Sen. Redenbacher (D-WV) castigates Michael Vick for "barbarism"

REUTERS, July 20, 2007, Washington, D.C.:

The posthumously revived corpse of beloved popcorn-spokesman Senator Orville Redenbacher took to the Senate floor for over 25 minutes Thursday to decry the indictment of Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick for allegations that he led a dogfighting ring out of one of his homes in Virginia. After much legal scrutiny, Reuters has confirmed that dogfighting is indeed illegal in all 50 U.S. states and its territories, in addition to every developed and most developing countries around the world. The indictment would appear to hold up in a court of law.

Sen. Redenbacher took the moral lead in this fight against the inhumane treatment of other creatures, even as many of his fellow legislators recently celebrated Vick's revival of the ancient pastime of dogfighting. "It's barbaric! Barbaric! Barbaric! It's barbaric! ......................... Barbaric! ...... Barbaric!!! It's barbaric! ................ BARBARIC!!!" Redenbacher strongly repeated 8 times while madly pumping his fist at a handful of bewildered tourists and a sleeping C-SPAN 2 cameraman in the cavernous Senate chamber Thursday [5:20 - 6:40 in the clip].

Clearly finding his wheelhouse, Sen. Redenbacher again vituperated the indictment by vicariously handing down God's own judgment on the matter by stating that "I am confident that the hottest places in hell are reserved for the souls of sick and brutal people who hold God's creatures in such brutal and cruel contempt." Some critics have wondered whether Redenbacher's 12-year hiatus in the tomb has affected his recollection of having been a leading member of the Klu Klux Klan's Exalted Cyclops chapter for 5 years in the 1940's before winning his first seat in Congress, where he has led for over 55 years. In the past, Redenbacher has indeed made several vague allusions to his views on racial integration:

"Rather I should die a thousand times, and see Old Glory trampled in the dirt never to rise again, than to see this beloved land of ours become degraded by race mongrels, a throwback to the blackest specimen from the wilds."

"I shall never fight in the armed forces with a Negro by my side."

It appeared that Redenbacher worked himself into a froth enough to have even caused a brief, mild stroke, evidenced by the long pause in his oratory [located at 6:10 in the clip]. An aide of the reanimated Sen. Redenbacher was seen shooting a concerned glance at the Senator just as he began to regain consciousness and his soul returned to his body.

Following this long-winded, meaningful diatribe, Sen. Redenbacher retired from the Senate chamber and stiffly plodded toward the nearest cemetery.

Sources say he forgot to validate his parking.


---Brice Lord, reporting

The only news you'll hear from the Tour de France this year

Trivia Question: When will the Tour de France be held this year?

Answer: It's been going on for nearly 2 weeks.


Despite the extreme condition of physical fitness required of individuals to compete in this 22-day marathon on wheels, nobody really cares about it; that is, unless Lance Armstrong plans to win again with the gross audacity not seen since Babe Ruth pointed to the center field wall in 1933.

Is the Tour even on television anymore? Or is it on something crappy like ESPN The Ocho, reserved for niche events like Japanese Shame and Pain Tournament and Hot Dog Eating competitions? Sometimes you'll meet someone that is like really into the Tour de France and just needs to tell you that he enjoys it because he doesn't miss the forest for the trees like everyone else. These are a similar breed of asshole to those who dig the America's Cup sailboat race. I bet the application to the America's Cup looks something like this:


Registration for America's Cup (Sailboat Race)
Complete the following information, filling in the circles when necessary.

Name: _Brice Lord___________
Address: __1549 Awesome Lane______
Race: o White o Other
Annual Income: o $19,000,000-$20,000,000 o >$20,000,000
Domeciles: o 2 o 3 o 4 o more than my neighbor
Wife's Modeling Agency: o Ford o IMG o Elite o DNA
Boat type: __sail-thingy with big pole in the middle for the wind__


Notice how the America's Cup administration department hasn't even figured out how to use the "forms" function in MS Word.

You know, the America's Cup would be a SHITLOAD cooler if each boat was given a mounted Howitzer and a couple of sea mines. The commentators then might stop talking about a teams' tacking ability and focus on something more interesting, like casualty rates.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the Tour de France.

