Stupid Wright Brothers...

This weekend I took a trip. I flew to Colorado, also known as “The Square State.” Let me tell you about it. Come with me, we’ll take our own little trip. Down memory lane.

Like a good little citizen, I showed up early. I got my tickets from the kiosk, which is a funny word to say, and headed towards my gate.

The security checkpoint for me is like one big magic trick. I eyed the security checkpoint like an escape artist, planning the right time to regurgitate the key and free myself from their handcuffs. Ironically, though, it’s usually the key that sets off the metal detector...

First, I mentioned to the closest security professional, “Hey, uhh, my leg is made almost entirely of metal. I will set off the detector, and I won’t be using any wires or mirrors.”

Luckily this particular trick does not require the use of a white Bengal tiger.

I dejectedly trudged through the gate, leading me into the grey area beyond the fourth amendment. I gestured in a “There you have it, folks” manner when it lit up like a Christmas tree. Though, in retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best time to pull a quarter from behind his ear and say, “I see someone else is hiding something!”

I was herded into a waiting pen in the center with all the other potential national security threats. People made of significantly less metal passed by, looking at me and judging, “I wonder what he did.” I just smiled and mouthed, “Watch your back.”

Standing there inside in the fortress of impenetrable security tape, I realized I was being made an example. I was the sacrificial lamb today at Bush Intercontinental Airport. And if they had to saw me in half here in the terminal as an offering to the gods, they would. So when the approaching guard put on rubber gloves, I thought to myself, “That is not a good sign.”

The guard was nice though, only giving me two cavity searches, instead of the standard three. He found a bouquet of flowers and a string of colored handkerchiefs.

He did, however, tug repeatedly on my belt; peering down to see what else I was packing. I panicked a moment… trying to remember if I had left the white dove at home. Now would not be a good time for little Andy to fly the coop. Then I thought, “Maybe the guard sees his card down there,” silently hoping it wasn’t the kings of hearts.
I ended up just doing the “Jedi mind” trick so I could be on my way.


Then it was time to get on the plane, where all my phobias collided and jockeyed for position as the cause of my approaching anxiety attack. Fear of heights. Fear of small spaces. Fear of being scared. Fear of dying. And fear of dying before I find out what the hell is going on with that show Lost.

I lucked out too because the seat on one side of me was empty. And on the other side of the aisle was a hot girl. So in the event that the plane did decide to fall from the sky, she would be there for those last few moments of passion. That’s how I get women to make out with me. I wait until a plane is crashing and she says, “Oh, what the hell.”

Plus the guy in front of me realized he was seated next to a woman and her litter of children and immediately bailed. For all I know he ‘chuted out shortly after takeoff. I don’t care if you’re Mr. Rogers, Ned Flanders wouldn’t want any par-diddly-art of that mess.

I wanna thank Apple for sponsoring my little trip to Colorado this weekend. Sweet sweet iPod provided me a soundtrack to the cruel human experiment that is air travel. I sat there the full two hours with my earpieces in and my crash helmet on (which looks remarkably similar to a beer helmet) sipping Red Bull from convenient tubes, rockin’ out to Aerosmith. I know what you’re thinking, “Aerosmith? What’re you, thirty-two and a half?” Hey, the shuffle feature felt it was appropriate, ok?

Then the flight attendants got up front and did their little song and dance. It was like a parade of bad neckwear, all ascots and scarves. Confetti rained down from the ceiling as Betsy motioned to the emergency exits for her one thousandth time. They even reminded us that our seat cushions serve as flotation devices. But let’s be honest, if we had crashed into anything, it would have been a mountain. Pressing the ass prints of thousands of other passengers to your face isn’t gonna help when you’re performing a nose dive at 500 mph into the beautiful Rocky Mountains. Says it right there on the safety card.

Then, not to be outdone, the pilot gets on the horn and starts taking us through his whole morning. I swear they require a meteorology class in flight school, because he was throwing out all kinds of wind speeds and barometric pressures. And he’s jibber jabbering about the flight plan. “We’re going to swing by Dallas. Might pass over Oklahoma…” This is a non-stop flight to Denver, not the local tour down Hollywood Blvd. I don’t need you taking your eye off the controls so you can point out where Katie Holmes lost her damn mind.

