Throwing Poo

I'm such a hypocrite.  There is nothing I hate more than when I'm in a situation that requires close proximity to another person and they use me as a captive audience on which to unload their crap (i.e. in airplanes, on line at the DMV, after sex).  Yet give me a situation where someone is forced to interact with me (cashiers, waitresses, people I'm paying to have sex with me), and watch the jokey banter spew out like so much tepid bile.

GOOD

The Peevery
Genuine and comically mundane. Plus, you've gotta love a site with "Suck It" as its tagline.   

Gas Prices
(Soapbox Alert)  In the land that invented the all-you-can-eat buffet, we've forgotten how to push back from the table.  Fortunately, the only thing we like stuffing as much as our face is our wallet.  Having to pay to play is the only way we will ever take energy consumption seriously.  Who cares if a few oil company CEO's get fat (fatter) in the process?  Call it an education subsidy. 

BAD

Me

Guilty for secretly appreciating an unseasonably warm April in Cleveland that I know is most likely the result of global warming.  Goodbye frostbite, hello melanoma. 

Battery-Operated Devices
First, get your mind out of the gutter.  Second, my name is Crunchy, and I'm a junkie.
I spend 2-3 days a week rummaging around airports, hotel rooms and coffee shops, wild-eyed and desperately jonesing for an outlet in which to re-charge my computer/cell phone/iPod.  My toys make traveling to places like Grand Rapids a little more bearable, but the need for juice is a relentless monkey on my back. 

GFAs
Those Goddamn Fucking Assholes who wait in line for 20 minutes to get up to the security checkpoint at the airport and then, THEN decide to start checking their pockets and unloading their crap.  It's like they're suddenly surprised to be there.  "Hey asshole, I I've got a plane to catch!" Please tell me it's OK to begin executing these fuckers. 

UGLY 

 

The New Cars
With no Ric Ocasek and no Benjamin Orr, this is basically Todd Rundgren fronting a cover band (the same guy who was the cover dad for Liv Tyler for so many years).  Why on earth would anybody give a rat's ass?
 
Normally, this would just be BAD, but whatever sin (greed, pride, vanity, etc.) it is that has compelled TR to do this just seems UGLY to me.  Why Don't Cha Stop?

P.S.
Things I should have done this week but didn't:

Tell the knucklehead across from me on the plane that his headphones weren't plugged all the way in to his laptop, so instead tolerated the tinny soundtrack to some movie he was watching.
 
Go to physical therapy.  I just hate having to listen to anyone who wears a sweatsuit to work.  Walking is overrated anyway.
 
Raise holy hell with the front desk staff at the Kansas City Radisson when, arriving back after a 14 hour day (capped off by an extremely contentious four hour meeting), was told that the bar and restaurant closed at 11:00PM (ELEVEN O'CLOCK!) and there was no place in the hotel to get a drink. 
 
Learn how to use Movable Type (this blog software).  I'm beginning to feel like a passenger flying the plane.   

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

 

As a species, we are generally predisposed to categorization.  Whether it's the result of latent tribal instincts or the human brain's method for processing vast amounts of information, we like things neatly stacked in our minds. 
 
We do this with animals, vegetables and minerals, but mostly we do it with people. You go here.  She goes there.  Him, he goes way the hell over there with the other assholes.
 
I don't think the intent here is necessarily bad - after all, who's got time to get to know everyone they come across as the unique and interesting individual that they assuredly think they are- but it often ends up making us seem insensitive, obtuse or even racist.  Ironically, as a result, most people generally shy away from these types of discussions to avoid being unfavorably categorized themselves.
 
I think this is why we enjoy the parlor game version of population categorization.  These things come up all the time:  Boxers vs. Briefs (42% vs. 36%, the rest, I guess, choosing to "Go Commando"); Creamy vs. Crunchy (60% vs. 40% with regional variations); Red State vs. Blue State. 
 
What got me thinking about this was a discussion the Nerdy Squirrel and I had regarding our taxes.  She likes getting a refund, while I like it when the government doesn't hold my money then decide to give back to me at some later, unspecified date if I behave properly.  Fuck you.  You want my money, come and get it.  I don't need a federal, non-interest-bearing Christmas Club account.  
 
