My two toddlers were watching Sesame Street the other day.  I’m just happy when they stop playing Resident Evil. So I decided to sit down and watch one of my favorite childhood shows with them.  First off, I am first generation Sesame Street watcher, so I figured it would be some good family time.  Besides, I always try to put on a good facade when the social workers are “visiting.”

Remember, Prairie Dawn?  Not the eighties movie about some Ruskie invasion, the  Sesame Street character (I sort of had a crush on her when I was a kid), Grover, Bert & Ernie (their unique lifestyle never crossed my mind as a child), Herry Monster, Kermit, and best of all, Cookie Monster.  Has there ever been a kid who didn’t like Cookie Monster?  If so, that’s a diagnosable Axis II personality disorder in my book.  Every kid wanted to eat cookies like Cookie Monster did but, alas, most of us had supervision.

While watching Sesame Street with my two young daughters, I enjoyed the nostalgia of it all…that lasted about twelve seconds.  My viewing experience was dashed with one Cookie Monster segment.  Cookie Monster wasn’t eating cookies.  No skit where Prairie tries to keep Cookie from eating her letter C (don’t go there. This isn’t the Ghetto Shaman’s column).  No Cookie Monster semi-Socratic justifications that invariably lead to a cookie feeding frenzy, no cookie crumbs flying everywhere.  Instead, he was promoting carrots. 

CARROTS…!  Are you freaking kidding me?  Is he Bugs frigging Bunny? I was ready to bitch slap Michelle Obama right then and there. So I asked my daughters about this, and they said, “Don’t bitch slap the first lady, daddy.  She has a point.” 

So Cookie Monster only eats cookies twice a week, the other days he eats “healthy” food.   Excuse me?  Did I miss something here?  Isn’t his name COOKIE MONSTER?  Not Carrot Monster, not Celery Monster, not Cabbage Monster, not Corn Monster, or Henson forbid, Carrot Top…He’s the Cookie Monster!  Well, he used to be Cookie Monster.  Now he’s not half the Monster he used to be—maybe 2/5 or perhaps even 3/7 if you count re-reruns.  Although, maybe cookies are a gateway snack to harder confectionary treats…

Do the Sesame Street producers really believe that kids eat too many sweets and get fat and lazy because of Cookie Monster’s influence?  Really?  So I suppose his unique mastery of Monster slang butchering the English language doesn’t impact them at all?  I mean, if they are eating poorly because of Cookie Monster, wouldn’t it be fair to say their language skills are being impaired by him?  Seems we should clean up his language skills too.  Even as Alistair Cookie, his language skills need some work.  Elmo probably has a similar impact, as he talks about himself in third person consistently.  Of course, Elmo suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder, or third person disorder (PC note: DID, also known as multiple personality disorder, is a serious mental disorder that impacts 6-10% of the population).  In fact, all of those characters probably need to be cleaned up a bit in order to improve society.  Yeah, that’s the ticket.  Let’s save our youth and treat our Sesame Street characters.   The Sesame Street producers should rethink the entire cast and do their part in reducing many issues in society.  Here are some of my ideas:

• Oscar needs to take a friggin’ bath, the dude is disgusting. He also needs to stop contradicting himself all the time.  Honestly, the guy is a Grouch, he is supposed to like being miserable.  It seems, though, that anytime someone does something nice for him, he absolutely hates that he hates it.  Shouldn’t he love that he hates it?  You’d think he’d want people being nice to him all the time so he could love to hate it.  Then of course he would hate that he loves to hate it, and so on.  He sounds like a fraud!
  
  (Treatment: life skills group and anger management classes.)
• Big Bird…fess up.  We know you really love to sneak out at night to fly over NYC and crap on things. Just admit it.  Get honest.  It’s all his pent up anger from the death of Mr. Hooper.
  
  (Treatment: grief counseling and psychotherapy to get over his anal stage).
• Bert and Ernie just need to come out of the closet and stem this homophobia tide.
  
  (Treatment: rent Priscilla Queen of the Desert.)
• Prairie Dawn really did want to be a porn star.  She had a tough childhood and it wasn’t her fault. And if she gets involved with the Governor of NY, it’s OK, she can still make a living from her appearances on Muppets Gone Wild.
  
  (Treatment: self-esteem building and Muppet empowerment classes.)
• It’s OK if Elmo needs to go see the Sesame Street therapist.  Millions of Americans do it, and we shouldn’t put a stigma on it.  He’s not fooling anyone anyway, with his DID and his own show called “Elmo’s World”, I mean honestly.  Clearly the dude needs help.
  
  
  (Treatment: one session with a wood chipper or similar APA approved device.)
• We all know that Snuffleupagus really is Big Bird’s imaginary friend, and that nobody else on Sesame Street can see him.  Just be honest with Big Bird so he can get some help.  He can even tag along with Elmo when he goes to the Sesame Street psych unit.
  
  (Treatment: Zyprexa, Zyprexa, Zyprexa.)
• We can all admit that Grover can’t hold a steady job.  Send him to some job counseling and give him a nice suit.  Just show they can become productive citizens.
  
  (Treatment: vocational rehabilitation.)
• Count von Count is a vampire and he drinks blood, face it.  And yes, PETA, that means some animals have to die.  It’s OK though, because maybe he drinks the blood drained from dead cattle in Chicago slaughterhouses.  See? It’s all good.
  