I wonder if the captain of the space shuttle gives them a little run down of what’s going up. “Ok, today we’re going to be exiting the Earth’s atmosphere. I’m going to be taking you straight up. We might experience a little turbulence, but that’s just the rockets detaching themselves. Aaaand it looks like clear skies in space. Thank you for flying with NASA.”

“We are experiencing turbulence…” Experiencing. Like that little euphemism is going to ease your anxiety about being in a flying bus that’s shaking you like the British nanny.

Then the steward-attendants came by with the food cart, both of them full of creepy enthusiasm only Bob Ross could muster. (Not to mention I took a glancing blow from the cart that may affect my ERA numbers in fantasy baseball.) She leans over, her scarf tickling my ear, “Would you like something to drink?” I just kind of gave her the none-for-me-thanks head shake when I really want to say, “No way, if I have that thimble of soda I’ll be up all night.” But I was sorry. I should have reconsidered. What was I thinking? Because after I finished my two pretzels, I was parched.

And then it was over. We took off, we did the safety hokey pokey, we heard a cute story from the pilot, and we had snacks. It’s like kindergarten for grown-ups.

As we landed, all I could think about was the plane a few weeks ago that landed with the front tire completely engulfed in flames. I closed my eyes and hoped my last words weren’t going to be, “Do I have to take off my shoes?”

The pilot hadn’t started drinking yet, so we landed safe and sound. And there it was. The moving walkway. I would pay 10 tickets at the local fair for this ride. I just started speed walking. I felt like the Six Million Dollar Man, reconstructed to walk faster than any man has ever walked. I was high-fiving people as we zoomed by. I’m running in place in slow motion, confusing the hell out of toddlers. If I’m ever rich, all the floors in my mansion will be conveyor belts. One big remote and you can stand perfectly still and just glide your way to the can.

I got off the very long treadmill and I almost got run down by a transport vehicle. I was this close to being road kill in the middle of a hallway ‘cause some granny said step on it. I made it all this way, survived the flight, only to nearly get run down by a golf cart on my way to the escalator. Luckily I saw it coming, so I grabbed the nearest hot chick and we just started making out. Guard got so confused that he swerved and ran over a terrorist. I was awarded the Medal of Accidental Honor. I pinned it on my shirt next to my plastic pilot wings.

I Survived Hurricane Rita and All I Got Was This Lousy Hangover

The sun rose on another glorious morning, breaking in a new day. I thought to myself, “It’s great to be alive,” as I sat comfortably with a smile on my face. Our luxury vehicle purred as it idled along with hundreds of its closest friends on FM 529. We hadn’t moved in over an hour, but it was nice. It gave me a chance to reflect.

Hurricane Rita was on its way to Houston. Mother Nature had blessed it with a little bit of wind, and since it was in the northern hemisphere, it spun clockwise. It was putting on quite the show in the gulf, but was making its way into the crowd to shake some hands. At first I was worried, but I was assured by the TV, radio, President, mayor, governor, FEMA, Red Cross, National Guard, and various weather experts that everything was going to be ok. They told me that there was no need for panic, as they stood out of harm’s way, putting their own safety before the lure of the story.

I had complete control of the dog, which was as calm as my mother was about a pet on her leather seats. I chuckled to myself as passengers took turns using the bathroom at the nearest gas station without fear of missing their ride.

Other cars began to use the turn lane and the shoulder to pass us, but I just figured they were more important and their needs superseded my own. Some might have considered their actions unethical or exploitation of more patient motorists. I, however, knew that the emergency situation affected them more, and the best I could do would be to sit quietly and wave with all five of my fingers. After all, in these times of crisis, we have to band together and help each other out.

And as the Mexican Americans flew by, sitting inside with ten or more of their friends and family, I thought to myself, “Santa Anna would be proud.” He used to always say, “Safety in numbers.” And “there’s always time for a nap.”

One lane of outbound traffic gave way to two, which gave birth to four, which expanded to five. Soon, six lanes of traffic headed west, while any other cars had a fun game of dodging to play with the fleeing Mack trucks. Packed neatly along a country road, as cars swerved on either side us, I thought of rainbows and gum drops and candy cane cities.