- Sorry, I didn't mean to go all Waco and shit, but I just wrote a big fat check to the IRS and the wound hasn't quite healed yet.  (Mommy, Uncle Sam touched me in a bad place!) -
 
Anyway, I think a new version of this game should be Tax Refund vs. Lower Tax (Nerdy Squirrel, budding lawyer that she is, adamantly argues that it should actually be called Lower Tax Withheld.  Technically, she says, we're all paying the same tax.  She is, of course, right.  But this is, of course, just a fucking game.  Save the Johnny Cochran routine for my DUI defense.)  This, to me, leads to a far more interesting discussion of what kind of person you are.  Here are the general assumptions based on the people I know:
 
Tax Refund
Tend to be spontaneous and creative
Knows the name of the neighbor's dog
Gives themselves presents (and occasionally wraps them - admit it!)
Eats string cheese
Has a balance on at least one credit card
Watches "Gray's Anatomy"
 
Lower Tax
Tends to be linear and analytical
Knows the current interest rates
Has cursing issues
Eats fiber bars
Watches "South Park"
Buys lottery tickets (I know the chances are one in a million, but so is getting struck by lightening.  If I have to take the bad chance, why not take the good one as well?)
 
Let's take a poll and tell me which one you are.  Of course this won't be scientific and, considering the brief commenting history of this site, the results will probably come out 1 to 1 (assuming I vote).  At least for those of you who vote, I'll know whether to put you here or way the hell over there with the other assholes.

 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

 

GOOD 

www.factcheck.org
For these folks, calling "Bullshit!" is a full-time job.  Plus, you can't even make a donation to them.  How cool is that?  
 
Morningwood - Jetsetter
While the video is marginal (and who cares, really?), I have been totally digging this song all week.  Can't wait for my Amazon shipment to arrive.  (Wow.  That last sentence just sent a shiver up my spine.  I think I'm in serious danger of becoming a shut-in.)
 
The Who - Who Are You
Every few years (OK, decades) I re-discover some old music that I haven't paid any attention to in a while.  I used to listen to this on vinyl with my prized Emerson Stereo System complete with phonograph, 8-track and AM/FM radio.  The folks wouldn't tolerate any loud music, so I would put a speaker on each side of my pillow and lie there for hours thinking about brassieres (touching, not wearing).  
 
Nicolemart
A very fun site and the first blog to link to www.throwingpoo.com.  I can practically hear her regret swelling...

BAD

Scott McClellan
Bye, bye Scottie.  Every lying liar eventually runs out of lies to lie about.  Sure, he'll get a fat book deal, but Jim Carrey already did the movie. 
  
Easter Candy
Can't stop eating.  Please.  Make it go away.  I'm begging you.
 

UGLY 

Even though it's been out for a while, I have to say that the commercial where they show the M&Ms and the chocolate bar in a cheesy, romantic setting to insinuate they are about to have sex and birth the M-Azing Bar disturbs me.  Being forced to imagine the coital fluid exchange between snack foods just isn't very appetizing, never mind the conception, gestation and delivery of their offspring.  At the very best, they're saying, "Here, eat our children."  No thanks. I'll just have a safe, abstinent Snickers bar.

 

 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Working from home has its benefits.  Leftover lunch isn't always one of them.  Today's serving:

Slice of wheat bread with peanut butter

The last three pieces peppered beef jerky

One stuffed grape leaf

Four spoonfuls of cold lentil soup

A granny smith apple

Handful of Easter candy

Each thing looked good until it was all together on one plate.  I wonder what my afternoon daydream will be like?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

It’s hard to complain about being a white man in America.  Majorities generally don’t get to complain about the state of things.  There just aren’t many issues we can point to and publicly cry foul.  If you did, your guy friends would call you a big pussy and take turns kicking your ass.  Who needs it?

When issues of inequity do come up, it is usually easier to just ignore them then risk being labeled a racist or a misogynist.  As a result, men’s issues seem to be limited to erectile dysfunction and male pattern baldness.  But trouble is brewing my club-swinging brethren.  Trouble indeed.

My wife showed me a recent article on law.com  that says as any as 38 states require men to pay child support even in cases where the DNA tests exclude them as fathers of the children.   I’ll give you a moment to re-read that last part.

WTF?  I mean, WT fucking F?!  Apparently this is based on some ancient Anglo law that states a man is legally presumed to be the father of any child born during the marriage.  I mean, sure, that made perfect sense back when the world was still flat, but now ? 