  (Treatment: cognitive behavioral therapy to treat his out of control OCD and some jail time for cruelty to animals.)
• It’s obvious to me that Herry Monster has a tumor impacting his Pituitary Gland.  Giantism is a debilitating condition, and it’s preventable.
  
  (Treatment: surgery and a Hollywood Muppet makeover session.)
• Gordon and Bob smoke dope, go to Mike Weir concerts, and support various hemp legalization lobbies. They have medical conditions.  Really.
  
  (Treatment: enough medical marijuana to stone the entire eastern seaboard.)

Today’s feature article was brought to you by “what the H!”  And the “I stepped in number 2.”

Leviticus, TX – In an effort to deal with budget woes plaguing one of the nation’s largest public school systems, the Texas Board of Education has decided to combine the Department of History and the Department of Phonics to form the new Texas public schools’ Department of Histrionics.  The decision will be formally announced during the board’s annual retreat (this year held at the Bunny Ranch in Carson City, NV) by Col. Barney Bob Crossburner, Chairman of the School Board.

Before rolling it out completely, the new combined curriculum will undergo a one year test at Merton T. Hangumm High School in Leviticus. The decision to test the new system at Hangumm was based on the school’s reputation as a “cultsurely, die verse, insty too shun.”

“It had not one damned ting tuh do with dem scant-ly-clad Hangumm High cheerleaders urging me to pick their school!” added Crossburner.

When asked to elaborate on the school’s diversity policies, he explained, “That foreign lookin’ kid who goes there, you know who I’m talkin’ about.  Plus, lots of our janitors and lawn cutters are rumored to be less than pure and probly illegal…um, that’s off the record, of course.”

When a reporter at the press conference pointed out that the combination of history and phonics would actually produce history-onics, not histrionics,  Col. Crossburner countered, “Most Texans pernounces it “his’ tree” so they decided to go with a funetical interpretation.”

This decision will affect virtually every student across the United States, because most high school textbooks are written to Texas standards due to the state’s ranking as the largest purchaser of them.

In response to the announcement, Shaniqua Marxenstein, Spokeswoman for California’s board of education announced, “Oh my God!  Oh my God! Oh my God!”

She then ran into the nearest bathroom, cut her forearms with a razor, and took all of her Prozac.

I didn’t realize at first that I would be cooking for naked people. The job ad simply referred to an upscale resort in the desert west of Tucson without any specifics regarding the type of establishment. I emailed a response to the ad and received a call later that day from the resort’s manager. After thirty-minutes of telephone conversation, mostly about my vast skills, the manager asked if I would like to come in for an interview.

“And, oh…I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but this is a clothing-optional resort,” he said.

This was an unexpected twist. Like the moment between slamming on the brakes and the collision impact itself—a slideshow of images played in my mind.  Mainly, visions of naked supermodels salivating over my food.  An explanation to my wife immediately came to mind:

“Really, honey, I’ll be too busy concentrating on my work to notice any naked supermodels,” and,  “Naaww honey, accidents involving a dangling appendage and a meat cleaver are surprisingly rare,” and the like.

“Uh…I would be wearing clothes, right?” I asked.

Laughing, “Yes, the staff is always in uniform.”

“OK, then,” I said.

And so began my brief career as a cook for this wardrobe challenged community (WCC).  I’d never seriously thought about working in such a place, but I had heard of these communities and formed some preconceptions of what life in a “nudy camp” would be like. Most of these assumptions had been formed during my adolescence, so of course the nudists were all amazingly proportioned nymphomaniacs. Sort of like living in a Robert Palmer Addicted to Love video gone wild.

My first visit to the resort immediately dispelled the notion of the Playboy Mansion transplanted in Tucson. I was glad I ditched the idea of donning a bathrobe and a pipe.  And the Robert Palmer video disappeared into the realms of Weird Al’s version, Addicted to Spuds.  If you yourself have such a misconception of the scenery at a clothing optional resort, replace that image with this one: take a stroll through your local Wal-Mart or State Fair midway. Scan the groups of people, deleting the ten most attractive. Close your eyes and mentally undress the remainder. Now you’re getting warm.

Several other assumptions also proved to be false. Sanitation and hygiene are topics that immediately spring to mind while thinking about a nudist resort. It seemed to me that the lack of clothing would present challenges to the sanitary environment one expects in a dining room. One of the useful functions of clothing is to keep the microscopic flora and fauna we all carry relatively confined to our own bodies. Usually if we are amongst a group of naked people, it is in an environment made up of easy to clean surfaces such as shower tiles or sauna benches. This was not the case in the common areas of this resort. The dining room and indoor gathering areas were furnished with plush, overstuffed, microbial friendly upholstered chairs (MFUC). The furniture was cleaned about as frequently as furniture in other venues, which is to say, rarely. Placing a towel or other covering on the furniture before sitting would draw disapproving looks from other nudists. Apparently, it violated the spirit of sharing.

