Staunch Defense of Hot-cakes

I'm getting a bit sick of you people and the way you talk.  You're still using expressions from the 20th century or even worse, the 19th century.  Think up some new ones - willya please?  Do I have to be responsible for all the creativity around here?  The next time I hear you say, "I'm a staunch defender of candidate first-name last-name," I promise I'll beat you within in an inch of your life.

Whoops.  An inch of your life is a worn-out expression, isn't it?

Let's try this: I promise I'll beat you within 2.54 centimeters of your life.  The rest of the world uses the metric system, by the way.  We should at least update the units of measure in our tired expressions.

Anyway, everybody is a staunch defender or a firm believer.

"I firmly believe in universal healthcare and I'm a staunch supporter of abortion rights."

"Good for you!  I slightly believe in national healthcare.  I'm not sure about the universe.  I'd like to staunchly punch you in the fucking face though, or the abdomen - if you're pregnant."

Here's another one that bugs me to no end.

"They're selling like hot-cakes."

My mother uses the word hot-cake.  She's 87 years old.  A hot-cake is actually a donut. [Edit 1/5/10:  I asked my mother about this and she said a hot-cake is a pancake.  She added, "I really don't fucking know what a fucking hot-cake is.  What the fuck, son?"]  I imagine they were invented when my mother was a little girl and I imagine they sold like hot-cakes when they first came out.  Hot-cakes sales must have surely skyrocketed.

Incidentally, I'll be firing skyrockets at my house this next 4th of July.  Maybe you can attend?

Things always skyrocket.  Unemployment.  Crime.  Syphilis infections two months after a Republican or Democratic National Committee convention.

"I've got good news!  Our 3rd quarter revenue is going to be higher than expected.  Hot-cake sales are skyrocketing.  They're off the chart!"

"Really?  Maybe we should get a bigger chart.  Hey, have you seen my horseless carriage keys?  I must have misplaced them.  I have to get to the store - they're having a sale on hot-cakes and skyrockets.  I have to go before it gets dark - crime is at epidemic proportions."

I was gonna do some more ranting in a similar vein about how proportions are always epidemic, but I'm bored with this piece already.  You can't hit a home-run everyday.  Over and out.

Thornhill - Apparently Not Very Hot

Here's the insulting, bullshit summary from my report from an allegedly qualified radiologist.

In regards to the MRI: "... unremarkable appearance of the brain."
In regards to the MRA: "... unremarkable intracranial angiogram."

It's a terrible thing to be judged as unremarkable.  They always tell you, "Everybody is good at something.  Everybody is special," but it's just another fucking lie.  This guy really rubs my face in it though.  I'm at my lowest point in years and my self-esteem has plummeted at least 65 points but he couldn't care less.  He's a sadist.  I'm sure he's seen a lot of brains over the years and I would have thought this fact should have increased his sensitivity to the feelings of those in my position.  Not so.  Instead he launches an angry, ad hominem attack.

"... the major flow voids appear unremarkable ... the globes, orbits, and mastoid air cells are unremarkable."

I'm not going to repeat what he wrote about my basilar cisterns.  It's repugnant.  In short - I'm crushed.  I've spent so much time working on things like my distal vertebral arteries and it's been a complete waste.  I used to think I had a healthy and realistic impression of my body.  I used to think I was somewhat attractive - but it's clear now that I've been delusional.  I'm the proverbial ugly ducking.  It's worse than that.  I'm homely on the inside.  I've been living a lie.  I've got to give some serious thought about what to do now that my hopes and dreams for the future are gone.  I may have to remove myself from society so as not to upset the delicate sensibilities of remarkable people.

Thornhill - Hot or Not?

These pictures are from my recent photo shoot.  Modesty prevents me from complimenting myself very much but I think they turned out well.  I'm kinda proud of my Medulla Oblongata.  It looks just as good in person, by the way.

This is my brain.  There are many others like it but this one is mine.  The void in the center that looks like a jumping whale is actually filled with gin.

I don't know how these worms got into my head.  They don't hurt but I hear them whispering to each other - usually late at night.

What else is Juan Williams afraid of?