Anyway, let’s say you decide to meet to surprise your wife at her office and take her to lunch.  You sneak up and, turning the handle to her office door, leap in and yell “Surprise!”  Oh boy, is she surprised!  As is the intern whose lap she is sitting on.  Guess what, if you live in 76% of America, it’s time to open up a tuition savings plan for little Brody Jr.

How is it that men are not united in outrage against something like this?  OK, I guess I kind of answered this at the beginning.  Plus, most men I know like nothing better than to see some other guy get totally screwed (it’s kind of a porno thing).  

Well then, where are all the women who are fighting for equal rights?  Or does equal rights really just mean women’s rights?

I’m not in any way suggesting a return to the good old days when women cooked our dinner and did our chores.  All I’m saying is that fair is fair regardless of which gender is on the receiving end.  And if my wife ever happens to be on the receiving end of some other guy’s junk, I’m not flipping the bill. 

Will they call me a hero? A defender of freedom?  A beacon of equality?

Nope.  They’ll call me a deadbeat dad.

 

(um...yeah, I kinda had a bad day.)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Far East Side Story

Paint Your Dragon

My Fair Lady of Death

Crouching Guys, Hidden Dolls

Seven Brides for Seven Samurai

Fiddler of Fury

Annie Get Your Nunchucks

Please use COMMENTS to add your own.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

Fifty-nine years into his life and well into his second term as President, George W. Bush is nearing the end of the “To Do” list that has served as both the summary and driving force of his ambitions.  A recently obtained copy of the list and countless subsequent interviews with White House staffers, politicos and Beltway insiders begins to paint a portrait of a calculating and methodical man who has built his life upon a specific blueprint instead of what most people have seen as a random series of unpredictable, reckless and just plain stupid decisions.

In the shape of a paper airplane with the words “ Mission Accomplished” written across the wings, the list was discovered by a reporter in the leaves of a rubber tree plant in a West Wing conference room.  A White House aide who refused to be identified said that the conference room often served as a place where the president bounced ideas as well as paper airplanes off his staff.   

A full-size photocopy of the list is available by clicking here.  Several scientific analysts were consulted and verified the handwriting and dried saliva stains as belonging to Bush.   The list appears to have been originally written in the 1970’s and then edited in subsequent years.

While many of the items seem self-explanatory, further investigation of each one begins to form a window, albeit a tinted one, into the heart of the 47^th President. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Anyone who says they enjoy business travel has never traveled for business.  What these people are doing is confusing the need to travel for business with taking a vacation.

I spend an average of 2-3 days a week on the road.  For me, business travel is an exhausting anxiety that begins the night before and plays out something like this:  

Phase One (deep breath): pack my bag(s); worry about waking up on time; sleep restlessly; wake up tired; rush to the airport; find a parking space; wait in line to check a bag; wait in line to go through security; wait in line to pay $3 for a bottle of water; hope the plane is not delayed; hustle to my gate while weaving in and out of the inconsiderate numbskulls who mill around in the airport aisles (i.e. vacationers); wait in line to get on the plane; hope I get an open seat next to me; try to identify the fat/smelly/obnoxious people in line who I hope don’t sit next to me; wait forever for the old man in front of me to put his coat in the overhead bin and take his damn seat already; hope there is still some overhead space for my carry-on bag and suit jacket; store my gear and take my seat; avoid eye contact so no one will want to sit next to me (even though seats are assigned); try not to get pissed off when some asshole crushes my suit jacket by carelessly stuffing his carry-on bag into MY overhead bin;  let the fat/smelly/obnoxious guy into the seat next to me; quickly put on headphones and pretend to read/sleep so he won’t talk to me;  pray the plane doesn’t get delayed (now that I’m on it next to a fat/smelly/obnoxious guy and there’s no getting off), wait for a lousy cup of coffee and, if I’m lucky, a muffin-ette; wait in line to pee; wait to get off the plane; feel nauseas from breathing a cocktail of airborne germs and stale farts for the past 1-5 hours; wait for my bag; hope my bag didn’t get lost; wait some more for my bag; do a quick mental inventory of my bags contents and realize that I forgot workout clothes/cell phone/important files/etc.; wait for a cab; wonder if the cab driver is going to try to rip me off; teach the cab driver the English pronunciation of my destination; act like I’m familiar with the area so the cab driver won’t try to rip me off; suddenly doubt that I have enough cash to pay for the cab and tear through my bag to check; wonder if my clothes are going to smell like cigarettes and ass after I get out of the cab; arrive for work.

