Must Love Dogs, In A Deranged Way

In the NYTimes today, a disturbing article indicted (kind of, more pointed and laughed at) entitled, inconsiderate asshole pet-owners and their socially foul machinations for having arrived at peoples' HOMES WITH THEIR UNANNOUNCED PETS IN TOW.

I started hating peoples' kids for the same kinds of reasons. I cannot believe a quote like this could turn me against animals, too. "Ari Henry Barnes, who works in a New York law firm, is so devoted to his cat, Romeo, that he wipes the animal’s behind every time he does 'a stinky boom boom.'"

It May NEVER Be Appropriate to Laugh at Violence Against Women, Death

Call me a woman-hater, an unconscious advocate of domestic abuse (due to my deep, dark feminist self-loathing), but I found this headline kinda clever. New York Post via Feministing

Fuck Hickory Farms! Quit Giving Heart Disease For Christmas!

A thoughtful gift suggestion for your favorite blogger... Or a person you'd be willing to spend like 80 bucks on AND her reaction would be worth like 160: A Raw Food Basket of Goodness.

Sincere Moments of Rememberance

Ike Turner, sadly, has passed from this earth and, potentially, into an excruciatingly warm eternity. He is gone, gone forever. Yet, all that keeps echoing in my heart, and my soul..." Hit me again Ike, and put some stank on it!"

Aw, Jim Carey, don't you go dying on me!

NY Times Writer NOT As Familiar With VH-1 Shows As He Thinks

Adam Cohen mentions the cable TV show "I love the 70s" as an analogical pop-culture comparison to B Clinton's constant campaigning-for-his-wife throwbacks to his time in office in the 90s. Um, Adam? VH-1 also did a show called "I love the 90s", you can cut that middle-man right out of your analogy. Also, weak and wasted use of a pop-culture reference (grasping). Also, Bill not near as funny or deadpanny as Michael Ian Black.

There's some other time-relevant junk in the op-ed column about the presidential election -- also not near as funny or deadpanny as Michael Ian Black.

"Am I My Brother's Keeper? Yes...I...Am... [Kapow Bang Shoot]"

"CMB! CMB!"
More Movie Clues: Wesley Snipes, a younger and even-skinnier-than-he-is-now Chris Rock, and Ice-T as the ballsy and lippy undercover cop. Think back to 1991, when you tight-rolled your black Guess jeans and wore your K-Swiss canvas without socks (I know I am not the only one). God, people: NEW JACK CITY (remember Flava-Flav?).

That movie made crack cocaine look pretty bad, AND pretty much a black/poverty problem. Without much surprise, our judicial system bought propaganda rather than researched science, and implemented mandatory sentencing laws which punished crack cocaine dealers way worse than powder cocaine dealers, and when I say way worse I mean like 100 to 1. So says an article in the NY Times, the US Sentencing Commission recently ruled these sentences to be unfair, and the courts are retroactively lightening sentences. About fucking time. Jesus Christ, this should have been done years ago. So kudos to the panel for doing something, albeit late, but at minimum intelligent policy-making is happening instead of the executive branches faux-moral hard line, fascist approach to governing.

There is so much fucking drug policy nonsense in this article to make any thinking person's blood boil. Some highlights:
1) The Bush Administration stands anti this decision, mostly because it is full of evil racist war-mongering asshats who ignore the constitutional rights of its citizens and would PUT DUE PROCESS IN A SACK AND DROWN IT AND CHOOSE TO JAIL EVERY AMERICAN WHO MAKES UNDER ONE MILLION DOLLARS A YEAR AND ISN'T WHITE IF IT COULD.
2) Our mandatory-sentencing penalties do nothing to bring down "drug kingpins". They are only nailing the lowest amoeba on the drug sales chart, and considering the numbers of inmates, sentences are hardly a deterrent.
3) The penalties are ridiculously severe. One chick has been in there for 11 years. Did anyone involved in Enron get bent over even close to that far?