This week's distraction is Juan Williams and he's afraid of snakes on a plane.  And he's also worried about Muslims on a plane.  What really makes his bowels irritable though, is Muslims dressed in Muslim garb putting their snakes in the compartment over his seat.  Maybe he's projecting his fears about his role at Fox News.  After all, a Muslim dressed in Muslim garb has about the same chance of getting through airport security unnoticed as a black guy's opinion has of being taking seriously on Fox News.

Fox News is all in a twitter because they finally got a black friend and that took a lot of effort over the years.  They were close to getting Hootie but he backed out at the last minute.  So, they're going to defend Juan with all they've got.  Bill O'Reilly, who recently found out, much to his surprise, that black people use silverware, is defending Juan's fear of bed sheets used as clothing.  Racism is so ignorant and ignorance is so racist - whichever the case may be.  The silverware remark was at worst, ignorant.  It's Mexicans who don't use silverware.  Get your brown people straight before you open your mouth and embarrass yourself.

Anyway, who gives a shit.

Stocks and Blondes

I love the stock market.  I manage my own investments and am doing quite well.  They're gonna help pay for a Starbuck's Cinnamon Dolce Latte every morning when I'm retired.  I can easily spend the whole day watching the symbols, charts, graphs, tickers, trades, and blinking numbers go up, down, sideways, or whatever.  I had the same problem when I was a kid when I'd watch game shows like the Price is Right. They had some great blinking lights that always fascinated and obsessed me.

Then I hit puberty and became fascinated by the tits and ass that belonged to the chicks whose job it was to help out Bob Barker by pointing at shit.  It was also their job to strip out of their clothes and into bikinis when they gave away a speed boat or a hot tub.  Years later, as an adult, I learned that part of their job was to fuck old man Barker.  I understand he was quite the prevo.

Anyway, I rarely gamble.  I hardly never ever buy lottery tickets.  The odds are so terrible and the payout is so low.  But I love to gamble in the markets.  At least when I put money down on JP Morgan Chase they don't take the entire bet away from me in five minutes if I lose.  In the markets they never take it away.  I can keep my JPM bet on for twenty minutes or twenty years.  Of course I may have nothing left of my bet in twenty minutes or twenty years, but the choice is mine.

I've decided to setup two hypothetical stock portfolios, each one relatively diversified.  The first one is my If I Had $42,000 portfolio.  This one is a little heavy on the commodities, with oil, gold, and steel exposure, but I like it overall.  If you really care then you can go look up the symbols yourself.

This one is my $50,000 conservative old guy portfolio.  Each stock pays at least around a 3.5% dividend, with MO at 6.1%.  BMY and ED are each over 4.75%.

Case Reopened

On the evening of Aug. 17, 1980, Lindy Chamberlain heard a cry coming from her tent. Lindy, her husband Michael and their three children were camping in Ayers Rock (now called Uluru) in Australia's Northern Territory. Lindy had put her 10-week-old daughter Azaria to sleep in their tent. After the cry, Lindy rushed back to check on her and saw a dingo leaving the area, clenching something in its jaws. Azaria was no longer in the tent, and Lindy screamed the now infamous line, "A dingo's got my baby!"

Read more: http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,2025730,00.html#ixzz12vDg2wZv

I thought I should tell you

So, I'm all fucked up.

Perhaps it's a form of payback by your god for something I did. Judging by what I've seen, I don't think your god is involved much in the day-to-day operations here on Earth, I doubt he's even heard about me, so I don't believe my own theory, and I don't believe in the nutty old man's existence anyway. But it's perfectly normal to ask “why me?” However, with six billion other people here, 200 billion stars like our Sun in the galaxy, each with the possibility of planets like Earth spinning around them, and 100 billion galaxies in the observable universe, I'd bet your god has trouble keeping track of it all. The perfectly normal question ought to be, “why not me?”

The thing is - I now have a pre-existing condition - although it's undiagnosed. I love irony even when I'm the target and a good joke is still good even if it's on me. I wrote that piece long after I became all fucked up so it doesn't really count, and it's not all that ironic. Irony is that guy who ran all the time, wrote all those books about how running was so great for your health, and then dropped dead of a massive stroke while he was out jogging.

Anyway, let's talk about blood - since I've given so much of it lately in order for them to run tests. I was curious so I asked that they find out what my blood type is. It's AB positive. After a little studying at Mr. Google's domestic partner, Mr. Wikipedia (they share a condo together in Silicon Valley but they're not gay, or so they say), I found out 5% of the world has AB+ blood. Odds are that you're type A+, B+, or type O+, which altogether makes up 85% – over a billion barrels. What it all means is beyond my four minutes of intensive research. One thing I found is that if I happen to be low a quart of blood, I can top-off with any old blood I want. You're all potential donors to me!