I mentioned earlier that the resort was located in the Sonora Desert. Nudists are an invasive species in the desert. Rattlesnakes are not. These two species in fact seem to have a profound dislike for one another. I’m not sure why rattlesnakes are irritated by human nudists, the snakes being naked themselves, but they frequently showed up to hiss and rattle their displeasure. Several times a day the maintenance staff would get a frantic call to remove a rattlesnake from a casita or common area. Most people react with justifiable alarm to the presence of rattlesnakes—nudists react with mortal terror. Perhaps the thought of a bite to the exposed genitalia is more horrifying than a bite to the ankle.

I began working on a prank where I would mechanically imitate the sound of a rattlesnake during a busy dinner service but never figured out the logistics to my satisfaction. Probably better for all concerned. Another aspect of the subject of one’s exposed genitalia at the resort was the unwritten rule, such exposure was mandatory at all times even if other body parts were covered. I was surprised to learn that nudists “dress” for dinner. The garments, available for purchase at the gift shop, consisted of a bare minimum of fabric, such as a bowtie.

Although I eventually got used to working around naked people, I never got used to having discussions with them. I never mastered the art of not looking at someone’s privates without being uncomfortably conspicuous.  I, therefore, became known to some as “The Weatherman” for my constant attention to atmospheric conditions.   Avoiding looking was especially difficult during business meetings with the owners who were themselves nudists.  Meet the nude boss, same as the old boss. I have a habit of looking at the other person’s hand before shaking it. This is difficult to do if you are trying desperately to look the person in the eye. A missed handshake is always a faux pas, but even more so when you consider what you might shake if you miss here. I became master of the shoulder height handshake.

It’s easy to forget while recollecting this experience that my primary function there was cooking. In this area, my preconceptions included spa cuisine, miniscule portions of sprouts and baby vegetables, and a total absence of fried foods, desserts or anything else that might compromise the integrity of the beautifully tanned, perfectly proportioned bodies milling around.  Did I mention my preconceptions suck?  The menu was actually not dissimilar to that of a Burger King or the bar and grill of your local bowling alley. I was assured that this was mine to modify as I pleased and that there was great interest in going to a more imaginative offering. This turned out not to be the case.  So my tenor at Nudy Acres was brief, like my uniform. My resignation had nothing to do with the lack of naked supermodels wandering through the kitchen.

That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.  Not stickin’ as bad as the clients to those microbial friendly upholstered chairs, thankfully.

In these hard economic times, there is little I won’t do to try to snag a few free brewskis. (Please disregard anything Senator Larry Craig says I’ll do for a beer; it’s all lies!). Despite the Discord contributors’ bulging pockets, they have yet to send me a single royalty check. I heard Zano is taking his family to Costa Rica with his last check, and Winslow just bought his sixth house.  If you add Winslow’s houses and John McCain’s houses…never mind; McCain would have to know how many he has.  Anyway, can you guess what sort of scam these blog boobs try to rope me into?

Let me try to quote Zano verbatim, “If you can get The Daily Discord set up on Twitter and get us a bunch of followers, I’ll buy you a beer.”

Being the inventive (greedy) thinker I am, I quickly asked, “Well, if I get more followers, will I get more beer?”

I received a hesitant ‘yes’ so envisioning all of those free suds a-flowing, I immediately got to work. Now, I’m not sure how much all of the millions of people that are reading this know about Twitter, but it’s its own beast. On both My Space and Face Book, accepting a ‘friend’ is a mutual exchange. You can ask to befriend a thousand people, but you won’t get a single bite unless they agree, or you happen to look like Jessica Alba.

On Twitter, things are different. They don’t have friends, they have followers, and I think this is mostly because of their cult background. AKA, don’t drink the Kool-Aid. So in theory, it is sort of like a high school popularity contest a week before Valentine’s Day. You go around ‘following’ others on the slim hope that they might think you are cool enough to return the favor.

But I was already an expert at Twitter cuz, you now…I’d been on there for a whole six months now. At first I scoffed, because the people at the Discord were posting things with zero followers (pretty much like this article), so I stepped in and started ‘following’ hordes of others like crazy. Crazy like a fox.  Before you knew it, The Daily Discord was on the books.  We were somebody and, more importantly, I got two free beers out of Zano! (No easy trick.)  This was going great. Things were rolling. I was drinking for free, living the dream.  But, like the greedy bastard I am, this wasn’t enough. What if I could get them hundreds, maybe even thousands of followers?!  I could be drinking free all the time. I could reach some Pale Ale Nirvana.  I could attain EnBudLitenment.  I could quit my day job. I could get my cell phone turned back on.

So after ingesting those precious free beers—and a few more of my own, back home—I began to hit the streets of Twitterville.  I was knocking on more doors than a Jehovah’s Witness with a meth habit.

The numbers were flying by. I couldn’t even keep up with how many people The Daily Discord was following. We were going to be HUGE.  They like us, they really like us.  More importantly, I was going to be drunk, and soon!

I didn’t even look at how many followers I might have gained for the Discord.  I wanted to be as surprised as everyone else. I just hoped Zano had brought his credit cards because, heck, I might be getting some chicken wings too. I then proudly opened up my laptop and, much to my dismay, that damn cult had taken a big Twit on my hopes and dreams. Yes, Twitter had closed our account.  The Daily Discord Twitter account went Elvis, only 24 hrs after Operation Happy Hour went into effect. 