As Chris Rock says, "Lockin' people up cuz they WANT TO GET HIGH".

I Haven't Posted Since the 5th: Diving Into My Old Files to Avoid New Thought

Single Woman Gutted by A Fish. That Story and More, at 11. Back to You, in the Studio, Dick.


Finding love is like trying to catch a swordfish: Your efforts may lead to your true heart's desire, but there is always a chance the event will end in a violent and bloody death.

One beautiful summer day, you head out to the sea with your closest friends in tow. You've decided you want to catch a swordfish. You don't know shit about swordfish. But you've seen these pictures in peoples' homes: The proud fishermen and women, holding their shiny, glossy swordfish, all smug and animated and clenching the aftermath of their socially-accepted savagery tight against them. Plus, you've eaten the damn thing at an Applebee's once or twice, and it tastes pretty good actually. This is the day you're gonna do it. You are finally gonna reel in one of these elusive motherfuckers. You feel anxious and scared, yet confident. After all, how hard could it be? You see these trophy shots in homes of people you know. If they can land the big one, why can't you? The task can't be as oppressive as it seems, right? People tell you all the time how great at fishing you would be, if you only threw out your line. You're encouraged incessantly, in fact. If they believe you can do it, then it must be so.

Everything is set: the boat is chartered; the captain and crew are all about it; the sun is out; the air is clean and YOU, my dear, are about to embark on the adventure of your life! Don't get scared now. Hell. Yes. Strap that pole on me and tell me where to stand!

You are poised, in a tasteful, slimming outfit and in sensible, yet stylish shoes - and you wait. Your pole in hand. The conversation around you is light and hopeful. You feel supported and ready. Peace abounds. Then. THEN. You feel a tug on that fragile, yet capable string of yours. You peer over the side of the boat. OH the majestic swagger of a swordfish. Powerful, yet vulnerable (as all beasts have a soft side, you so foolishly think). Yes, that's him. That's the one. He's the one you are gonna put in your picture frames and brag about to all your friends and mother and feel a deep, soulful connection to forever and ever and fucking ever. He's been spotted. He's taken the bait. Now, now all you have to do is get him into the boat. How difficult could it be? I mean, the fact that you even spotted one you like is a GODDAMN MIRACLE IN AND OF ITSELF.

You gaze into his eyes. He looks like your "kind". But who knows these days, with tons of fish looking one way and actually being rotten and gross on the inside. You are willing to take a chance. And hence, the battle of wills begin. You gently tug on your pole, your body motioning him toward you. Ah! But he resists. Silly little fishy. I know your game. You pull harder, your body strains, but You. Are. Strong. Of course, now he's seen you up close and HE IS NOT REALLY FEELING IT AS MUCH AS YOU. Aw, but you don't care. Here little fishy fishy, swordfishy, quit resisting and get into the motherfucking boat. His strains are near violent now, body flopping around in the water, making a total mess -- getting you all wet and bothered. You're committed though, and won't let go. No matter what, you will conquer the swordfish and get him into that picture you've been hallucinating about. Back and forth. Tug for tug. Bodies thrashing. There is no one there to help you. They've all abandoned you for their own fish. It is just you and that slippery sucker. He doesn't know it yet, but he's a goner. He's a goddamn goner. Then, in one fell swoop! of your untoned arms, you propel his heavy body toward yours. Up, Up, Up He Goes. Soaring... The movement is graceful, resplendent, hotttt...for a moment, you gaze at him in the air... breathtaking and so, so close... and then... and then... he spirals down, straight toward you... and your jubilation turns to total panic. See, it is only then that you see his razor-sharp and pointy impaler-ator, AND IT IS FURIOUSLY RACING, DIRECTLY TOWARD YOUR HEART.

