves in his path. By fate, chance or dumb luck, they met a swift justice that was in all likelihood quite painless, a courtesy he was sure they did not deserve. Yes, he planned their killings, but they themselves had chosen to be killed.

Would those left behind be hurt? Of course, he knew this. But the temporary grief of a few family members was small price to pay for the removal of a subhuman form, a callous and shiftless sort whose very footprints on the sidewalk were an affront to all that is good and decent.

He was having coffee in a Denny’s the evening he encountered his first victim, who had selected himself just outside the window. It almost seemed a tragedy to have to do away with the man, but his calling could no longer be ignored. Justice is blind. And he was sure of his life’s work from that moment on.

Having already paid for his coffee, he gathered his things and followed the man to an apartment complex some 7 blocks from the restaurant, noting the man’s apartment number. He returned for a few nights, sitting in his car in the parking lot, observing the man’s routine and learning his times of coming and going. This first extinguishing, he was sure, was a fairly pathetic creature, fond of bad music and ill fitting clothes, and it didn’t appear as though anyone would miss him, surely not his employer, who he appeared to curse with regularity, noted through his open window when he spoke on the phone to friends, complaining about “the piece of shit motherfucker” who signed his paychecks.

A hunting rifle with a silencer and scope was his way, but he switched rifles and makers of ammunition enough that the headlines would declare copycat killers were now at work. He enjoyed the errors of the police. Making them miss became a sideline hobby. Guesswork was such an easily manipulated sport.

A preselected perch or parking spot, a few practice aims, and then the victim’s final walk home or to work, felled from a good distance with a high-velocity bullet to the brain. It was so much more efficient than arrest, trial and sentencing. And it was far more merciful than decapitation or torture.

Did God condone what he did? Most assuredly. That was not even a valid question. His chief moral dilemma was whether God smiled upon his method. Weren’t his victims deserving of a more painful end? Didn’t they need to hear their sentence, see the gun aimed at their heads? Should they not be allowed that moment to see their lives pass before their eyes, a chance, perhaps, for a much-needed dose of stark terror and pant-soiling fear? But that was not his to decide, he knew. They had made their choice, and any moment beyond that choice was free breath, undeserved time. To extinguish was his duty, not to offer a moment for deathbed conversion or last-minute repentance.

So to watch them fall in their tracks, to pollute the air one last time with their final breath, was his reward. That the ground beneath them or the walls around them should have to bear the shaming marks of a dead man’s brains and blood for a few days was a source of discomfort to him, but the police cleaning crews did a decent job of erasing any remnants of the victim’s worthless existence.

It turned his stomach to read the newspaper accounts or see the grieving families on TV. They were all, every last one of them, deceived, ignorant fools believing that this or that man deserved so much as another second on this earth. The teary wives with their pleas to the community and vows of vengeance; the concerned-looking anchorman asking for anonymous tips to a police hotline; the neighbors acting as though the departed wretch was a fine man and decent human; everyone pretending to believe that this person had met a horrible and senseless end. Fools all. It was far from horrible. And it was anything but senseless.

He refused to think of himself as a vigilante, as that was for comic books and movies. His calling was higher, more sublime. For his night duties to be labeled as “senseless killings” or “random acts” was infuriating. It was a lonely secret to bear, the price for the type of work he had been selected to perform. And to think of it as anything less than selected was to ignore the obvious. The man outside the Denny’s window was not put there by accident. And neither were any of the others who had crossed his path, selecting themselves for extinguishing.

One thing he enjoyed about the newspaper accounts were the detectives announcing they had leads to go on. They had nothing, and their brave faces and statements of resolve were pleasant bits of comic relief amid the quotes from delusional family members left behind. If it wasn’t a detective, the chief of police or the prosecutor, it was the mayor, all acting like they had the public’s safety in mind. What they didn’t understand and what he could never tell them was that the public was never in any danger. It was just those few who selected themselves.

There was a stretch of nearly two weeks when he thought perhaps his work had come to a finish, when no one chose to meet his or her end at his hand. And then just like the man outside Denny’s, and all the other men after him, another presented himself, all but begging for death. And while certainly some women had met the criteria for extinguishing, he was not permitted to harm a woman, bound by a lifelong adherence to an ancient code taught him by his father that forbade such a thing. Perhaps there was a woman out there who bore the lonely, secret burden of extinguishing her own sex, but he was only allowed to kill men. When that short reprieve from his work was abruptly ended after those nearly two weeks, he switched rifles, cleaned his scope and put the dog in the backseat. It was a relief to be back to work, glad that his life still had a purpose, and thankful that he had been allowed a little time off from his sometimes stressful duty.