Break here for 8-10 hours of work followed by dinner with someone who I’m expected to entertain despite my growing hatred of them. 

Work and repeat Phase Two for 1-2 more days.  Repeat Phase One.  Arrive back at Cleveland Hopkins Airport and realize I forgot where I parked my car. 

To summarize using a food analogy, vacationing is a filet mignon; business travel is liquid protein pumped in through a feeding tube.  I’m contemplating a hunger strike.

 

 

 

 
 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

GOOD:

Music: Kaiser Chiefs, Employment - Way cool (it's not new, but its new to me).

Movies: Thank You For Smoking The funniest thing I've seen in months.  J.K. Simmons (J. Jonah Jamerson from Spiderman) RULES!

BAD:

Politics: Donald Rumsfeld A growing line of generals and now even Newt is bashing him.  It's time for him to go - the beach isn't going to metal-detect itself. 

UGLY:

DIY: The wall of my office where I've been banging my head all week trying to figure out Movable Type (this blog software).  Maybe I should stick to crayons and paper.

Faces: All politics aside, forget for a moment that you know who Tom Delay is.  How quickly would you cancel your dinner plans if the babysitting service sent this guy to your house? 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Scientists announced today that they are one step closer to developing a male contraceptive.  The method comes (leave it) in the form of a reversible, immunocontraceptive injection of a protein that coats the sperm rendering it incapable of fertilizing an egg.  The injection does not, however, render the sperm incapable of staining your mother’s nice guest towels.   

While it is yet to be proven effective with human males, the injection has been successful 78% of the time in trials with primates.  However, two of the seven monkeys remained infertile after the shots stopped and expressed their frustration by throwing poo at everyone who walked by their cages.  On the other hand, the successful monkeys actively celebrated the return of their fertility by throwing poo at everyone who walked by their cages.

Susan Benoff, former president of the Society for Male Reproduction and Urology - and somewhat surprising, not a boy named Sue – suggested that the greater challenge to male contraception could be psychological.  While men might take a pill, most of her male patients are not fond of injections.  Asked if she liked getting injected, Benoff glared. “I get quite enough of that kind of shit at the S.M.R.U., I don’t need to hear it from you, too.”   

“Obviously this is not a method for a gentleman who’s interested in a one night stand,” Benoff said.  Pausing for a moment, she looked around, “Not for the man interested in the one night stand?  What man isn’t interested…exactly who the hell is this for?!”

The other psychological aspect is whether or not women will be willing to trust men to take responsibility for preventing pregnancy.  “If you are the woman,” Benoff says, “you are the one who’s going to be pushing out the 8-pound bowling ball, so you have to trust him.”  Asked if that was a similar trick to the ping-pong ball one I saw in Tijuana last year, Benoff abruptly ended the interview.

 

 

 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My intent is to have new posts up every weekday by 8:30AM EST.  For some reason, the automatic posting function of Moveable Type is not working properly (most likely because of user error).  Until I can figure it out, I will have to post manually so the timing may be a little sporadic due to my travel schedule and fondness of sleep.  Please bear with me. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Balmy

Sobering

Yellowy

Moist

Industrious

Drippy

Expediting

Full of beans

Please feel free to add your own in the comments section below.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

First, let’s dispense all ubiquitous licking, smelling and dragging of delicate regions.  No surprises here.  I read the package before I made my purchase.

Second, I have searched my mind and cannot pinpoint any influence or positive reinforcement on my part that may have led to these behaviors.  I have had both cats and dogs before and these were not issues.  Therefore, despite any disturbing image the following might create in your mind, I cannot be held responsible (except, of course, for the writing of it, but don’t shoot the messenger). 

The T.I.B.T.D.N.E.W.I.C.T.B.T.R.A.O.S.A.E.I.M.M.C.s are as follows:

1.  Jumping up onto my lap when I am using the bathroom (and no, I do not sit down to pee.  Not since that incident in college.  I’ve put it behind me, so why can’t everyone else?).  This is extremely awkward and, I think, possibly inhumane.  His persistence overwhelms my reluctance, but there would be no explaining it if a Lethal Weapon II situation were to develop. 

2.  Aimlessly loitering in the empty bathtub at all hours of the night and scaring the shit out of me when I get up to pee (again, standing).