Maybe they thought we were porn producers or spam artists, but I’m not buying it. They saw our site and they want to suppress the truth. The truth as only we dare print. Well, we’re not going to take it.  I, for one, will not put up with this twit!  I emailed the bastards, twice, and they are ignoring me, outright.  Sorry, but that’s my wife’s job, assholes.

The Daily Discord intends to sue Twitter to the fullest extent of the law.

Next week we will be filing claims in federal district court for breach of contract, violation of free speech, violation of due process, defamation of character, defecation of account, and anything else our clever lawyers can come up with.  Hell, I might even throw in an interference with contract claim on my own behalf, because they prevented me from getting my free beer. Those bastards will be reeling when they get served with the papers. I’m guessing we’ll be asking for about $10 million, maybe more.  Oh, and now I owe Zano a beer, so you can bet that will be tacked onto the suit as well.  Bastards!

So you had better watch out Twitter. Your days are numbered. No one keeps me from getting twit-faced.

To all of my loyal fans and admirers (both of you), I must first apologize for this out-of-character article.  I know you have all come to expect only the highest level of journalism from me, with deep intellectual reflection and that gritty reporting that exposes the deepest darkest secrets this world has to hide (like Zano).  This article, however, is clearly more of a Crank-style rant.  I am reporting the Discord’s CEO, Pierce Xavier Winslow to Adult Protective Services for his ongoing abuses to contributors, editors, fans, and puppies.

My Discord this day lies with the Daily Discord.  Four score and seven beers ago a few dedicated souls brought forth onto this earth a new internet site–an internet site of the people, by the people, and for the people.  This ezine represented the manifestation of some of the greatest minds one small University in central Pennsylvania could corrupt…that site was the Daily Discord.  Its mission was noble, its goals lofty, and we even hoped for a few bucks to buy some beer at our annual convention, held in the dark forests of PA where Thunderbirds, Big Hoots, and the Owl people still thrive.  That dream, my friends, has been dashed.  There is a dark and evil side of this force, call him an “edictator,” if you will.  Pierce Winslow, my friend, it is you!  I slave over long lunch hours to compile intellectual content and mild comedy for my dedicated audience numbering into the whole integers, and what do I get in return?  “Discord puts freeze on adolescent humor!”, “Discord bans all acronym jokes!”, “Discord Declares War on Coney Island!” (that last one is unconfirmed).  Edictatorial modifications to my masterpieces rivaling a C- on some young child’s Red Rider BB gun Theme paper!  I have had more articles rejected or butchered at the hands of this monster than I can count on two hands!   I wouldn’t be surprised if Winslow just injected some nonsensical sentence into my work about my Fascination with Dolls’ Clothing.  May I mombo dog face to the bannana patch? Then Zano will probably turn it into some lousy acronym joke (FDC).  Then Winslow will censor it.

[Bit censored by Winslow]

The once noble mission of the Daily Discord has been tainted, corrupted, and destroyed almost single-handedly by our edictator! Like that “Master Blaster” abomination in Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome, Winslow sits atop his beast of a webpage and issues embargos, spews insults, and tears into the work of geniuses (and my work, too!).  I throw my skunky beer at you, silly edictator-king, who was afraid of a Crank, you know! 

[Scene missing]

To top it all off, I PAY FOR THIS ABUSE!!!  Can you believe it?!  It costs me money to submit articles to the Discord!  Winslow is probably putting together his annual invoice as we speak!  And what is the result of all this?  You, my faithful audience, suffer.  Censorship, at its worst.  Why I wouldn’t be surprised if Winslow cuts the next part of this article outright—

[Section deemed not appropriate for some readers]

I ask you, my faithful audience, does “Discord Freezes” and “Discord Bans” and mountains of foul language drivel provide a higher entertainment value than breaking “West Nile Virus” conspiracy news and cutting edge global climate change news?  Express your opinion! (I must admit the Ghetto Shaman is pretty damned funny, when he’s sober). Let the Discord know that L. Wolfe is a key contributor!  I want to be upgraded from bubkis to peanuts, dammit!  Heck, there isn’t even any beer money for our annual convention this year—not to mention peanuts.  What happened to the old days of the Havoc’s Free Beer and Peanuts? 

I’m not afraid of you Winslow.  I will no longer live in fear and darkness!  Er, you have agreed to put a window in our Discord writer’s dungeon, right?  Release the hounds, release the flying monkeys, release the Cranken for all I care! (The Crank lives under the sea and may be responsible for eating several women tied to rocks).  I for one am sick of being the Smithers to your Montgomery Burns, the Bob Crachett to your Mr. Scrooge, the Sonny to your Cher (but don’t lose the little black dress).

[Zano lost this part]

I ask you to write your congressmen or at least your local postman, and demand better service!   Ask that more L. Wolfe articles be published (Winslow probably has a dozen in his recycle bin; actually he’s an Apple man, so I don’t know what they actually call it). Stand up for my rights!  Help a fellow American down on his luck, at least send beer money!  I am holding a P-Party to show my disdain for Pierce on 3/27 in Searchlight, NV.  Tons of disgruntled people plan to attend.  I may even get Sarah Palin to be my keynote speaker.  Everyone else declined.