So a dog got hit by a bicyclist the other day and it's downright hilarious. Fucking dog. It just walks across the road, on which a hundred bicyclists are streaking past every minute---at probably around 30mph---and thinks that's a fine idea. It gets hit and sends the bicyclist flying. The dog walks away from the wreck sheepishly eyeing the camera like a child who just poured milk onto his little sister's head. And when I saw this last night, predictably, Erica Hill, Anderson Cooper's own Ed McMahon, says, "Well I hope the dog is alright." Fuck you Erica! If I drove my Moroccan boyfriend's yellow Miata against traffic on I-495 causing a wreck that ejected a family of four from their Chevy Tahoe would you hope aloud that I came out of it okay without regard to the family? No, you wouldn't because any reasonable organism wouldn't do that. Just because it's a dog doesn't mean it's allowed to be fucking retarded. You're still pretty hot though, Erica.

Anyway, here's the video of the dog getting hit by the bicyclist:

Voy a España.

No viajé Europa nunca, incluye España: un país que quiero visitar. Afortunadamente, por mi trabajo, voy a Barcelona para asistir a un simposio. ¡Qué bueno! ¡Me divertiré! Después de Barcelona, nosotros visitaremos Madrid. Dije "nosotros" porque mi prometido Marroquí estará conmigo. El viaje será diversión, pero en Barcelona especialmente, debemos guardarnos de carteristas.

Hay muchas problemas con carteristas ("pickpockets") en Barcelona. Tan muchas problemas que Web sites advierten a turistas de los peligros. Mirar este video del trabajo de los carteristas.

Me iré para Barcelona el sábado y mi prometido se irá el lunes. Nosotros seremos en España por 10 diás. Hasta que volvemos, ustedes sean excelente el uno al otro.

Para una traducción, ir aquí.
[For a translation, go here. Requires some copy and pasting.]

Overheard in DC

Outside the L. Ron Hubbard Church of Scientology at 20th & R St, NW:
[on cell phone] "Well, now we might be talking statutory rape."

Perspective

"Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era -- the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were here and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant . . . .

History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time -- and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened. My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights -- or very early mornings -- when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder's jacket . . . booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike
sparks anywhere.

There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. And that, I think, was the handle -- that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting -- on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave.

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in
Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark -- that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."

--- Hunter S. Thompson, Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, 1971

It must be July ...

Now, I'm not a huge sports fan, but I enjoy watching my share of football (college and pro), March Madness, NBA playoffs, and the odd Orioles game and soccer match now and then. But, come summer, we're all hung out to dry in the sere desert of mid-season MLB baseball. The problem here is that by the all-star break there is absolutely nothing happening in any sport except baseball. The NBA and NHL playoffs are over, both drafts (NFL and NBA) are finished, and even golf is lukewarm. There's Wimbledon, but the matches are played in the middle of the day and I'm not exactly going to take 2 weeks off of work to watch British people clap supportively every time the chair judge repeats that flash photography isn't permitted because tennis players wear all white and there's a chance the extra light rays might stain their clothes. This would all be fine and dandy if the MLB were gearing up for the quadruple-fortnight World Series, but at this point it may as well be another 8 years away.

The unique majesty of baseball's World Series is only 5 short months away.

Mid-season baseball is boring. By now we all know who's good and who sucks. The Red Sox are good. The Yankees suck. The Mets are good. The Cubs suck. The Nationals suck. The Orioles suck [of course, we're never really given an opportunity to wonder if the Orioles will suck or not because they have been thoroughly consistent in this aspect for the past decade, largely thanks to an opprobriously egomaniacal owner]. And we're only at the fucking All-Star break for god's sakes, of which its Home Run Derby is as big a joke at the NBA's dunk contest---not to mention that Barry Bonds opted not to enter the homerun derby, which is bewildering on 10^5 levels (sorry, I've been taking a GRE test prep class). By the way, to call this period a "break" is hilarious to me. The only people on a baseball field at any time that ever actually do anything are the pitchers and the ball boys/girls, so having a "break" is pretty unnecessary. Well, maybe we should count the fans who occassionally interfere. Even the baseball commentators are obviously bored right now. There could be a game-winning inside-the-park grandslam hit by a wheelchair-bound, terminally ill 10-year old girl in the bottom of the 9th inning and the announcers would still be talking about how they're continually amazed at the number of bugs there are buzzing around the stadium lights.