PLUNGE. Pluuuunge. Gasp... gasp... heave. His knife-like appendage has stabbed through your chest. You are down, but not dead. Oh no no, death doesn't come when you want it to ever ever ever. His death-snout is in you, but you are still alive. So you feel it when - out of desperation and his own will to survive - his sharp teeth begin gnawing away at your exposed flesh. And it isn't like you are suffering... just as an uncomfortable inconvenience - NO NO... It is the most excruciating distress you have ever felt in your entire fucking life. Outside of him being himself, with his inherently dangerous, yet quite natural appendage, his writhing body and spastic teeth are making the whole thing entirely worse. HE DOESN'T MEAN TO. HE IS JUST TRYING TO GET SOME FUCKING AIR AFTER ALL, AND IF YOU ARE THE BODY HE HAS TO GO THROUGH TO DO IT - WELL, THEN TOO FUCKING BAD FOR YOU.

You've finally given up. You've relented. You let go of the pole awhile ago. You've accepted your certain fate. Resolution. He's won. He's found his freedom and relief. He's gotten his way; off he flaps his stupid, stinky body back into the ocean from whence he came. And there you are. You are bloodied, clothes ripped to shreds, boobs gone, laying there in the middle of the boat. Alone. You are dying. You are laid out there underneath the perfect sun, in the pure ocean air with the surreal blue sky above you -- and you are dying. Alone.

You feel a calm, a truce exists with the universe. You open your eyes and peer, one last time, at the world around you. You can kind of decipher images of shoes and hairdos and faces, but recognize none. Squinting, you attempt to flash a smile to the young captain you spot on the bow. Then one familiar and perfect face appears an inch from yours. It's your sister, your best friend. She lifts your head and puts it into her lap. She strokes your cheek and you can taste the salt of her tears dripping into your gaping mouth. You know she senses your pain as if it were her own. She starts to whisper, I saw what that fucker did to you. And, I have to tell you, he was kind of an asshole. You consider her perspective for a moment. You muster the words from the back of your throat, Yes, I suppose he was quite an asshole. With her clear wisdom and a refreshingly positive disposition, she replies. I really think you are better off without him, don't you? You know that you know that you know: She is right. You ask, Am I going to die? Without even taking a moment to weigh your question, her answer erupts dismissively, No fucking way! Then she deadpans: There is, however, quite a mess to clean up here... Where are your boobs? You can't help but laugh at the question and beg her to go fetch you a whiskey neat before she calls for reinforcements.

Fake Happiness as a New Fad in Weight Loss?

Smile and visualize your abs as a six-pack. Hell, if I was once willing to eat five pounds of bacon a day - to the exclusion of anything else - I think I could give this crazy diet a whirl!

The FDA: Killing Pizza-Faced Teenagers Since 1985

Lo & Behold: A prescription drug proves to be dangerous, so says scientists at the University of Bath. According to Newstarget.com, it seems the acne medication, Accutane, "reduced the availability of the neurotransmitter serotonin; low levels of which have consistently been linked to a number of psychiatric symptoms including aggression, anxiety disorders, and suicidal ideation."
On a related note, I still get pimples AND I had to google "University of Bath"...I thought it sounded made up. I guess we all have problems.

Reason #459 to Wonder Why God Doesn't Just Kill Us All

It seems like we continually abandon self-governance and independent thought, replacing it with dogma and an established religious (or otherwise) framework for "ideas". We can't conceptualize the spirit of the law because we are so obsessed with letter of the law. All things considered, American Christians are the most wishy-washy faithful, especially compared to the ideological purist Sudanese Muslim mindset. I know this has all been said before "blah blah religious zeal has cost more lives than any other group effort in the history of man blah blah". And "isn't God supposed to BE love?" Is Allah supposed to be love? Admittedly, I don't know much about what I'm writing here. But i will say this: THINK. It seems to follow, if you're thinking, really thinking, considering, having a real internal dialogue with your brain, you will avoid making irrational knee-jerk reactionary decisions.
We should be more evolved than this by now. This poor teacher, doing her due diligence as an educator, motivating your youngsters in a thankless, piss-poor wage environment, a fucking bloody civil war looming at her doorstep, Was her heart not in the right place? Did she have malice of forethought? Does the punishment fit the crime? Naming a teddy bear Muhammad is a CRIME? Need I even say it? Jesus Christ.