[Paragraph marked as Spam and deleted]

Oh, and Pierce, I have made the edits to that article you requested, and the check’s in the mail.  See you at the convention.  I’ll bring the Giant Risk board!  Should we have a sacrifice to the Owl People this year?  Maybe the Ghetto Shaman can keep them at bay with his Mayan mojo.  Just a thought.

Betch ya thought this was going to be a Crank rant on the passage of the healthcare Obamanation. WRONG! That will come later, fer sure, wink wink-nudge nudge. No, my dysfunctional and disillusioned little friends, this rant is all about the automobile, a topic I know considerably more about than healthcare. If I was a healthy sort, I guess I would know more about what aids longevity vs. shortgevity. (Hint: the stuff in my fridge promotes the latter.) My last attempt, The Southwest Twinkie diet plan, may not have helped, but thanks to industrial strength preservatives, I will decompose even slower than King Tut (which is certainly a victory of sorts). You see, having misread the “do this and live a long life” book my whole life, I shouldn’t comment about healthcare, with the exception of the pharmacological side.  I have majored in ‘what prolongs one’s life in spite of one’s self,’ or the Pill and Suspension of Dis-be-life.

I was watching the latest episode of my favorite religious program on BBC America, Top Gear, wherein Lord Clarkson was starting his review of the newest version of the Aston Martin Vantage. The typical sideways-drifting, screaming rubber, laughing Clarkson was a no-show for this particular episode. He just drove the car to the backdrop of a soothing wistful type music in the background.  He called the car “Wonderful. Spectacular. Unbelievable.” Then he said something that surprised me. He said, “I never liked test driving cars… I always wanted to be a lumberjack.”  OK, not really, I just get python flashbacks now and again. 

Clarkson believes the Aston Martin Vantage marks, not the beginning of a new glorious car, but the end of an era. The end of all that is “Car.” With the ever present Orwellian photo radar zombie citizen fukkers, and the attacks from the environ-MENTAL-ists, he fears all we know and love about cars is about to come crashing down like so much water-damaged ceiling. He was sad and, more than that, he made me sad…

I don’t like being sad. I take copious amounts of expensive medications so as not to be sad.  Bastard.

It started me thinking, which Herr Zano will tell you is probably a bad thing, but here it goes:

I’m sorry, but how do you marry a 305 horsepower V6, while being fast, and “clean” and “friendly to Mother Oit”?  Enters the hopped up 4 banger. Well, Fuggedeboudit. The 4 bangers, when hopped up, sound like so many Germans on Oktoberfest eve after all the beer and bratwurst. Basically, they sound like farts. Not cool, not powerful, not evil, just, well…gaseous. The V6s, while less ob-noxious, sound like so many angry UPS trucks in a tunnel. I realized this when taking little sister Zano truck shopping recently. We tested the Chevy V6 and Some Jeeps with 4s. It’s as if the clouds parted and someone, possibly God, said, “I could have had a V8!”

It was when we got into the Hemi Dodge Ram, with optional “Performance Exhaust,” that I realized just how good a well-tuned, well-piped V8 sounds. Glorious, just glorious. As sister Zano left considerable layers of new tire at the stop sign in front of the dealer, it became apparent:  it’s about the V8…it always has been. It also occurred to me that sister Zano, just maybe, was a closet gear head, as my head just bobbed around like Stevie Wonder’s, with my eyes closed, reveling in that emanating sound…the good noise.

Less will NEVER be more. Less will NEVER do. It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I’m mad as hell, and not going to take it anymore. You can’t handle the truth, and we’re not going to take it, and several other quotes Winslow probably omitted.

You will pry my hemi from my cold dead hands, or at least my wife will. I will go out with my pedal to the proverbial metal, tires smokin’, with a sound that will surely set off all the car alarms within a four-block radius. And a cavernous smile on my Cranky mug.

I am V8! I will live!

As I was starting to write this, while listening to Spike TV’s Sunday morning car shows, I heard what may be a stay of execution for the big V8.

Chevrolet is working on a Caalifawn-ia emissions 2011 regulation-friendly 450 horsepower V8.

Suddenly two lights appeared at the end of the long dark tunnel and, thankfully, not the tunnel that sounded like the UPS farts.  Know Hemi…Know hope.  Hope even I can believe in.

DRILL BABY DRILL

DAS CRANK

I have entered a virtual rehab to treat an addiction to Facebook’s Farmville. There, I said it. I have a problem, well, maybe not. But this thing is evil.

I have said from the very beginning that social networking sites are evil. Mrs. Winslow convinced me to join Facebook; I forget the justification. I got into it to a certain extent. Then I found myself with 100+ friends and a “news” feed from hundreds of people to whom I haven’t spoken in ten or twenty years. The sites tout their ability to help people reconnect, but how much reconnection is there really? I have this stream of minutia coming from hundreds of almost strangers. X needs coffee, Y needs coffee, X got coffee, Y is sick of spending $4.00 for coffee at Starbucks. Is this really reconnection? It’s mostly a stream of meaningless bullshit from over a hundred people. From time to time there is a truly meaningful bit, but those are usually lost in the stream of meaningless noise. I am an ADD software engineer. I spend hours every day scanning streams of text for that one little spot where there is a problem. I don’t find scanning 400K of tedious crap for those one or two meaningful bits relaxing. Apparently I am in the minority.