A clean convoy of Camry’s weaved its way through the crowd, making clever use of the extra “courtesy” lanes and each other to further themselves in the line. I made a mental note of it in case I was ever evacuating from a city of millions again. A shirtless man bounced along the other side of the car. I remarked about the haste of such a fat city, and we all laughed and laughed.

As we sped along at a cool 15 mph, we sang songs and feasted on the endless supply of snack foods and diet soda. A few times I got out and stretched my legs, just to keep the blood flowing. We all managed to stay perfectly calm, maintaining a collected manner in order to get through the ordeal the best we could. Once or twice we thought of turning around, but pressed on, inspired by Chance and Shadow in the family classic Homeward Bound.

After twelve hours of bonding, we reached our destination, uniting the family once again. I felt like one of the Planeteers, but I had left my heart ring at home and asked if we could go back for it.

During the weekend, as the hurricane tiptoed over the sleeping city, I stayed with a friend in a town that usually takes an hour to get to. Our hands tired after too much patty cake, so we wondered what to do. That reminded us of Dr. Seuss's “The Cat in the Hat,” which we took turns reading to each other. Then, out of options, we imbibed copious amounts of alcohol. (Which means we drank a shitload.)

The day after the storm, the sun rose on another glorious morning, breaking in the new day. So we hopped back in the car, ready to do it all over again.

Oh, It's Flaming Alright

Some people do strange things to their cars. You see SUVs covered in spray-painted camouflage stuck in traffic on a highway downtown. Or someone so rebellious that they covered their back window with “bumper” stickers, including one that says, “I can’t see out my back window.” Cars dropped so low they get stuck on speed bumps. Or monster trucks jacked up so high you have to be wearing a parachute to be a passenger. Oh, and a secondary parachute, in case the first should fail on the way down.

But the style that made me laugh today is the “flames painted on the front” look. The idea is that the car is going SO FAST that it somehow burst into flames. This car zooming down the street, pushing the limits at a cool 37 mph, appears to have caught fire due to the absolutely insane amounts of speed it's generating. I’m sure it looks just as impressive in the parking lot of Chuck E. Cheese, where it is still smoldering from pulling into the space so unbelievably fast.

No car in the history of motorized vehicles has ever caught fire from going too fast, except maybe a Pinto. Even the car that broke the sound barrier didn’t spontaneously combust, but instead made a loud pop, which is the sound of everyone around the world (at the same time) not caring. The only car that ever came close was the DeLorean from Back to the Future, but that car could travel through time and you have to expect some amount of heat when jumping dimensions. Oh, and it was fictional.

I wouldn’t think that catching on fire would be a good thing. Other things that go fast don’t have flames painted on the side. It’s not like NASA is “pimpifying” the space shuttle, and that thing can haul some major ass. Plus I think flames on the shuttle send the wrong message. And frankly, there have been instances... NASA is smarter than that. These are the same people that designed the beds where you can sleep next to your glass of wine. Or drop bowling balls on it. It will remember how you slept, that you like to randomly drop balls from high places, and other strange things you’re into. So basically, NASA is SO smart, THEIR BEDS are smart. So no flame art.

I bet, though, they could paint a fiery design on the front of the military missiles.
So terrorists could look up and say, “Oh, look that missile coming towards us has flames painted on the front of it, it really must be fast.”
“You’re right, Mustafa. It does.”
“You know what? Kind of reminds of that movie Back to the Future.”
“Oooh, that’s a good one. I like that Michael J. Fox.”
“Remember when Doc says, '1.21 jiggawatts!'”
“Oh yes, ha ha. That was funny. 'A bolt of lightning!'”
“Yeah yeah, great movie. Third one sucked though.”
“Really disappointed in that one, I gotta say.”


I’ll be honest, I thought about getting body art for my car awhile back. But flames don’t really belong on the side of a Mazda. Something about the phrase “four door sedan” really kills it.

What I thought about instead was painting a robot on the hood. Something that says, “This car is going SO FAST it’s turning into a mechanized soldier of numerous capabilities.” Like a Transformer. Or even something slightly more menacing, a Decepticon. Or, get this, a Decepticon with flames painted on the side.