When You Can't Convict Them, Destroy Their Foosball Table

I'm sure, by now, you've all read the tragic Megan Meier story. Its gross drama has entered my periphery like fifteen goddamn times already. For those of you spending your time 'working' or 'meditating' (and if that's true, I don't know HOW THE HELL you found this blog), the brief synopsis is this: Via MySpace, Josh began romantically wooing thirteen year old Megan-- until he started being a dick and in an irrationally depressive teenage response, Megan hung herself. It came out later that Josh didn't actually exist and was a persona created by a neighborhood MOM. Evidently, her daughter was friends with Megan and after growing apart/putting the kibosh on the contact (as normal teenage girls are want to do), the bitchface of a cunt MOM decided to reek psychological hell on the estranged friend (who was a CHILD).
Don't these people have jobs/hobbies/fucking perspective/compassion? I am guessing this MOM also prides herself on being able to stuff her ass into her daughter's size four Old Navy Low-rise Flares. I'm sure you can find her tanning, french manicuring and proudly wearing a shirt announcing she's a "MILF".
The most badass portion of the NYTimes Article? The Meier's found out about the hoax and destroyed the asshole's Foosball table, then put the pieces in the asshole's driveway. It hardly quelled the pain of losing their daughter, but it produced a much needed physical outlet to release some aggression, I'm sure --especially feeling powerless in the light of the body of laws which allow this kind of sick behavior to be deemed societally rude, but not illegal.

Perspective Check: I Self-Centeredly Can't Find One Today

How of(t)en do you meet someone (a boy, let's say) who you overlap with so irritatingly lovely that not only do you both have your coffee black, but when forced to purchase it from S****ucks, you both rebelliously refuse to abide by their Third Reichian framework, defying group conventionality, and ordering, with resolve in your voice (and some embarrassment in your heart) "medium coffee" rather than "grande drip"? And yet, he hasn't called you since more than a week ago and his last text was three fucking days past?? Shit's messed up.
Then I have to hear my sister go on and on about the elderly, DYING clients she sees on a daily basis, laundry-listing their diseases for me "emphysema, Alzheimer's, diabetes" and how their beds are set up in the living room and how "she had a coughing fit that lasted like a half hour" and "she's only 65 - WHICH IS YOUNG WHEN YOU'RE THAT OLD" and how they all have one common phrase when she sees them "TIME JUST WENT SO FAST" and now I am forcibly contemplating my own fucked up habits and how they will catch up with me and the only positive thing I can say is the healthier ones drank a lot, they claim (but what constitutes "a lot" really?) so I might just be OK RIGHT BEFORE I DIE.
And I thought my day would improve after I walked through the HUMAN FECES on my way into the office.

A Movie: Beats the Shit Out of Most Stuff I Can Think of

I'm not one to suck at the teet of certain actors' breasts...no, no, wait...no, I totally am. [Insert cheerleaderesque levels of squee] Philip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney: It's like combining the food politics of California and the ass-size expectations of Indiana into a real place to live.

92% Freshness!

Stealing Your Employer's Time and Making the Most of it

Recent discovery: Trimming Pubes

No one likes to spend all day at work - especially when there are like a billion other trite things we humans are forced to maintain and service in a week. Considering the eight hour work day PLUS commute time, and you've got maybe eight more hours of awake time to do dumb shit. Examples of Dumb Shit: Exercise, Masturbation, Bill Paying, Fingernail cleaning, Blogging, Reading the Newspaper, Reading books, Pube Trimming.