Your blood will work fine in my system assuming it's still fresh and not too salty. And not if you're an Arab. No offense intended - it's only because I support our country's goal of reducing our dependence on foreign blood, not because all of you are terrorists - I couldn't care less who you blow up. The best part: you probably can't use my blood – it only works for people in my little AB+ clan. Unless we are both AB+ then your body will hate my blood and you'll suffer a horrible, intensely bad reaction to it and it may just kill you. Sorta like a Justin Bieber show.

Anyway, furthermore, while I'm at it, and other unlisted, abrupt transitions, here's the fuckery that has got me all fucked up.  When I speak it sounds like I've been drinking heavily. It's becoming increasingly difficult to talk without sounding like I've had a few. Words with the letter B trip me up.

“A dingo stole my bay-he!”
“A dingo stole your what?”
“My bay-he.”
“Your what?
“My bay-he!”
“Your what?”
“My BABY!”
“There are no dingos in North America and you don't own any children. You're fucking drunk!”
“I wish.”

When I walk it looks like I'm shit-faced. Next time I get pulled over I'll run the risk of getting hauled away for drunk driving because I'll fail the road-side sobriety tests, aside from the breathalizer. As long as I don't have to speak to the cop then I should be okay and (s)he won't have a reason to run any tests.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“You're looking for a stolen bay-he?”
“You stole what?”
“A bay-he.”
“You stole what?”
“A bay-he.”
“You stole what?”
“A child.”
“Outta the car, Thornhill.”

And then there's the dizziness if I move my head too much. Go spin around in an office chair for a couple turns and you'll know how it feels. I have this all the time. In addition, my handwriting and typing skills have deteriorated to the point to where my writing looks like that of a psychopath and my delete key is almost broken from overuse. I've lost all fine motor control. Go drink about six drinks (an average, so-so night for me back in the day) and we'll compare our comparisons. I could go on. I don't feel like it.

All this is controlled by the Cerebellum, which is a region of your brain that looks like a Cauliflower. Why they didn't just call this the 'Cauliflower Region' instead of the Cerebellum is anyone's guess. I'll be getting an MRI scan soon and I'm guessing (in decreasing order of probability) that it will show damage to the Cauliflower Region, from years of massive drinking or an exotic genetic disorder, a brain tumor, or maybe it will show nothing and these problems will stop their progression.

I thought I should tell you.

Voting

As I was returning to the office with my McDonald's #11 value meal, NPR was talking about this season's contests in your precious, little democracy. All I managed to gather was that some politicians are running for Governor or something, all of us should care about it, and all of us should get out and vote to stop it. Politics on my car stereo hits me in exactly the same way as turpentine in my morning glass of V8 juice, so I desperately tried to get the CD changer to play some Eminem. I was thinking any track of 'The Marshall Mathers LP' would be a good fit for my developing rage. But the player was jammed up and wouldn't go.

A few minutes went by and they continued to talk about politics. Naturally, I started to wish for death. Then I wondered: what are the voter turnout statistics among those with terminal illnesses? Do the political parties have any outreach programs to overcome the (understandable) apathy among this demographic? The group could be this year's swing vote. Just like a few years ago when the Christians were all obsessed with gay marriage.

So, I dropped on by the DNC and RNC to pose the question. I doubt that I'll get a reply but you'll be the fist to know.

Cops, Doctors, and Lawyers II

I recently discovered that the 'The Good Wife' on CBS is not only apparently all about a good wife, but I hear she's a swell lawyer too. The trailers indicate that it's a story with a politician (probably another fucking lawyer) and his good wife. I guess the 'The Good Wife' wasn't quite good enough in bed so the husband (played by some chode - who gives a shit) sought out a 'Good Transvestite,' most likely during a re-election cycle. I think the 'The Good Wife' should sleep with Tom Selleck's mustache, in a special two hour, cross-promotional episode, as a payback to her cheating husband.

I can't possibly squeeze this one into my schedule - my DVR is already backed up with 30 hours of other law enforcing, law making, life saving professionals.