3.  Crying outside the bedroom when my wife and I are having sex.  Is he missing what he once had in his pre-neutered existence?  Does he think I’m hurting her (Who’s your daddy!)?  Or is he a just a furry little cock-blocker? 

Of course, he does make up for these behaviors by always greeting me at the door, being a tranquil television companion and beating the shit out of George (our other cat) on a regular basis.  Still, I suppose it’s a good thing he is an indoor cat now.  I’d hate for him to be hanging out with his buddies and innocently mention something only to be cruelly ridiculed.  That’s the kind of stuff that sticks with you.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

I have recently developed a sense of urgency to begin completing all those important things in life that I have been putting off.  In other words, I’m getting old.  The good news is that over the years I have been stung by reality enough to recognize that some things simply do not belong on my list anymore.  Training to be the world’s most feared cage fighter, touring with the Rolling Stones, doing two chicks at once – these are the humid dreams of a testosterone-fueled man-child that wears size 32 jeans.  They have no place on the to-do list of an adjustable rate mortgage holder obsessed with the daily pursuit of all things fiber.

Still, the list is daunting.  I once learned is a time management seminar that the best way to get a lot done is to do the thing you are dreading most first.  Even though I didn’t get married until I was 39, I think this is still good advice.  So it was four months ago when I began my quest to read Moby Dick, cover to cover.  Not the cliff notes, not just the chapters about Ahab, every last hard blown word. 

“Ugh,” she cringed.  “You’re not going to read that, are you?” she said, as if she had caught me picking a half-eaten Eskimo Pie out of a dumpster and studying it with intent.  

“It’s Moby Dick,” I explained.   

“It’s god-awful.  The worst.”

“It’s a classic.”   

She reached for the dictionary.  “Hmm, classic.  Let’s see.  Here it is.  Classic – of the highest rank.”  Snapping the book shut with one hand, she continued. “Yep.  Rank is the word I would use.  The highest rank.” 

Unlike most sit-com marriages, my wife and I have a strong mutual respect for each other and, as a result, I tend to win my fair share of arguments.  This is a fact she would readily acknowledge.  Relative success, though, can often create a condition where a person forgets the very specific circumstances that lead to it and begin to think he is smarter than he really is.  So it was when I proceeded to argue books with a lit major/lawyer. 

“Have you ever even read it?” I asked accusingly. 

“I couldn’t get through it!  No one in my class could either.  It’s long-winded and completely self-indulgent.  It’s painful for me to even think about it.”   

Truly surprised by her visceral expression of hatred, I assumed she was just experiencing a moment of irrationality.  Naturally, sensing weakness, I pounced. 

“Maybe you just didn’t get it.  Me, I’m gonna read it.”

She stared at me for a moment and shrugged, the way my dad use to do right before I did something like lick a frozen metal ice cube tray.

“Well then, you’re a better person then me.  Good luck with that.”  She turned and left the room. 

It wasn’t quite the tone I was hoping for.  I stood there for a moment, a little confused, when my shoulder began to ache from the weight of the book.  

Several months later, I’m officially throwing in the towel.  “No mas, no mas.”   The first few weeks I had made a valiant effort.  Page after page I struggled, like I was tunneling out of prison with a spoon.  After a while, I stopped reading altogether and resorted to strategically moving the book from room to room to keep up appearances.  Now I just want it out of my sight so that the taunting inside my head will begin to fade.  The only remnant is a mild curiosity about the possible irony in my inability to finish a book about an all-consuming obsession. 

I look at it this way.  There are the things we want to be and the things we want to do.  I want to be someone who has read Moby Dick but I don’t want to use my time to read Moby Dick.   I guess I’d rather do the things I know I enjoy rather than try to become something that I think I’d enjoy being.  Goodbye Melville, hello Mel Brooks.

 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

My wife was kind enough to point out to me yesterday that the first three entries in this blog are 1) an obtuse, self-indulgent introduction, 2) porno jokes, and 3) an unqualified movie review based on the “f” word.   Taken together with the scatological name, this, she gently queried, might not be the first impression I want to make.

“Hell, honey, it’s not like anyone’s going to read it.  I only know a few people and most of them don’t listen to me when I’m speaking to them in person.”

“Still,” she reminded me, “this is a public expression of your private self.  Plus, you’re not able to gauge reactions like you would in a personal conversation."