Perhaps you see where I am going with this? No? All of the above? I do at work. Dude, and there is so much more than that. Specifically, I just discovered Pube Trimming. Before I only exercised and masturbated in the bathroom, but now I can sit there trimming my bush for a few minutes at a time before someone comes in. Word of Warning: For those of you who are easily startled, proceed with caution. A sudden, bodily jolt with sharp scissors in your hand could inflict serious damage to your exposed flaps and holes.

Consumer Safety Alert: The Natural Food Flakes Were Right After All

Although I did eat two bites of Chicken Adobo on Saturday to satisfy cooking self-esteem woes of a certain Filipino lesbian I know, I gave up meat - ESPECIALLY-processed meat a few years ago. No scientist or doctor needs to tell me what common sense already does: Adding chemicals to food cannot be good for one's health.
A recent article from Newstarget.com fucking comes right out and says it: "Processed meats, the report explains, are simply too dangerous for human consumption. And why? Because they contain chemical additives that are known to greatly increase the risk of various cancers,including colorectal cancer, breast cancer, prostate cancer, leukemia,brain tumors, pancreatic cancer and many more."
Cancer.
Hey Asshole Over There With the Hot Dog! You can quit giving my cig the stink eye now.

Ethical Arguments With Estranged Husbands

My "she's absolutely the middle child" sister, CopperCrotch, recently exploded rage all over her cell phone to her estranged husband, "Terry", in her attempts to explain an innocent MySpace introductory quote. Rather than let her drown my own ear in her dramatic soliliquy, I forced her to write it down and email it to me so that in her own voice, a published blog could best put her position into the universe. Here's what she said to him, word for word, in an effort to preserve editorial purity.

Here's to your freedom, CopperCrotch. Let it ring; let it ring.

it feels good to be free...whats wrong with that statement? Would it feel better to be in bondage? chained up? tied to pole and stoned? it feels fucking good to be free. You get to make your own choices. You can use your bathroom when you have to. You can buy your favorite flavor of toothpaste. You can take a shower as long as you wish. You can stay up as late as you want watching whatever the hell you want on TV while eating chips in your bed. You aren't responsible for anyone but yourself and your offspring.

Martin Luther King would agree with me. If you were to look back into history, there is no evidence of freedom feeling bad. Freedom feels good. That's why people fight for it. That's why people make sacrifices for it. Whatever, I'm free so I can feel however I want about that, so now what are you gonna do? I'm free and it feels good.

Um, plus I took that quote from a Rilo Kiley song, it's not like I could come up with something so profound on my own.

I Have to Believe Losing Hurts You More Than it Hurts Me, Adam Vinatieri

My Colts lost for the second week in a row; to fucking New England last week and then to fucking San Diego. We played like shitballs the first half, this past Sunday, but rallied like Super Bowl Champions are paid to do, and made one hell of a comeback. In fact, WE SHOULD HAVE FUCKING WON. Vinatieri. Vinatjeri. Vanatjergi. Vandetjergt. Vanderjagt.

This is an Impossibility for Folks in Indiana

Adbusters' Buy Nothing Day commences November 23, 2007 - which is the day after Thanksgiving (aka Black Mother Fuckin' Friday). The premise of the resistance: "an effort to expose the environmental and social consequences of First World over-consumption." Preach it.
(This doom and gloomer won't board the revolution bus, unless it's for a hijacking.)
And, honestly, weirdly, truly and ironically, this day is the only day I actually enjoy shopping... though it has nothing to do with spending dollars. Traditionally, my sisters, my mother and I have become part of this store-hopping mayhem for the shear thrill of the cluster-fuck. Oh, the memories, the near adventures. T-Giving night, all hopped up on sugar and booze, we'd peruse the newspaper ad inserts, spreading them on coffee table and sofa, debating the finer points of the Target off-brand boombox versus the Best Buy off-brand DVD player. Keeping to planned lists, succinct drive routes and a manageable wake-up time, we froze asses and hands off, rarely - if ever - actually purchasing anything, searching for bathrooms, complaining and only looking forward to breakfast. (I can be forced to do anything with a promise of breakfast in a restaurant. Cracker Barrel! Please settle a spot in California.)
I won't be home this Thanksgiving, to good old capitalistic South Bend, Indiana. So by default I shall participate in the AdBusters' event (being in a cabin in Tahoe insures minimal mall time).