“Who’s the best doggie in the world?”



IF BY SOME RANDOM CHANCE A LITERARY AGENT OR SOMEONE WITH TIES TO PUBLISHING HAS SEEN THIS AND THINKS IT COULD BE DEVELOPED, FEEL FREE TO SAY SO.

Antique Rocker: Needs Refinishing

Having failed to pen a decent hit in decades, Steven Tyler of Aerosmith has checked himself into rehab - again - in the hopes that sobriety might find him able to regain his once prolific abilities. The singer has stated that addiction to prescription painkillers is his current problem.

“With the help of my family and team of medical professionals, I am taking responsibility for the management of my pain and am eager to be back on the stage and in the recording studio with my band mates,” the 61-year-old Tyler said in a statement.

Some medical professionals are urging caution, saying that if Tyler ever hopes to be relevant again, he might consider what helped him in his heyday.

"If you take an album like 'Rocks,' or 'Toys in the Attic,' you find Tyler at his most creative," said Dr. Lex Leather, a specialist in the management of addictions at UCLA and a rock history professor at West Covina Community College. "During that time, Tyler was using heroin, cocaine and he was drinking daily. A couple years later, we find his skills have diminished on 'Draw the Line' and 'Night in the Ruts.' So, by this time he was abusing, instead of just using. Clearly what Steven needs to do is get back to heroin, cocaine and alcohol, but under supervision from a professional."

Leather continues, "When he's sober, Tyler writes stuff that is more suited to Whitney Houston or Andy Williams. It's not good, and to see talent like his wasted is a sad thing."

Others say the old rocker just needs to hang it up.

"It's embarrassing as all fuck," said one industry insider with ties to the band, "Skin-tight pants on a grandpa as he thrusts his crotch at a crowd? That would get most old men arrested."

Determined not to be cast to the pages of history, the rest of the band are supporting Tyler in his effort to get clean.

"Look," said guitarist Brad Whitford, "I'm not going to play the state fair circuit with REO Speedwagon and Loverboy. Once you've done a huge arena, a rodeo is a giant buzz kill. And if we have to perform recycled schlock rock from a team of LA songwriters, then so be it."

MOST OF THE PEOPLE QUOTED IN THIS ARTICLE DID NOT SAY THE THINGS ATTRIBUTED TO THEM, IF THOSE PEOPLE EVEN EXIST. I KID BECAUSE I CARE. DRUG AND ALCOHOL ADDICTION ARE NO LAUGHING MATTER, BUT A LITTLE HIT OF WEED AND A BEER CAN SOMETIMES BE THE IMPETUS FOR A GREAT SONG. UNDER MEDICAL SUPERVISION, OF COURSE.

I Made You a Christmas Card

Make it Shine

Some faith groups don't mind when you poke a little fun at them, while others will cut your head off if you do. Any sour Christians out there wanting to issue a fatwa over this, please consult your Savior for how to properly respond.

Stop the Abuse!

It's his right. When will the madness stop?

Bloat

Snowball Fight - Nation's Capital Style

Old Art Director: Special Holiday Edition

Enlarge

Previously:

Old AD #3
Old AD #2
Old AD - Pilot

Old Art Director - Volume I, No. 3

Alright - this theme might be played now.

Large

Old Art Director - Volume I, No. 2

Big

This is Exactly What iGoogle Is to Me

Having all my toys in one place when I open a browser has proven a bad thing, as I am so easily distracted by the colors and sounds. Then again, if it keeps me from throwing fits and acting like a baby, softly cooing in that docile way the boss appreciates, maybe it's not so bad.

Bring me some smashed peas and carrots.

They Grow Up So Fast (Courtesy of Advertising)

Mas grande

What Do You Do on The Top Side of My House, Fat Man?

I enjoy language. And I enjoy foreign languages, not that I can speak any. And I enjoy taking words in English, dropping them into a translator, converting them to another language, and then converting them from that language back into English. Why? Because I can. And because something always gets lost or found in the translation.

And now, courtesy of Babelfish and Xtranormal, a German guy who speaks passing English (learned in the Oxford tradition, as Germans tend to do when learning English) will recount a thrilling, snowy evening in which he encountered a jolly man in a reindeer-driven sleigh who entered his home and put gifts around the fireplace. Or rather, he will recite for us, "The Night Before Christmas," by Clement Clarke Moore, as translated from his native tongue.