Kevin Garnett remains seriously concerned about what everyone is telling him that he's thinking.

So except for baseball dragging us along, what are we left with to entertain us while hiding inside from the brutal summer heat? Well, as far as sports news goes right now, there's three huge, earthshaking stories I absolutely need to follow closely right now. First, we can all vapidly gossip about whether or not Bud Selig will end up sitting down in a baseball stadium when a chemically enhanced titan hits another ball over a wall. Second, that little Asian hotdog eater got beaten by a three-hotdog margin by an American named after a yuletide nut. And finally we can continue to follow the neverending carnival of rumors about Kevin Garnett being traded to the Boston Celtics (June 19), Phoenix Suns (June 25), LA Lakers (June 26), Charlotte Bobcats (June 28), Chicago Bulls (June 30), Dallas Mavericks (July 5), Golden State Warriors (July 9), and the Miami Sound Machine (July 10).

An acute visual representation of my wasted time.

Smartly, the hosts on the only sports show I enjoy, Pardon The Interruption, have taken vacations for what feels like a month, and so I'm left with listening to the possibly unintentionally self-deprecating humor of Dan Le Betard and the pacifist verbage of J.A. Adonde, whose dialogue together leaves me feeling like I just ate a pound of feathers without knowing it.

Fortunately, it's just under 2 months until college football kicks off and I can begin worrying about Michigan coming back in the fourth quarter of every game rather than worrying about the Orioles struggling to tread above a .450 win record.

Sir Charles

This is what it would look like if somebody had a stroke in the middle of their golf swing. It's actually Charles Barkley's.

ETCW! - Not for the squeamish

I went and got the old blog MPAA-rated over at Mingle^2. Here's what I got:

Mingle² - Online Dating

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

fucking (11x)
shit (6x)
fuck (5x)
shitty (2x)
dick (1x)

I actually laughed when I saw this come up. I'm pretty proud of the 16 utterances of "fuck", and the single "dick" to top it off is appropriate---though things have been twice the fun since my Moroccan boyfriend Michael moved in, if you know what I mean. And a big thanks to Mr. Kevin, Esq. for blowing my cover, by the way.

Oh, that's right, I printed something one second ago!

I am now 100% absolutely goddamn sure I just printed something.

You know... I'm not really sure how to begin, but I'll preface by saying that sometimes technology rubs me the wrong way. Not in a suicidal Radiohead-OK Computer kind of way, but maybe more in a Rage Against the Machine way.

For instance, those water-saving smart toilets that supposedly know when to flush are truly a fantastic accomplishment of human ingenuity. They sense when you're done doing your thing and then do you the courtesy of sucking down your poo without you needing to touch anything. That is except that they tend to flush 4-5 times even if you're in there for only 20 seconds just to adjust your shirt tuck. How "smart".

Computers are particularly frustrating. Microsoft Windows is especially good at pushing those tiny buttons in my brain that make me pound the table and mutter things like "Holy shit I swear to motherfucking Christ fuck I'm gonna fucking kill something this is fucking ridiculous oh my god i fucking hate this piece of shit you asshole bastard fuck fuck FUCK (with table pound and continued muttering)."

That friendly, bug-eyed Paperclip that pops up every time you do anything in Word is also a fun one. I almost feel bad for it, it just wants to help, but Microsoft just made him fucking annoying. It's like that pudgy kid in middle school who was reeeeally friendly but also reeeeally dorky, dorkier than you (me) even, and so you always blew him off just in case any of the cool kids might catch you being seen with him. That kid was the Paperclip. Shit, that kid probably created the Paperclip.