Check out teenagers. I know some that have 900+ friends and are proud of it. Come on, does a 16 year old really know nine hundred people? The friend count is like a badge of honor. Most of those friends are probably perves, or phishermen, or just people out there to do no good. So here are our children inviting them into their lives and giving them access to their personal information, thousands of pictures, and a minute-by-minute update on where they are and what they’re doing. Social Networking sites have become more than a colossal waste of time. They are an instrument of destruction. There are children committing suicide because of the torment inflicted by their peers on a stage of 900 strangers. And who do these children turn to for support? Those 900 strangers. See a problem here? A blind man could see it with a cane.

The media has recently been posting stories about how these sites are causing families to break up. People hook up with old flames, or find new ones, or just spend hours sifting through, and generating, megabytes of meaningless data thereby neglecting their reality. I believe it. Having three young children, there is precious little time to spend, awake, with your partner. Spending this time on Facebook, or networking sites in general, elevates these little tidbits of relationships online above what should be your most important relationship, thereby chipping away at its very foundation and causing its eventual collapse *whew*. You could be spending that time editing, posting, writing or drawing crap like you see on the Discord. As if this cacophony wasn’t enough, there are the apps.

Apps are not-so-little games played online with your friends. As if the stream of minutia wasn’t enough, they give you things you have to do. Well, you don’t have to do them until you start, and…my experience is with Farmville.

They start you off easy. Maintenance is simple, growth is fast, it’s kinda neat, and not a lot of bullshit. Then they suck you in. Pretty soon you’re at level 25, you have expanded your farm to 576 squares, and you have run out of free fuel for your harvester, your tractor, and your seeder. Sure you can get through the first hundred or so squares of harvesting with the free daily fuel, but then you have over 1000 mouse clicks ahead of you to complete harvesting, plowing, and planting. And that’s just for your crops. Then there are the trees, the sheep, the cows, ducks, turkeys, and fuckin’ cats. Since when is a cat harvestable? And have you ever seen a penguin produce ice cubes!??!? Pretty soon you’re begging your friends for parts to build a horse barn. And make sure you create that little square of impassable objects in the center of your farm to prevent having to wait half an hour for your avatar to wander around the farm doing the shit you tell it to do. It’s right about then that, just to make the thing playable, they want you to whip out your credit card to buy fuel, fancy decorations, fuel, and that ever popular hot-rod tractor, and, of course, fuel. The worst nightmare may be, as any a’ Farmviller will attest, the fertilizer, Fertilizer, FERTILIZER! *sigh* You need to send all of your friends gifts in the hopes that they will send you some back. When they do, you have to open them and put them someplace. Or, you have to put them someplace, open them, then go back to your gift box, open them again, and put them someplace, AGAIN. It’s like American Idol: it never ends and goes downhill fast. The shit’s like crack without the buzz. And Farmville is just a gateway drug.

Farmville leads you to Fishville, benign enough right? A virtual fish tank ten feet away from our real fish tank. I can’t get my five-year-old (turned five today actually; happy birthday Baby Face) to feed the real fish, or clean their tank, but she’ll get on that damned Facebook thing and scrub the tank, feed the fish, sell off the grown ones, buy new baby ones, rearrange the decorations, the whole nine yards. And this Fishville, inevitably, leads to….

Petville, where you have some chartreuse dog that runs away if you don’t check on it several times a day. And every time that thing runs away (every day) it costs you ~600 coins to get it back. And until you give it love, clean it up, give it food, blah, blah, blah, it is unhappy. Unhappy? It’s a fuckin’ algorithm for chrissake, an adaptive cartoon. Isn’t the real thing good enough? As if Facebook doesn’t have you bent over enough, you have to visit your friends’ pets. You have to have their pets over for a playdate. You have to furnish your house. You have to furnish other peoples’ houses. Could someone please furnish my house? My couch has seen better days.

Farm, Fish, and Pet-ville are just the tip of the Facebook App iceberg. There’s Yoville, Café World, Zyunga Poker, Mafia wars, Vampire Wars, and Methodists! There is so much crap going on there that their servers cannot keep up with the load. Of course, there are those taking advantage of the masses’ addiction by posting bogus “become a fan here and get a second chicken coop” things. My machine has paid the price. My virus scanner hangs scanning, coincidentally, Facebook[1].htm. I see a rebuild coming. That’s about ten or twelve hours of bullshit I don’t need right now. The proverbial straw was when I had to wait, literally, five minutes between accepting Farmville gifts while trying to build a horse stable in an effort to reduce my number of daily mouse clicks by 25.

I had been noticing that I was getting more and more anxious every time it was time to “do my farm”. It was hours of torturous mouse-clicks, and waiting, and tedium that my ADD psyche could no longer withstand. How about this? How about I reduce my number of mouse clicks by a couple of thousand, save my eyes from that numbing sensation brought on by another couple of hours of stream sifting, and drop this shit?

So, I am in voluntary Facebook rehab and have never been happier. I no longer dread the Repetitive Stress Syndrome to be incurred by my kids going to sleep. I have enough shit to do without spending my free time working. To those of you that really dig this, or have hours and hours of time to kill (and a good orthopede), knock yourself a pro, Slick. For me, I don’t know what I’ll do, sleep maybe?