True Story: I'm sad. Fuck AdBusters. I want my mommy and my mommy to buy me breakfast.

Media Release

Rumble: A Comic by Jerry Lor-Lor

KilledByTheNetwork loyalist, and now official contributor, Jerry Lor-Lor, has forayed into and conquered the art of digital comic design.

And we thought she spent all of her time watching crappy reality TV. Fooled you!

YOU Are A Bad Pop Song, Patrick Moberg

So this douche, who believes in played-out, idiotic and popularly destructive notions of 'love at first sight', becomes the star of his own Tom Hanks mind-sapper and creates a MyPixelatedMegRyan-website after seeing - SEEING - a girl. Once. On a subway. Why am not surprised that he is 21? Why am I not surprised the chick was wearing a red flower in her hair...and fucking blue tights? (Anyone else smell the reeking Drew Barrymore brand of flakiness?) Why am I not surprised that I feel spumescent jealously and hope he gets her pregnant and they are forced to move to New Jersey or Connecticut? Wasn't Lance Bass in a movie about a gay subway encounter? Or wait. He is gay? Anyways: DUMB.

Meat is Art; Murder is Art; Your Hat Should Be Murdered Alongside Your Bravado

Contemplative.

Being Gay & Liking Abortion: WWJDNow That Pat Robertson Accepts?

This New York Times article shocks the Christian piss outta me! Pat Robertson, Mr. Christian-Coalition, Mr. 700-Club, Mr. Irresponsibly-Having-Only-Endorsed-Candidates-Based-on-Abortion-Positions, has lent the entirety of the right-wing evangelists' support to Giuliani's presidential run. And it seems to be based upon his preferring prostate cancer recovery and Israeli politics to his love of horses.

Anyone Shocked Over This?

Why have you forsaken me, Paul Giamatti? Oh wait. You never answered me the LAST time I posed this question - you know, after I sat through all the boring wine-talk in Sideways.

No one's looking at you, Vince. All we have together is Old School.

R.I.P. Howard Beale: There Are No Peoples Or Nations, Only Corporations

Finally, some brainiac in the NY Times has pointed out what I've been grumbling to my peers about for the last myriad years: Political and social progress, as accomplished by a government, is impossible when a fuckton of money is at stake.

Why are politicians legally allowed the influence of corporate campaign funds or private funds, for that matter? Easy solution: Cut off the supply. Make all the contributions illegal. What is the harm here? I have never understood why these jerks need to have such expensive campaigns anyways. THEY ARE RUNNING FOR IMPORTANT POLITICAL OFFICES. I AM SURE MEDIA EXPOSURE WILL BE PROVIDED FOR FREE.

Gut Check: Fast Food Restaurants STILL Not Healthy

A thrilling skim-ride of this NewsTarget.com article provided some shocking and not so shocking restaurant info. The most striking revelation discovered? Subway bread can be composted because it CONTAINS FERTILIZER.

Funnily NOT shocking: "Taco Bell's website didn't have much emphasis on health". No way, Jose!

I Recommend!: TV On The Radio, 11/2 FreshAir Podcast

If you get NPR's Fresh Air podcast, last Friday's had a nice nug in the center. It is a seven minute piece discussing the big SERIES releases of 'Seinfeld', 'Twin Peaks' and 'My So-Called Life'. The treasure clip is hearing David Lynch inadvertently (but in all his charming sincerity) deem "Baywatch" culturally irrelevant, as he's got no clue what it is. Weirdly, I couldn't avoid accepting my gut welling up with seething-hatred upon hearing Jerry Seinfeld's voice. His wifey comes off so icky, association is a real bitch, Jerr. And you know he is part of the machine churning out her "nutritional" shit.