Worse than poorly programmed human-computer interface psychology experiments like the Paperclip are the little itty-bitty things that just make your life slightly more difficult. For instance, take the following scenario:

1) I'm working on a document, "List of Hot Men.doc", and want to print it.
2) I click the printer icon to print the document.
3) The printer right-fucking-next-to-me starts printing "List of Hot Men.doc".
4) After it's done printing, up pops a little balloon in the bottom-right of the Desktop telling me extremely useful information such as:

• "This document has been sent to the printer"
• "Document name: 'S:\trkn.xerxes.smi.\230GH-I70\Proje..."
• "Printer name: \\PS09\M913-LJ43KT"

Okay. That's all completely necessary information. What is it I'm supposed to do now, thank the computer? It sure seems like it, because that helpful little balloon won't ever, ever, ever go away until you hit the tiny little "x" to close it. If DC was ever attacked with nerve gas on like a Wednesday morning, the Feds would need to put together a special task force just to go floor-to-floor throughout the city in order to close these balloons.

Microsoft: please, please, please stop doing these things. Please.

Whoosh

My cell phone's camera apparently has remarkable resolution.

I snapped this shot of a commercial airliner landing on runway 1/19 at Reagan National Airport from my camera phone when I biked down to Gravelly Point on Sunday. I had no idea this place even existed until I stumbled upon it while winding through the Mt. Vernon Trail on the Virginia side of the Potomac. Planes land on this runway---thundering in just ~100 feet overhead---about every 3 or 4 minutes, and in between landings 2 planes would usually take off. Seeing how little margin of error there is for take-offs and landings made me realize why it's safer to be in the air than on the ground.

Fun Fact: Gravelly Point is built atop a garbage dump, which explains why part of it is known as "Roaches Run." Big angry rats like it here, too, and I've heard there's even a foursome of highly-trained turtle ninjas running around. Kids are discouraged from playing near Roaches Run.

Hot Chicks with Douchbags

It's not a stretch in any way to say that this is what the world has been waiting for. I've spent easily an hour just now pouring through the pictures and commentaries on Hot Chicks with Douchebags, and I'm still finding myself laugh out loud (yes..."LOL"). I've seen some pretty choady things in my day, but the pictures assembled here are off the scrote charts. It's impossible to read this site for even 5 minutes and not develop a refined hatred of New Jersey.

This site is something every guy can relate to; that is, unless you're one of the douchebags hoisted up in the Hall of Scrote, like "Oopma Prompa" below.

Jesus...

The author of HCwDB writes of Prom Oompa Loompa:

"There's a certain genius to the Prompa, and it's not just the zoot suit or the orange or the hair. It's that nervous moment we can all relate to. That glance around right before going to the prom when you're waiting in line and making sure your tie's on straight. The only difference is that unlike all of us at our prom who just felt like we looked ridiculous, Prompa actually does look absolutely ridiculous."

It's pure gold. Here's a picture of a d'bag he refers to as "Ab Lobster".



Part of the brilliance is that the same asswipes turn up over and over again. Ab Lobster, for instance, is a regular, even though he may not know it.

You're doing yourself a great disservice if you don't check out this site. Many kudos to Douchebag1, the author and proprietor of this site. Respect also to They Promised Us Jetpacks and We Got Blogs for leading me to this site. You've saved me from at least 3 days of work.

Nostalgia

With the upcoming release of what will probably be another one of the most overanticipated and underenjoyed movies of all time, I thought it was interesting that I stumbled across this in Google's Patent search (which apparently exists).

Recognize that fella? That's fucking Megatron boy-ee. So you'd better recognize.

Getting excited about stumbling upon the patent filed for the Megatron "toy gun convertible into robot-humanoid form" fills me with both glee and a weighty sense of nostalgia. While it makes me happy to be reminded of one of the best cartoon during my childhood, I recognize that it's pretty fucking lame to have been so by looking at a patent from 1986.

In digging a little bit, I'm amazed to learn that new shows only ran for 3 years, between 1984 and 1987. I guess I didn't really realize that when I was 6, since watching the same episode 20 times in a month didn't make much of a difference to me.