After seeing the video that GM put into its official debut of the CTS-V coupe at the Detroit auto show this past week, I feel I must comment on GM’s decision to make such a vehicle and how it relates to how the world views the U.S. and even, perhaps more importantly, how we view ourselves. Wow, that’s about the longest single cognitive thought I’ve had in a year, whew.  Can we break?

Let’s start with the car itself. Short as a beercan and just as wide with 556 horsepower. ‘nuff said. A true pocket-sized fat-assed Caddy with the heart of a Corvette ZR-1. I can hear the faint sounds of Tim Allen going ar-ar-ar-ar. Oh yeah…handling like its glued to the fucking road, ear ringing quiet, all the latest gadgets at your beck and call, posh leather seats made for 4x wide Uhmurcun asses, all with a look that says, “Excuse me, mame, would you be so kind as to get your POS excuse for an automobile the hell out of my way?”

The video in question reveals that the “guys” at GM, (read my Lord Lutz article) are very aware that this car will win no awards at the next “Euro-Green-Socialist” conference (EGS). You will not see any bearded leftist professors driving one to the local internet café. Toyota, Volvo and Subaru have nothing to worry about. They can keep all the socially responsible people to themselves—makes me want to SAAB just thinking about it. The video shows things that happen to the world when Mother Nature’s Depends ride WAY up her droopy old ass. Storms, Hurricanes, atom bombs, lightning bolts and the Sun combined with slow motion power slides make the viewer quite aware that this ain’t no fucking Prius (which, incidentally, is the phrase that adorns my bumper).

No. While these car seats are made for wide asses, Al “welcome to the meltdown” Gore’s corpulent posterior ain’t one of them. This car is about going behind the local Wal-Mart—with a slight buzz, your borderline imbecilic but foxxy girlfriend at your side—at night with the sole purpose to do endless donuts while you hang your head out the widow…alternately drooling on your door and cackling devilishly while getting high on the smell of burning rubber. It’s about telling the rest of the world to fuck-off. It’s a car-guy’s car. It makes no excuses for its behavior, like me.  Let our CEO handle the lawsuits, right Winslow?  It’s like the kid next door who always seems to be running over your perfectly groomed lawn on his quad. It’s almost as if he knows he’s wrong, and that’s why he does it. Seeing the future for us car guys is very bleak, but I do decree that we are not going down without fucking things up as much as we can for the “norms” on the way out (that’s my other bumper sticker—it needs some editing).

Why, you ask, do we need to do this? I am reminded of a story I once heard about a scorpion that needed to get across a river. He saw a swan coming by and called her over. He tells the swan that he needs to get across the river, and would she mind giving him a lift. The swan asks the scorpion “what is going to stop you from stinging me?” The scorpion relays the fact that if he stings her while they are in route, she will die, and he will drown, so it would be stupid for him to do that. She agrees, and lets the scorpion on her back, and starts acros the river. About halfway across, she feels him sting her. She turns her head around and asks him” Why have you done this?” His answer is similar to my view of cars. “I am a scorpion. It’s what I do.”

I am, and will forever be, a car guy. It’s what I do.

Note to Mother Nature: Time to change your shorts granny, we’re not done yet and…er, sorry about those shrubs, Norm.

I ♥ Liquid Dinosaurs

The Crank

If you had any doubt that America is on the bullet-train to Shitville, just take a gander at this whole John & Kate calamity. Honestly, why are we still talking about this? Why were we in the first place? Why is it still splattered all over the news, and, in particular, all over my TV? Why the fuck do I have to write this article?

Unless you’ve been living with Bin Laden in an Afghan cave (or Pakistani cave, but that’s another story), you have been inundated with way too many details about the breakup of John & Kate Gosselin and the subsequent cancellation of their so-called reality show John & Kate Plus Eight. This was a show supposedly about how two parents deal with their newly arrived eight children, the product of fertility treatments gone awry. The only reality of the show is this: people watch this crap to see Kate berate and emasculate John on national television every week. No surprise that John got sick of the public humiliation, the getting stuck with the eight while Kate jets all over the country for speaking engagements and book signings, and being put on public display to further Kate’s career. It’s no surprise that there was some celebrity-seeking twit in the wings that would actually want to get in the middle of this disaster and that John would go for that shit. It’s also no surprise that since he bailed the show has been canceled because no one gives two shits about the Eight, it was always about the public humiliation.

The thing that gets me is why, since they are broken up, and their show was canceled, are we still hearing about this? Since the show was canceled these two sub moronic media whores are getting more face-time and publicity than ever before. And, why? Because Americans are crack-whores for this crap. I would rather join Zano for his next Hannitython than hear one more word about these numbskulls.

Kate, media whore #1, is a woman that takes lens-sucking to a whole new level. While touting the greatness of their “reality” show, she will fly all over the continent promoting herself as the end-all, be-all of American housewives. If she’s such a great housewife, how come she is never at home? Oh that’s right, those eight screaming kids. I think she forgot the first half of that word: house. And in doing so, she has also forgotten the second part: wife. I guess that leaves us with “end all, be-all of American *nothing*”. Now that’s something I can reach my brother. And I’m not even sure that she’s the worst of the three.