If a tree falls in the woods and makes a fart joke on the way down, but no one is there to hear it, well…

But OK.  She is my only reader and the customer is always right.  I will now take a moment to properly introduce the intent of this blog, even though it would be a hell of a lot easier for me to walk across the hall and just explain it to her.  I could just yell it or tie a note to the cat, but I suppose this type of thinking is getting me nowhere.

What I hope to accomplish with this blog is to 1) create a vehicle for daily, uncensored catharsis (I had to yell over to her just now to get a correct spelling for “catharsis”), 2) amuse myself and, if I’m lucky, one or two other people, 3) stop (uh-oh, I hear footsteps) watching so much crappy television, and 4) hopefully become a little less of an asshole through the process (guess who’s helping now). 

It’s not really important to me whether or not anyone reads this.  Given the bizarre yet intuitive URL, I suppose it’s possible that someone might happen across the site. 

Holy shit!   It has only just occurred to me at this late hour what type of non-monkey-liking person might purposely check this web address and what might be on their mind.  Ugh.  Well, I suppose at least the comments section could get interesting.

Anyway, I guess the point is that, fart jokes and “f” words aside, I’m a relatively decent person who wants to wage a little internal war with himself and allow anyone who wishes to be a judge.  Kind of like the Ultimate Fighting Championship without all the external bleeding and latent homosexuality (I hope).

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Are we going to exchange receipts at the end of this?

Huh.

Do these things ever go bad?

Weren’t we all required to spend $20?

Looks like I’ve got my gift for next year’s exchange.

Yes, Gary. You’ve made it very clear which gift you brought – which, by the way, is against the rules - but I can pick whichever one I want.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

After spending several hardcore hours this morning compiling and re-writing a series of organizational policies, my brain needed its oil changed.  So I skipped out of work and went to the early matinee showing of "Slither." I’m a big fan of B-grade, tongue-in-cheek horror movies, so when I heard it being compared to "Tremors" - as far as I’m concerned, Kevin Bacon will always have street cred for doing this film - I went in expecting vague monsters, buckets of blood, snappy dialogue and maybe some skin.  

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 04:19 PM | Permalink

1. Episode XXX: Revenge of the Slut
   
2. Hairy Putter and the Gobbler for Hire 
   
3. The Chronicles of Pornia: The Lion, the Witch, a Donkey and a Midget
   
4. Whore of the Worlds
   
5. King Dong
   
6. Wedding Night Crashers
   
7. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
   
8. Bat & Balls Man Begins
   
9. Madagascar Steamer
   
10.  Mr. & Mrs. Smith Check In at the No-Tell Motel

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:59 PM | Permalink

opinion n. 1. A belief held often without positive knowledge or proof.  

I always liked the phrase, "Opinions are like assholes, everybody has one,” but it only struck me as an indictment of the sheer number, not the quality.  If a person has inherent value, I thought, so must their opinions.  I’m beginning to think I was wrong on both counts. 
 

I suppose it is also the indirect result of our social structure.  In our relentless and utterly futile pursuit of individuality, we’re made to feel as if we should have an opinion on matters of all sorts, regardless of our interest, knowledge or experience with that particular topic. 
 

“What’s your opinion? Certainly, you must have some opinion on this most important of issues? ” 
 

From Supreme Court nominees to the best pizza in town (Pepper’s, by the way), it seems to have become our duty as Americans to have an opinion.  With everybody expecting us to have them and asking us about them, it’s only natural that we would eventually begin considering them vitally important.
 

Over the course of time, people have added weight to the general idea of opinion by referring to their own with misleading statements such as “I think…,” “The way I understand it is..” and “My theory is …” when in fact there is very little thinking, understanding or theorizing going on. 
 

Maybe I’m making too much of this.  Maybe it is simply a matter of semantics.  Maybe if the same word didn’t describe both what I seek from a thoroughly trained, board-licensed physician (or a second one if the first one’s is chlamydia) and every piece of intellectually dishonest, out-of-context bullshit that spills out of Rush Limbaugh’s fat head every day, then it might not bother me so much. 
 

So that’s it then.  I need a new phrase that both accurately describe the assertion    of beliefs without positive knowledge or proof and warns any unsuspecting readers, listeners or innocent bystanders of the composition of what’s coming their way.   “Throwing Poo” is the best thing I have come up with.  Besides, who doesn't like a good fart joke?
 

That said, here’s the windup and the pitch…
 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)