If you remember, things changed considerably in the series when the first Transformers movie (The Transformers: The Movie) came out in 1986. In this screaming guitar solo-laced cartoon movie, Megatron and his Decepticons committed countless atrocities against the Autobots and their wimpy human friends. Basically all of the main characters were killed off, not to mention that this was the first time any character had ever died in any cartoon show. So to really drive home the point that 6-year olds shouldn't just naively assume cartoon robots that battle for global domination against an evil transformable-robot syndicate every day are immortal, the movie's producers included a scene in which Megatron shoots Autobot Ironhide point-blank in the head after telling him about the plan to destroy Autobot City. Ironhide's corpse was later recovered and given the honor of being laid to rest in the Autobots' deep-space mausoleum, which was later destroyed. That's really necessary. I guess just in case we had any doubt about the smoking hole in Ironhide's skull...or metal box that looks like a head.

The tattered corpses of Autobots Windcharger and Wheeljack, murdered without a doubt by Decepticons in The Transformers: The Movie.

It really isn't surprising that the same production company that made the first Transformers movie also made the G.I. Joe Movie, which contained the same measure of unexpected violent insanity.

So what will the next generation of Transformers movies look like? Well, it's been 20 years, so it probably won't have the voice of the now-deceased Orson Welles, though I bet the music will be just as bad (cue Nickelback). I imagine my impression of it will be different, too, since I didn't make a practice of going to movies drunk when I was 6 years old.

Here's my prediction: 1 part shitty Spiderman CGI + 1 part Godzilla action + 1 part Starship Troopers dialogue.

Stop swinging. Stop running. Stop talking.

A Modest Proposal

So I'm engaged. And here's how I did it.

[Proprietor's note: for those who don't know me, I've used a transgender eponym throughout this post, see if you can spot it. If you can, you win!]

I proposed to my beautiful Moroccan boyfriend, Michael, last Wednesday, and he said "yes." I put "yes" in quotes because a) it's the proper thing to do grammatically (please don't double-check this) and b) he didn't actually say the word "yes." In reality what happened was that I proposed and then Michael broke into song about how his father would never accept this love. Fortunately I hired a string and horn section to help convince him by musical counterargument. My ragtag orchestra quickly picked up on the unusual Dorian C-flat he was using and things went pretty well for me from there, ultimately leading to a dramatic but light-hearted climax by the strings section during which he exclaimed "yes!" in response, and we all went into a delicate and timely pianississimo outro. I really hate musicals, so this meant a lot to Michael.

Michael and I at our celebratory happy hour. Confused?

This is how it all went down like a clown.
-------------------------------------------------

Michael was heading out of town for a friend's engagement party last weekend, so I knew he wanted to show off his shiny new precious to all his friends. This meant I had to act fast, considering I didn't really decide until Wednesday at 4:00pm to "pop the question" that evening. Michael was getting home from work late that night, around 8:30pm, so I had time to put some rudimentary plans I had been working on into motion.

Getting home from work at 6:30pm didn't give me much time, but I went into action quickly, and being someone who likes to work under pressure, some natural gay inspiration struck.

The general idea was for Michael to come home at 8:30 on Wednesday night, walk in the entryway, and find a note telling him to meet me at a predetermined (but secret) location, and that there's a cab waiting outside to take him to meet me. Upon meeting me at the location (the Reflecting Pool between the Lincoln Memorial and WWII Memorial), I'd get on one knee and propose. The trick was for the proposal to be a "sneak attack" (thanks to Jewish Nate for this tactic) by making him think it'd be on Thursday, since it was somewhat expected to be coming. Things weren't quite that simple, as I found out, and didn't quite work out as planned...

So the first order of business was to trick Michael, which I did via text message by saying "we should go to a nice dinner tomorrow night." He replied "that sounds nice..." and I knew he'd taken the bait. The next order of business was to get some flowers.