Hilary Duff Gives Up

In a startling announcement from Hilary Duff, the teen star admitted that she is “not at all cute” at a press conference Monday.

The 17-year-old actress threw in the proverbial towel five years after her debut on “Lizzie McGuire,” apologizing for becoming famous. Duff told reporters she suspected something was wrong when her movie opened seventh at the box office behind many other bad movies and a documentary about penguins. It was only until recently, she added, that she realized she is “incredibly ugly.”

“Like, I was on the set of my new music video and I walked by a mirror in my trailer,” Duff said. “I took a long look. After I threw up in my mouth a little bit, I thought, ‘Wow, I look really really disgusting.’ I went out and called off the video. I’m just too damn ugly.”

Hilary Duff had a very public feud with mildly-attractive movie star Lindsay Lohan over Aaron Carter in 2003. When asked to comment, Carter responded, “Yeah, I was really stuck between a rock and a hard place there. They’re both hideous girls. It was really just a choice between the lesser of two evils. How did I get mixed up with these trolls? Hermoine, if you’re out there, call me!”

Duff allegedly fell off the “ugly tree” and hit every branch on the way down, according to her mother, who is also not a looker.

Duff concluded the press conference saying, “A wise man once told me that everyone is beautiful on the inside. Well, I sold that to the record company a while ago and believe me, it was ugly too.”

Bathroom Bigfoot

I love my sister. She’s a cool girl. And having her around was nice over the summer. But I’d probably like her even more if she was bald. And she had her own bathroom.

When I head to the bathroom, I’m assaulted by a sasquatch of congealed face powder and shed hair, swallowing me up at the ankles. My feet don’t even know when they’ve left carpet and onto the ancient linoleum. Sometimes it gets so thick that it beckons me from the cracked floor to jump into it like a pile of leaves.

If I take a shower it’s there, mocking me and stretching itself over the drain, forcing me into a race against the clock or risk certain overflow. So there I slosh, calf-deep in murky water, scrubbing myself with a pink washcloth with a kitty cat on it. And all I can think about is the impending tsunami and trying not to accidentally crack my head against the carry-all that hangs from the showerhead bearing various lotions and creams. And sometimes... a luffa.

One time I picked it up, the tangled mass of dead skin cells that had captured our floor. "The Sasquatch." I even considered using a rake, but the amount of effort that would have required tricked me into gathering it with my bare hands. I almost lost an arm.

I went to wash my hands after the ordeal and there was Winnie the Pooh staring me in the face, his head perched on the soap dispenser. He grinned at me as I slammed my fist on his plastic skull and flowery scented soap poured onto my ruddy mitts. It’s only then that I realized that the hair had migrated and infiltrated my sink, leaving me helpless with soapy hands, Winnie my only ally against it.

The hair heap shot up and grabbed me around the wrists, restricting circulation as it pulled me closer. Winnie jumped into action, bobbing his head furiously to provide enough lubricant for my hands to slip free. I wrestled my arms loose and dashed for the door just as I heard Winnie cry out, “Go! Forget about me! Save yourself!”
I summersaulted into the hallway and yanked the door closed, straining to keep the knob from turning. Inside I could hear the death struggle and the muffled cries from Winnie. And then... suddenly... all was silent.

The summer is over now and my sister has moved back to college. Winnie was since replaced by an ordinary hand soap dispenser. But sometimes I still have nightmares about that fateful day. I can still hear the muffled screams of poor Pooh.


I know, I probably sound bitter, but that’s what happens after 6 months of bathing with Bigfoot.

Heart Shaped Nugget

Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I think I'm becoming an agoraphobic. In case you don't know what that means, it's the fear of open spaces. I can't even read Little House on the Prairie without having a fit of agoraphobia.

But tonight, in a serious bout of claustraphobia, I ventured out into the world. Well, not really. Just to Wendy's.

So I pull up to the intercom and I order. "5 piece chicken nugget, a large coke and a large fry." No idea why I made everything singular. Multiplicaphobia, I think.

Then I pay for the late night snack and head home. When I get home and unpack my meal, I notice that I've been given TWO five piece chicken nugget(s), for a grand total of ten. What did I do to deserve these extra morsels? It's like that "Monopoly" Chance card that reads, "Bank error in your favor." Or was it community chest... I checked the calendar, making sure it wasn't my birthday. Or Christmas. And seeing July 27th blank, I suddenly realized: carry-out crush.