The direct link to that portion of the podcast is posted here. You may, however, prefer to listen to the entire thing. For a good twenty-one minutes Kevin Costner sucks his own junk and tries without success to justify 'Waterworld'.

Dream A Little Dream of Me

Last night I dreamed Jim Halpert was in love with me. And I don't mean he wanted to bang me and then NOT call me the next day or NOT respond to my emails. I mean, I could sense, like Pam could sense, that he really really really liked me. I haven't felt that way in years. Needless to say, I was pretty fucking pissed when I woke up the next morning and realized he had no idea that I existed, let alone that I was the love of his life. So whatever, it sucked to wake up alone again. And not just alone but like, I'm never gonna find a real Jim Halpert EVER kind of alone. But I thought about the crazy breakfast I was going to make for myself and quickly abandoned my grief and self-pity. Eggs over easy with fresh cilantro, herbed up goat cheese, sun flower sprouts, multigrain toast, seedless tangerines, just ground french roast coffee. COME ON! That would take anyone's mind off of the intangible and arguably esoteric discovery of true love. Hell, it's a myth anyways. How are all these people getting together? Every dude I meet has some bubble-butt perfect artist girlfriend. I can't compete with that. I come off abrasive, bitter, to the the point of being considered rude, perhaps. I see myself as transparent, but no one bothers to look. I catalogue hours of thought on an issue and via a sentence and a face, I intimidate and turn-off potential suitors. I am not scary. I'm a real dear if you sift through the black layers of cynisism and hate. I think. Recently, my friend Nic came to visit me here in Oakland. She assumed the role of my self-appointed life-coach for five days. A rough and entirely too self-reflective and self-centered time later, I had become more aware of my short-comings, but was in no safe place to change them absolutely. Fuck. I'm thirty-one. Is it possible to significantly amend, say reverse ingrained personality traits? Dubiously, I only filter now, instead of speaking niceties. Nic says this is a huge step. I say, Nic, I almost blurted out "xxxx" and says, Good Elly; it was good you stopped yourself. Progress.
That dream ruled in comparison to the dream I had one night previous. I lived in some sort of cramped apartment, filled with limbless, decapitated bodies. The wounds were cauterized so there was hardly a mess, but even wrapped in down comforters they still seemed out of place, illegal. I discovered the bodies but had no memory of doing the dirty work. I assumed a friend had committed the crimes and I was maintaining loyalty by stowing the goods and keeping my yap shut to police. It presented quite a moral conundrum of sorts and having too much TV knowledge of crime scene investigations, I was sure no one had covered their tracks perfectly -- especially me -- and sure enough I would be cuffed, questioned and thrown in the slammer. That dream required way too much bargaining and worry, so when I woke up I felt relief akin to wasabi resolution or a passed pregnancy test. Just last week, I dreamt my grandma was maniacally driving me down the coast in her Ford Taurus - forcing me to yell at her "Calm the fuck down, Grandma". Even in a dream, that's a weird fucking thing to yell at your grandma. Anyways, our mode of transportation magically converted to a bicycle and she hit a crack and flipped over the handlebars. Worried about her condition, I phoned my mother. But honestly, I was thrilled our joyride arrived at an end that didn't include us drowning in the Pacific ocean where jellyfish could sting us on our metaphysical dissent into the depths of the universe. Who knew my grandma was such a renegade spaz.

I call BULLSHIT.

Does anyone else feel like this clouded, alarmist, reactionary way the federal government makes everything an act of terra' is way out of control? I was fucking pissed about the liquid take-down in the airports, but now we are willy nilly prosecuting random REGULAR AMERICAN CRIMINALS under the guise of terrorism?