John, media whore #2. Here is a “man” that is so in need of an ego boost that he, on a weekly basis, will have his ego methodically dismantled on national television to get it. It seems to me that if you get a 10% boost from having your ego 90% shot to hell that’s a net loss of 80%, every week, you dumbass. Most people would run out after one week, but he just keeps coming back for more. On top of that, he will bitch about how whore #1 is using their children to further her career while he simultaneously eats the corn out of her shit in order to get her to take him back so they can continue their assault on American television audiences (and collect the ensuing paychecks, “for the children” of course). I want to see this guy in the ring with Colbert; or maybe a komodo dragon; swine flu? And if whore #1 is using their children for nefarious purposes, what is he doing? Oh that’s right, secretly withdrawing $230k from their bank account.

Psychotic Bimbo, whore #3. Who is this bitch anyway? What self-respecting human being would want to come anywhere near this shit-storm unless all they wanted was to become a part of it? Happily our hero dumped her, which should have gotten at least her out of our lives. But no, she has to break into his crib and slash his clothing and furniture, rip off some of his stuff, and leave a threatening note. Nothing says class like a “die mother fucker” note with a meat-cleaver sticking through it. And, of course, she’s saying she had nothing to do with it, that it is a publicity stunt on his part. News flash: all three of your lives are one huge publicity stunt. No matter which one of you did it, it was a publicity stunt. And, unfortunately, you all will profit from it I’m sure.

And if their lives aren’t all about publicity then why are all of their conversations through spokesmen with press releases? Do those people ever speak without a camera around? Of course, they do, to plot out the next nugget of stupidity to spew from their lives in order to keep everyone talking about them. Do they do this on NetMeeting or something?

So why do we, as a society, perpetuate this shit flow? People always talk about what an abomination gay marriage is; have you ever seen a greater abomination than this? Who are we kidding? Why do Americans feel the need to be voyeurs into these losers’ lives? Can you say “soap opera”? This ain’t “reality”. And I will smack the head of anyone that says “you can’t make this shit up”. Are you paying attention? This is all made up. Even the kids came from a test-tube. Did you see that Balloon Boy fiasco? At least someone is going to jail for that one.

And where are the Eight through all of this? Remember the Eight? This is a show about the Eight. But, like Alice’s Restaurant, it never was about the Eight, it was a commentary on war, this time the war on common decency. Can’t we just draft these fuckers and send them to Afghanistan (Pakistan?)? That oughtta smoke Bin Laden out of his hole.

PS, if you don’t think this is all a publicity stunt, do a Google image search on “John & Kate Plus 8”; I dare you.

Are the members of the band Rush aliens? A week or two ago, a guy I work with gave me a copy of the Rush compilation CDs. As I was unlocking my car, my head started to thrash involuntarily, to and fro, as “Red Barchetta” burst from the speakers as he started his truck. I had always loved Rush and had sung ” Closer to the Heart ” with my beloved LHU Havoc “Free Beer & Peanuts” band. And though the only Rush album I had ever owned was ” Moving Pictures “, I knew every word to every song on that album as if it were downloaded directly into my brain via some alien transmission.

So, on my way home from work, I’m jamming out to my new CD with “Tom Sawyer ” and “Red Barchetta” —and then “Limelight” comes on. And, as I’m singing along, I suddenly realized how truly alien the lyrics are—like Geddy Lee is singing to his outer space brethren…

“Limelight” (Lime – green – like aliens)

Living on a lighted stage (on earth in sunlight)

Approaches the unreal (cuz we’re aliens)

For those who think and feel (humans)

In touch with some reality (earth)

Beyond the gilded cage (odd, scary faraway planet)

Cast in this unlikely role (human)

Ill-equipped to act (cuz we’re aliens)

With insufficient tact (cuz we’re aliens)

One must put up barriers (energy shields?)

To keep oneself intact (cuz we’re aliens)

[Chorus:]

Living in the limelight

The universal dream

For those who wish to seem

Those who wish to be

Must put aside the alienation( Alien Nation has just been redone on the sci-fi channel. Coincidence? I don’t think so)

Get on with the fascination (Spock used to say “fascinating” all the time)

The real relation (between humans and aliens)

The underlying theme (that we’re aliens)

Living in a fish eye lens (interpretive note: I thought aliens were more lizard-like)

Caught in the camera eye

I have no heart to lie (definitely alien)

I can’t pretend a stranger (human)

Is a long-awaited friend (alien)

All the world’s indeed a stage

And we are merely players ( Shakespeare was definitely an alien)

Performers and portrayers (acting human)

Each another’s audience

Outside the gilded cage (cuz we’re aliens)

What if Geddy Lee was an alien? I mean, between his nose and his chin, he doesn’t even have to use his hands to use the microphone. It just fits up in there…like it was designed for that function—like he was genetically engineered to be a rock and roll singer! The band’s drummer, Neil Pert is the dead give away; he drums just a little too fast to be human and why didn’t he die like all the rest of those rock-n-roll drummers? And Alex Lifeson —don’t get me started!

Seriously, the band Rush has already scoped out the planet and phoned home. So be prepared for a highly rhythmic, intricately melodic, and somewhat androgynous invasion. It’s just a matter of time.

Today’s Tom Sawyer

He gets high on you

And the space he invades

He gets by on you…