I don't know how I made an impression on Lupe at the take-out window, but I must have done something. Maybe it was my smile. Or when I winked at her. Or when she asked me if I wanted my receipt and I said, "No. You hold onto that. Something to remember me by."

Smiling to myself, I munched away, eating the fries first of course. I shrugged it off, knowing that Lupe and I weren't really meant to be. It was then that I pulled out the final nugget... it was shaped like a heart.

A giant, nuggety heart. It looked like one of those big candy hearts, only deep fried to remove the "Fax Me" saying from the surface. I couldn't believe it.

It had been stuffed way down at the bottom, like Lupe didn't want me to see it. But secretly she did. But she wanted it to be a special something. But not too special. But I appreciated the subtlety, and I ate it.

Eye Dunno

For the past few days I’ve had an eye chart in my room. My mom is cleaning out her nurse's office and the first thing to wind up in my bedroom is the official eye exam chart. It’s the one with the E’s facing different directions though, instead of the letters. This is to not confuse the kid with poor vision who never made it past LMNOP. Every morning/afternoon/late afternoon I wake up, I gave myself a little test run. Turned out my vision was slipping. And it’s still hard to make the backwards E with your hand.

So I set up an appointment and went in today. First thing any doctor does is make you wait in the waiting room. Then you see the nurse, who gets the ball rolling on the mini-gauntlet, this time for your eyes. Read this, look there, cover that, read that backwards, tell me when point A passes through point B, push this button, open your eyes real wide, and blur your eyes a little, look at this picture, and tell me if you see a spaceship.

Then you take the glaucoma test. And what better way to test for something wrong with your eye than to blow a strong puff of air directly into it. "How's your stomach feeling today, Mr. Robinson?" Wham. Gut punch.

I knew it was coming. My eyes started to water just walking into that room. Because of that test, I can actually cry on cue. Says it right there on my resume. So it’s a little tough for me to sit perfectly still with my eye wide open, waiting to be shot in the eye at point blank range. She’s on the other side of the machine guiding the air assault. She smirks as she locks the target and squeezes the trigger. This is her favorite part of the day. Beep. Adjust. Beeeeep. Adjust. Beep. Adjust. Beeep. Beep. Oh god, it burns. Ok, now the other eye.

When the doctor finally came in, boy was I embarrassed when I wasn’t wearing any pants. Apparently they don’t do that. After I "repantsed," he checked me over and promptly told me I wasn’t going to be piloting jet fighters any time soon. Which is fine, really, because I’m more of a Goose than a Maverick.

The optometrist recommended I have my eyes dilated for further inspection. And who am I to argue, I can barely see him without his help. Dilated is a word referring to the widening of something, usually pupils and cervixes. Fortunately it was my eyes that were getting the drops. Unfortunately this meant my pupils were going to be the size of coat buttons and any natural light was going to make me curl up in the fetal position. When the nurse came in later to check how far I was dilated, she said, “You’ve got more black in your eyes than blue.” I winked at her, just to let her know I could do that too.

Another reason for my visit was to get some replacement lenses for my glasses. It might have been easier to hand those over had I remembered to bring them in from the car. It also might have been a good idea to retrieve those BEFORE I had my eyes dilated. So not only was I making this treacherous trip sans any sort of corrective lenses, but now if I look even remotely in the direction of the sun, I’m going to become even blinder, thus negating the last half hour of torture.

I pressed the ground floor button in the elevator with my nose since I was already that close. I said hello to someone as I left the building, though it could have been a coat rack. And I relied on the remaining four senses to navigate my way across the parking lot. I could have been mugged with a ballpoint pen and I wouldn’t have been able to tell you if it was a man or a woman. A police portrait of the perpetrator would have consisted of me etch-a-sketching out a generic face for a few minutes and then shaking it up a little to blur the edges. I couldn’t tell the police if he got away in a Miata or a Roman chariot, much less tell them the license plate. But somehow I made it through it alive, glasses in hand, back to the office… of the people next door.