So I walk into the flower shop on Q St just off Connecticut Ave in Dupont and ask for a dozen roses and the woman running the shop goes to retrieve them. Then that really creepy, sometimes-eye-patched, one-crutch Pakistani dude who runs the $5 "claw" umbrella outfit atop the Dupont North metro stop showed up and started conversing with the woman getting my flowers. That's when I knew things were about to get kinda awkward. Upon bringing my flowers back, she asks "what's the occasion: anniversary, birthday?" I said, "uhhhh, proposal, actually." What came next was completely unexpected and bogglingly long-winded. It's as if I had been thrown into the middle of a fucking Friends episode. I won't bore you with a transcript of the entire one-way "conversation", but it was highlighted by comments like these:

• "you'll be lucky if you only end up getting married 3 times," and,



• "you're young, marriage is fun, but when you get old it's absolutely miserable," and finally,



• "If I had to do it all over again I would never have gotten married, NEVER!"

Seriously, where did this fucking woman come from? If I were a pious man I'd have thought this was a sign. Thankfully, I'm not, and instead realized that this woman is probably just married to the creepy, sometimes-eye-patched, one-crutch Pakistani dude who runs the $5 "claw" umbrella outfit atop the Dupont North metro stop.

So I got back to our apartment and started planning the night out. I set up a little pedestal in the entryway with a single rose in a vase and taped this small Ikea spotlight that I haven't used in years to a doorjamb to make it all dramatic. I wrote out a note about the cab, etc, and stuck it in an envelope and put it next to the rose.

The next order of business was to arrange the taxis; one for me, and one for him. I thought this would be easy, but it turns out that DC taxis won't pick you up at a scheduled time unless you're going to an airport or train station. That would've been good to know beforehand, huh? So I spent 45 minutes trying to find a cab company that would send two cabs at the needed times. Finally, I found this dispatcher with Diamond Cab that, after explaining my dilemma, volunteered to help. He offered some advice though: "Something will go wrong tonight, whether it's the cork on the champagne shooting off and killing a squirrel that falls onto your girl's head or something else, something always goes wrong." Sage words.

So with the cabs coming at 8:15 and 8:30, I was all set. What was supposed to happen next was that I'd get in the first cab and take off for the Reflecting Pool close to the WWII Memorial. Then Michael, getting home from work at 8:30, would go up to our apartment, see the note, and go back downstairs to get in the second cab which would take him to the same place. Upon arriving I'd be standing there in a suit with a little boombox playing "our song" and propose there under the watchful eyes of Honest Abe a handful of teary-eyed tourists. By the way, "our song" is Waltz #2 by Elliott Smith, who stabbed himself to death in his kitchen ...lovely.

So, as I was coming down the stairs of our apartment building to go and hide around the corner in case Michael got home early, this black sedan pulls up. I had no idea who was in it because the windows were tinted black, but just in case I tried to run down a little ramp and duck behind some of the landscaping. Of course, as Michael got out of the sedan he saw me feverishly running around the patio in a suit carrying a dozen roses and a backpack. The next thing I hear is "What are you doing back there honey?"

So I had to pull the trigger early and I proposed in our apartment. The story wouldn't be complete without adding that when the similarly hopeless-romantic cab dispatcher called to tell me the first taxi was outside, I told him that Michael got home too early and the plan had to be aborted. To which he replied "I told you something will go wrong, something always does." Touche cab dispatcher, touche.

If you're thinking about proposing and need an idea, feel free to take mine, but just do me the courtesy of telling me if it worked. And if you're not 100% confident in your decision to pop the question, I wouldn't recommend going to the flower shop on Q St between Connecticut and 19th.

chillin like a villain

When I picture Hamas militants making trouble in the Gaza Strip, I usually picture scary, hooded, assault weapon-toting men driving down the street in pickup trucks shooting kids in the face. So this picture threw me off a little bit.

"Yeah, I'd like to order a large cheese pizza with peppero...no wait hold on...half pepperoni and half cheese...sorry, hold on...okay, make that all pepperoni again."

Credit goes to New York Nick for finding this picture...he found it on Drudge.

So...what's new in my life?

It's been over a week since I posted something, and that's probably because life's been a bit hectic lately. Let's see why it has been:

1) Big meeting next week that still isn't fully planned
2) Weekend away in the hills
3) Caught the plague from Bon-Journey
4) Planning a business trip to Spain
5) Got engaged

More on these, and other far more important topics, soon.