Old Art Director

Clickimus Maximus

The Best Decade Ever

The lists are being created with wanton abandon. Give it a rest, already. Rolling Stone wants me to know what songs and albums were "The Best" in the last ten years. Hey, Rolling Stone, fuck you, OK? Every month you create a list, from the 100 Best Guitarists of All Time to the Top Ten Best Eddie Vedder Impersonators. (Scott Stapp, please Stopp.) When Rolling Stone isn't on their knees fellating Bruce Springsteen or praying to John Lennon, they're busy at the List Machine, making lists.

Time magazine has a whole bunch of "Top Tens." Top 10 Heisman Trophy Winners, Top 10 Beauty Pageant Scandals, Top 10 Things You Didn't Know About Hanukkah, even the Top 10 Disney Controversies. Those are real lists at a real news magazine's website. Maybe we should blame "Countdown" with Keith Olbermann. "Which of these top stories will you be talking about tomorrow?" he smugly demands at the beginning of each broadcast, with that stupid animation of a steel ball rolling around a track in a desert landscape. Hey, Keith, when I start looking to you to tell me what I should talk about tomorrow, I will start wearing ridiculous 1930s era gangster suits and pinstriping my hair.

Movies, food trends, notable deaths, vacation destinations, shoes, cars, purses, toys, Xbox games, hairstyles - you name it - we can find a list for it at year's end. A Top Ten list. A Top 100 list. A "Best" list. And it's all based on the musings of a panel of assholes emailing their suggestions to a bored editor, who compiles the submissions into a neat little list and then tells the readers what they should like or what they should've liked. It happens every December, but it's always worse at the end of a decade. I don't mind reading lists, just don't present them as the authority. It's a list of your favorites in a category.

I can't wait for January, when they start doing their Top Ten Predictions for the Year lists.

UPDATE: A commenter says I sound like Andy Rooney. Shit. I blame last night's tequila for making me a temporary curmudgeon today. And the beer. And the wine.

How They Get Their Christmas Trees in Alaska

I was talking to one of my sisters the other day, as it is my annual habit to ring them on their birthdays and do the yearly catch-up, when our small talk turned to Christmas trees. I mentioned that we had just put ours up. She asked, "Did you go out to the woods and cut it down?" which made me laugh, as we don't do that down here. We have many places to find trees, but the woods isn't one of them, and we usually just end up at Home Depot. I could tell she thought that was sort of sad, and now I know why. She just sent me these images of her recent excursion to round up a Christmas tree.

Step One: Find tree in remote forest.

Step Two: Drag tree under wing of plane.

Step Three: Secure tree to wing struts with shrink wrap.

Step Four: Fly home, set up tree.

Meat-Eaters Are People Too

If you don't eat meat, please skip this post, as I know how you vegans and vegetarians get when we primitive people talk about grilling the flesh of animals over open fires, blood dripping onto the coals, creating a sizzling sound that emits a puff of smoke so aromatic as to cause those who smell it to rip their clothes from their bodies and engage in marauding, raping and other expressions of gratitude to the gods of plumped heifers and gorged pigs.

Omaha Steaks. I encountered them for the first time last year, when a brother-in-law sent me some steaks for Christmas, as he knows I like to grill. He was in Iraq at the time, so preparing the steaks was done with some sense of patriotic duty. Coincidentally, I too had sent a similar package of Omaha Steaks to another brother-in-law for Christmas, he being of that age when you just don't know what to get the guy anymore, and you know he likes meat, so you give him dead steer. The steaks I received were beyond excellent, perfectly packaged in dry ice, obviously good and bloody in their plastic vacuum-sealed containers - and when they hit the grill, I watched as birds stopped chirping, cocking their heads toward the sizzling sound. A group of deer paused in their tracks, staring my way with hungry eyes, seriously contemplating abandoning their herbivore nature. Dogs all over the neighborhood stuck their noses high in the air and twitched their ears, whimpering, while squirrels bowed on high branches, telling their little squirrel children to stop, watch and learn. The sky directly overhead was suddenly darkened by clouds of eagles, falcons and hawks, circling in a mad frenzy, screeching in lust.

And the eating that night! Oh, it was grand! All hail the sacrificed beast of burden! Raise a toast in honor of his noble death, which has provided us with a carnal and primitive feast, the memory of which shall live forever! Omaha had delivered a most wonderful steak, and we were well pleased. Our dog, Roman, still recounts that evening to whatever other dog will listen, and the other dog will drool and chase its tail and finally slump to the floor in resignation, realizing that to hear the tale of the Steak from Omaha is nothing at all like eating it. And Roman will slump with the other dog, and say, "It was the emails and phone calls that put a stop to the Steak from Omaha. And they only let me have one tiny bite." He then sighs loudly and closes his eyes.