My mom also had an appointment today. Checked, air cannoned, and dilated. Which meant one of us was going to have to drive home. I had never actually used the phrase “the blind leading the blind” so literally before, but here I was, presented with that very situation. Have you ever seen Scent of a Woman, where the very blind character played by Al Pacino learns how to drive a car? And next to him, a young Chris O' Donnell watches in horror as the scene unfolds. Now imagine little Charlie being blind himself, riding sidecar while Pacino barrels down the streets in a “luxury sport utility vehicle.” Ok, so we weren’t totally blind, but without the use of the fancy roll-up sunblockers provided by the doctor I wouldn’t have been able to keep my eyes from searing in the sun. My mom, taking it easy knowing that her vision is more than impaired, pulls immediately out onto the feeder in front of a car and says, “Sorry, but I can’t see” to the guy she cuts off.

We managed to make it home safely. And when my vision finally cleared up and I was able to get back in front of that eye chart in my room... I could see through it.

Are We Prepared for an Invasion?

With the upcoming remake film War of the Worlds set to premiere in June about aliens invading planet Earth, it begs a very important question about real life. Are we prepared for an alien invasion? Set phasers to “No.”

If I learned ANYTHING in Boy Scouts, it was that you must always “be prepared.” Always. “Hey, you got chance for a twenty?” You better respond, “I sure do. Here’s a ten, a five, 4 ones, three quarters, two dimes and a nickel. Let me know if you need to convert that ten into pennies.” And if Bobby Fischer returns, you better know that he’s gonna move his knight to king’s bishop’s third. And if Pluto turns out to be the Death Star, we better have giant mounted photon guns capable of interstellar warfare.

In the event of an attack from above, here are a few things Earth should consider.

1. We need a flag.
First thing is first. We’re going to need a flag. How are we going to fight alien scum without a unifying “Earth” flag flapping in the windy gusts from the landing spacecrafts?
Vexillologists (people who actually study flags) will tell you that flags are an important symbol of unity for a common goal, which in this particular case is to “not die.”
But what will it look like? It can’t be just a picture of Earth, because then we’d just be flying giant maps. It can’t be anything religious though because of the varying views. And it can’t be any combination of existing flags, because then we’d have a jumble of crosses and stars. So I nominate the idea of a flag that just says, “Go away, alien scum” in big letters. You know, to get the message across. This isn’t the time to be subtle.
Once that flag design is finalized, we’ll need a fleet of Betsy Rosses (but probably foreign and working in a sweat shop), duplicating and sending the glorious symbol literally to the ends of the Earth! From Alberia to Zimbabwe! From sea to shining sea! From Santa’s house to Antarctica! Everyone gets a flag! We wouldn’t want to “alienate” anyone.

Side note: Can we make them in flame-retarded material? We can’t have hippies demonstrating when we’re engaging in intergalactic warfare.

Also, using the phrase “flame-retarded” makes me giggle.

We’ll need all kinds too. Flags for poles, walls, and stadium rafters. Banners, ribbons, pins, buttons, bumper stickers, face paintings, and more. We’ll need some of those flags people attach to their car windows. We’ll need a new monument of a couple of guys erecting an Earth flag. We’ll need to send a group of climbers to the top of Everest to plant our new flag. We’ll need the people of Flagstaff to join hands and sing “It’s a Grand Olde Flag” on Flag Day while wearing t-shirts with flags on them. It’ll be just like after September 11th.

2. More missiles.
Earth needs to be armed to the magma with missiles. It’s time we stopped pointing the nukes at other countries and instead pointed them aimlessly into outer space. It’s the only way.

However, in these uncertain times of nuclear proliferation, weapons inspectors, and only one Jack Bauer, I can understand being hesitant when giving everyone nuclear missiles, but I have a plan. Wait for it…

We give the countries that don’t have “space strike” capabilities plenty of missiles to haphazardly rocket into the atmosphere, BUT on one condition: no shooting other countries.

What do you mean that won’t work? They’ll be on the honor system. HONOR, people. What ever happened to “honesty is the best policy,” huh?

Besides, I have reason to believe that the aliens will attack in organized lines in space, allowing us to fire continually into their ranks. We can strafe back and forth, jamming the fire button as rapidly as possible to whittle down each incoming squadron. But, unfortunately, the aliens will advance more quickly as time progresses, making it increasingly difficult to protect our saved initials and therefore our legacy.