Thank God these people are still thinking: Timothy Lynch, director of the Project on Criminal Justice at the Cato Institute & Donna Lieberman, executive director of the New York Civil Liberties Union. Both mentioned, in the NYTimes, the purpose of the new terrorism law was to guard New York from Al Qaeda - ya know, ACTUAL terrorists, the ones who target particular peoples and defy nation-states for ideological or political reasons ( dictionary.com).

I did my own thinking. I went to dictionary.law.com and it asked me to input a "legal term" in order to find its definition and guess what? Nothing was found for "terrorism". I found plenty for first degree murder and manslaughter but nothing...for...terrorism... as if it isn't actually a LEGAL TERM. I also found nothing for "slippery slope" but why would I? That is just AN IDEA FOUND IN THE CONTEXT OF CONSTRUCTING A LOGICAL ARGUMENT.

Hell, convict this boy of terrorism. Iiii meeean, jees, he "intimidate[d] or coerce[d] a civilian population". All the prosecution needs is a batshit brilliant psychologist to reveal this kid's tragically deranged motive. I'M SURE IT'S IN THERE, NEXT TO HIS LIQUID EXPLOSIVES.

Perspective Check: I Have Two Functioning Legs AND I Own a Digital Camera

So I left the office in the middle of the work day to pick up my not-so-instant digital pics at Walgreens. I make my way down Mission in downtown San Francisco on a perfectly gorgeous fall day, walking briskly, without a care in the world and contemplating how fucking cute my pictures will be and calculating exactly when I will be able to make the Ikea trip to get really cheap frames - which will also be really fucking cute. And I am consciously sucking in my belly, in an effort to work out my stomach muscles and it is there, at Portico's Italian Restaurant (free smells!) I pass a young man, traveling by wheelchair. But he wasn't just in a wheelchair; he was also wielding one of those retractable seeing-eye poles. Not only was he UNABLE TO WALK. He was also UNABLE TO SEE. Jesus H. Christ on a Cross, Goddamn. I vowed then and there I would stop complaining about my psoriasis (...even though it's really bad, you guys.)

A Super Bowl RING? A Gaudy, Slumlord, Guido Ring? a...and... That Picture of Jim...

This past Sunday, as the Colts taunted and then tortured Carolina, my good friend, fellow football fan, and leader of the Colt's free world (as far as the boundaries I know personally), Ryan, clued me into upcoming news - "a big announcement" he called it- to be made by the Colt's Owner and CEO Jim Irsay this Tuesday, October 30. Ooh, what could it be?

I had no guesses.

Then I found out, a Super Bowl Ring: What a fucking let down.

Don't get me wrong, the whole "donating to charity" angle is a thoughtful and inventive one. However, winning one of five of those ball-bustingly huge, design-impaired pimpster rings is not something I'd liken to finding a Wonka golden ticket.

Compounding my perplexity over the whole thing is the "Stages" of the contest, they read like a prescription drug warning. Hilariously, one cannot purchase tickets online. (I get why: It localizes the winner, keeping Indiana-defectors, like me, from stealing the competition and flying my prize back to Oakland - forever keeping a piece of Colts history thousands of miles from anything actually Colt-ish.)

Further, I found this part of the Stage 2 Indianapolis Treasure Hunt particularly controversial (the lawsuits are already writing themselves): "The top 10 performers, as determined by the sole discretion of the Ravenchase Adventures LLC judges, will advance to the third and final stage." But, admittedly, I do love me a good scavenger hunt. Too bad I don't know jack about the city of Indy (outside of it being large and boring). Finally, the ten worn-out, subjectivel-deemed "best performers" - total quacks I'd imagine - get their mugs on TV during halftime of the game December 2, and even then five of them won't get to lug home the crappiest piece of sport's memorabilia ever minted and given away to NON-PLAYERS.