All it took was one order, sent to a brother-in-law in St. Louis, and Omaha Steaks has since hounded me daily by email and phone, trying to get me to take the next step on the road to becoming a 33rd Degree Omahan. I politely tell the phone solicitors, "No thanks," and hang up before they can say the next line in their script. The emails go to the SPAM folder and get deleted without opening. I finally found the "stop sending me emails" link and unsubscribed. Not that I ever did "subscribe," but an email address was required for online ordering, naturally. Of course then I got an email telling me how sorry they were that I unsubscribed and "Won't you please take one final look at these great offers on juicy meats for the holidays?"

Omaha Steaks, you have a great product. I know where to find you if and when I decide to buy more of your steaks. But the "if" part of that equation grows iffier every day, as you have gone from a place to get good steaks to an annoying and constant presence in my life. That won't win you any friends around here. It might even make you an enemy.

The MSN Janitor Reaches The Sacred Chambers

Apocalyptic Proportions

Previously in this twisted series:

Revenge of the Google Janitor

The Google Janitor Defects to MSN

It's Axe for the Vampire Set

No matter the fragrance for men, the goal is to show how it turns the wearer into an irresistible sex god. In this case, Yves Saint Laurent eschews the time-tested "Frat Boy Gets Mauled by Trio of Beauties" template and aspires to the more nuanced "Vampire Threesome" model. And at 43 bucks for 1.3 oz., this stuff is out of Axe Boy's league. And Axe Boy doesn't speak French. Neither do I, but the name translates as "The Night of the Man." So all you dudes who have "Twilight" loving women, guess what you get this Season?

To drive home the mystery, some copy was "crafted," and instead of the Axe-styled message that says basically, "Spray it on, get laid," the YSL writers say,

The new fragrance for men by Yves Saint Laurent is a story of seduction, intensity and bold sensuality. A structure of contrasting forces. A seduction that lies half-way between restraint and abandon. Bright, masculine freshness combines with sophistication and nonchalance for a deep, mysterious and sensual fragrance.

So in other words, "Spray it on, get laid," in a mature, vampire-fantasy way.

For more on marketing stinky stuff to stupid dudes, see here.

عيد ميلاد سعيد من المملكة العربية السعودية

Having failed tragically in my endeavor to make a killing creating Thanksgiving cards for the Russian immigrant market, I'm turning my attention to customized Saudi Christmas cards, where I understand many fortunes have been realized by go-getter entrepreneurs such as myself. We shall see. My first commission comes from a man who must keep his identity anonymous, since celebrating Christmas in Saudi Arabia is against the law.

ص. ضخم, كبير, هام, حبلي

The title reads, "Merry Christmas from Saudi Arabia." The fine print at bottom translates roughly: "My wives could not pose with me, as you would've lusted for them and then I'd have to kill them."

The Google Janitor Defects to MSN

Legible

Revenge of the Google Janitor

Legible

Take Your Music With You!

A rolling turntable, radio thingy, so the Mrs. can sip on her purple stuff whilst she preps the food for her grateful crew, who are celebrating the birth of the baby Jesus with appropriate mirth and merriment.

Jollier

Original image from Shorpy, modified to the point of desecration by me, on a rainy day at work as I await the call for the pot luck lunch.

I Promise, I'll Leave Tiger Alone in a Minute

But it's just too easy, and so is Xtranormal.

Steamy Romance Novel

One of THOSE Movies

Before the reviews are in, I can already write the blurbs for the upcoming full-page ads.

"Jeff Bridges turns in the performance of a lifetime."
- Sycophant Critic, Major Publication

"Jeff Bridges was born for this role."
- Unknown Climber, Unknown FOX Affiliate

"Robert Duvall was born to play Jeff Bridges' dad."
- Some Loser, Robert Duvall Fan Club

"Roll out the red carpet! I smell Oscars!"
- Drooling Fanboy, Entertainment Blog

It's got everything: washed-up country singer, tough single mom reporter, Robert Duvall, and a story likely to warm your cold heart. Only thing is that I saw it already. It was called "Tender Mercies," starring Robert Duvall.



But all the snark and cynicism aside, I will likely rent it.

The Ad That Launched a Thousand GoDaddy Crap Ads

This is said to be the ad that started the Super Bowl ad wars, when the commercials themselves started to get as much (or more) attention as the game. I am too lazy to research this right now, so just watch it and believe me.