Until this planet has a giant shield, a “Star Wars” defense system, or the International Space Station is packin’ heat, our best defense is… more offense. Of course, there are other defensive methods, including the “Duck and Cover Technique,” the “Run Like Hell Method,” and the “IMAX Defense,” which consists of closing your eyes until the feeling has passed.


3. Some idea of what they’re packin’
The problem is there are too many different alien types. We know so little about what they really are, and even that information is from people who were abducted and probed while they slept. So to learn more, in case of an invasion, we need to ask ourselves some of the following questions:

What do they look like?
Are they green and anorexic? Or are they talking apes? Maybe they look like us. Maybe they already have alien spies amongst us, watching for the right moment to strike. If so, we need to find these aliens and place them in “camps” where they can “concentrate” on not being an alien.

Are they friendly?
Who knows, we might be preparing ourselves for an epic battle against the likes of ALF. Hordes of ALFs just pouring off the mother ships in search of feline food. In which case I say we let them have the cats.

Ok, they're not so friendly. Why are they decimating our cities?
We must discover their motivating factor and maybe we can appease them in some way. Maybe they’re farming our poor planet for resources or feeding on our fattening citizens. Maybe we pose a threat in space once we stop mixing metric and imperial measurements. Or maybe they’re just offended by the coffee mugs that say, “Greatest Dad in the Universe.”


4. We need Bill Pullman.
In the event of an invasion, someone needs to find Bill Pullman on the set of whatever terrible movie he’s making and immediately put him in charge of the world. I think it’s safe to say I’m not the only one who got chills when President Pullman proclaimed “Today we celebrate our Independence Day” in a movie with a similar title. This uplifting speech, coupled with his role as Lone Starr in Spaceballs, makes him overqualified to be leader of Earth. And to assist him with important decisions, Martin Sheen from the West Wing will provide counsel.

And just in case the entertainment industry inadvertently guessed a viable deterrent, we’re also going to need the following:

• A computer virus to “upload” into the mother ship


• Will Smith


• Predators


• Superman


• Biological warfare (a.k.a. the flu)


• Water


• Country music

With a solid combination of patriotic flags, a nuclear arsenal, intelligence gathering, and Bill Pullman, I believe Earth can defend itself from total annihilation. You may rest easy knowing that there is a system in place to protect us. But we must stay prepared. Chances are the aliens aren’t going to be making crop circles before they invade. In the meantime we can practice on each other, preventing pesky illegal aliens. As long as we don’t fire any nukes. We’re on the honor system.

Jesus Scented Candles

Couple Sells Candles That Smell Like Jesus

A couple in South Dakota is selling candles that smell like Jesus. Now your whole house can smell like the sweet sweet aroma of your Lord and Savior. Mmmm.

The guy walked around in the desert and rode camels on a daily basis, so my guess is it doesn't smell like vanilla.

Now, I can understand when they sold Michael Jordan cologne, because everyone wanted a piece of the #23 so they could be a "ballah." But it was simple though because, you know, he was still alive. That made it easier for them to get a Sample o' Mike.

But this is just ridiculous, Jesus!

The couple says in the article that it is a "form of ministry." Of course it is, because nothing says "God is good" like making a buck off the Bible.

"Go, my children, and spread my word to the people. Tell everyone that I am the Son of God. And if you can't do that, then sell them a candle that smells like me over the Internet."

There you have it folks.
"This little light of mine..." smells like Jesus.



I bought seven.

Exercise

I am out of shape. I've slowly come to terms with it. I got out of breath just posting this.

Been thinking about exercise a lot recently. It’s a combination of eating too many jelly beans, being in the fattest city in America, and staying up watching insomnia-mercials.

“Have you ever been vacationing in the Serengeti, saw the gazelles, and thought ‘I wish I could run like them.’ Now you can! With this Gazelle glider!”

Who buys these things? Someone bored of running like a human, I guess. They get their Gazelle friends together, run in a herd. A guy in a lion machine running behind them.