His Status as Role Model is Even More Secure Now

Weekend Fake News Wrap

In response to new allegations of marital infidelity on the part of Tiger Woods, a host of advertisers and sponsors are considering dropping Woods' image and name from their product lines. Executives at Perkins Restaurants, while not a sponsor, are said to be pleased that their business is frequented by the erstwhile family man and are reportedly enjoying the free exposure.


In the wake of his team's devastating loss to No. 2 Alabama, friends of Florida's Tim Tebow have expressed concerns that the wholesome, Evangelical quarterback may be taking the defeat a little too hard.

Holiday Chocolate Facts

Fact:

If you take a bag of Hershey's Miniatures and dump them into a bowl, you will eventually end up with a bowl that looks like this:

Don't You Make That Indian Cry

In the past, when we had friends and family over for parties or meals or to watch a game, they'd stand in the kitchen with an empty beer bottle and look around, asking, "Do you guys recycle?" We'd say, "No, just throw it in the trash." Eventually, we learned to say, "No, we've been meaning to, and we really should, but just throw it in the trash."

Some of our relatives lived a long time in Germany, and they had adopted the insane recycling techniques of that country, where you separate your potato skins from your cabbage cores, your brown glass from your green glass from your clear glass, your clean cardboard from your printed cardboard, and so on. If you do not do this in Germany, the town's Burgermeister or Magistrate or some such official will put one of those real estate agent locks on your front door and mark off your yard in caution tape, your children become wards of the state and you are sent to do community service at the shipyards in Bremerhaven.

Another of our relatives is simply a do-gooder lefty, who went about changing all of our lightbulbs to the new florescents on a visit a year ago. He's been a crazy recycler since the invention of the 2-liter Coke bottle, and he would always seem disappointed when he stood there at the trash can, empty beer bottle in hand, asking once again, "You guys don't recycle, do you?"

At school, the kids are made to think that families that don't recycle are just like those factories in China, bellowing smoke and ash into the atmosphere and requiring that citizens walk the streets in dust masks. This form of education goes hand in hand with the other programs that tell children that people who keep wine or beer in their homes are only steps away from heroin addiction.

I finally gave in. I started recycling. And now when I find an empty water bottle or a cardboard box in the trash, I fish it out and track down the offender, demanding of them, "Do you HATE the PLANET?" They know I'm joking, but the household is having a hard time adjusting to my new Nazi Recycling Regime. And I'm having a hard time justifying it. I hear it requires an insane amount of energy and money to convert used materials into new materials, and I feel like an idiot standing at the sink trying to coax a lime wedge out of a Corona bottle so that it doesn't attract the raccoons and bears once it's in the garage along with smelly old bean cans, stinking milk jugs and not-quite-rinsed jam jars.

But hey, they made me do it.

He Knows When You've Been Sleeping - and With Whom

His Eyes - How They Twinkled

Gonna Find Out Who's Naughty

Saturday Afternoon at Santa's House

Dear John...

A billboard caught my eye this morning. And now I share my pain with you.

Jesus Tested. Jesus Approved.

Christians join free? Do I have to show my stigmata to prove it? And this guy posing in front of what looks like a Powerpoint presentation, he is Certified Christian? How do I know that if he isn't wearing Tim Tebow bible verses under his eyes? He looks like an anchorman, and we all know the mainstream media hate Jesus. Or is it just your site that is Certified Christian? Who does the certification? What are the criteria to become certified?And if I am Danny or Suzy Christian, my head now spins with so many questions. Shouldn't I trust God to find me a match? Am I thwarting God's will, perhaps even letting you play God, if I join? What about those people who you charged to join your site, who aren't Christians and therefore aren't entitled to the free membership? What happens when you match a believer and a non-believer? I can already hear the fighting around the Holidays, when Jack wants a Christmas tree and Jill wants a Menorah.

I hate "Christian" businesses. I hate the concept of marketing to a specific faith group. It fosters and further deepens an already elitist "us" versus "them" mentality.

And so Christians have their own plumbers and electricians and radio and book stores. Just look for the little fish symbol and you know you're in good hands. Good honest hands attached to a heart that is pure and a head that believes like you do. And votes like you do, too. "Unclean" would the believer become were he or she to listen to music "of the world," or watch movies and read books that didn't support a particular world view. Keep your radio tuned to schlocky sub-par crap and your iPod filled with poorly produced pseudo-gospel of a thousand sub-genres. Don't drink. Don't smoke. Don't eat food sacrificed to idols. Don't lust. Except in your heart for Sarah Palin. Buy the books. Attend the seminars. Use the phrase, "Judge not lest ye be judged," only when someone is judging you.

But I can go on and on on this topic. And have. Somebody find me an agent.

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