Tony Little (pictured above looking not straight), self-proclaimed “America’s Personal Trainer," peddles these Gazelle gliders at 4 in the morning. I once heard him yell, “IT’S SO EASY, EVEN YOU CAN DO IT!” Whoa there, Thor, let’s tone down the insulting enthusiasm a little. It’s bad enough I have you fagging up all the TV channels at night, but I don’t have to take this sort of abuse lying down... on the couch... eating chips. I mean, you’re obviously nothing short of “man-tastic,” Tony. No one can deny your muscles are “pumpisized.” And the pony tail. Let’s not forget that chick magnet. But how about you leave me out of this?

And then there’s all the other fitness tapes. 7 minute abs. Buns of Steel. Bulimia Really Works.
Most include fitness exercises for you to try.

My favorite is the “reach” move. This consists of standing straight up, feet shoulder width apart, and extending your arm up and over your head as far as you can reach. Yeah, that’s a helpful little maneuver. Really workin’ stuff out with that one. Why not just... use the other arm? It's right there.

Arm circles, however, are easily the most humiliating and worthless exercise, without a doubt. I’d rather do the Thigh-master, followed by seven hours of “Sit and Be Fit” than one single arm circle.

In case you aren’t familiar with them, arm circles are a warm-up exercise where you hold your arms out to your sides and make circles in the air with your hands.
They’re ridiculous. They are designed to make you look silly, that’s it. You could do a thousand arm circles and you wouldn't shed a thing, except maybe your integrity.

I can just see it now, a fitness room full of unsuspecting saps, being led in an “arm circle” degradation. “Let’s do a little warm-up, shall we? Arm circles! Ok, start small. Circle, circle, circle. Now go big! And... reverse it! Now cluck like a chicken!” Finally, the instructor tells you to stop, before reaching over and turning off the video camera and placing the tape in an envelope marked “Blackmail.” Political elections have been won and lost on the discovery of embarrassing “arm circle” photos, believe me.

But you have to warm up. Nothing worse than pulling a muscle. First question everybody asks is, “Geez, what were you doing?” Same with bruises, broken bones, and perpetual motion, people just want to know “So, how’d you do it?”

Of course you’d like to say, “Oh, I was saving a Mormon family of twelve from a burning building. It was nothing.” But instead you hang your head in shame and say, “Well, I... I was walking.” And now you have to tell the story. Not only did you pull your groin, but you did it walking out to get the mail. You’re so out of shape you can’t stroll to the end of the driveway without injuring yourself and spending the next week swaggering around like a cowboy who dropped the soap.

Wherever you go, people have to know. People are just coming up to you on the street, “Whoa man, what happened?” Crowds are forming, the word’s getting out you’re hurt. “Come on, everybody gather ‘round, this guy’s telling us why his arm is in a sling!” And there you are, in front of a throng of curious faces.

“You really want to know?”
“Yes! Tell us how you hurt your arm! We must know!”
“Arm circles.”

News from the Short Bus

A 13 year old boy in Alaska stabbed another kid on the bus on the way home from school. And the bus driver didn't notice.
http://www.adn.com/news/alaska/story/6181544p-6056351c.html

The kids got in verbal, "name calling" fight, so he shanked him. 13 and 14 year old kids!
The worst arguments we ever had back then were over pogs or which ninja turtle would win in a fight. The answer was CLEARLY Raphael. And don't argue with me, or I will cut you.

I blame the media. No, it's the video games' fault. Wait, Marilyn Manson. Screw it, I blame the Swiss, with their pocketknife armies and their... cheese.

The "worst/best/worst again" part about it all is that the bus driver had NO idea that a kid was getting skewered in the back of the bus. Old Man River looks like he can barely see the road, much less what's going on in his peripheral vision.

What ever happened to the old fashion "Hey! Hey bus driver! Help! I'm getting stabbed back here!"

Crazy Alaskans.

Game Over

Here at Miscellaneous Thoughts we usually don’t focus on celebrity news. We like to hold our website to a higher standard, not one that drags the murky waters of tabloid journalism like Entertainment Tonight. But today was a slow news day what with North Korea merely announcing that it has nuclear capabilities and a continuing war in Iraq just days after an important democratic election. Forget all that though, because even Mary Hart would agree, this is real news.

Mario and Princess are calling it quits.

After 10 long years of marriage, the two are parting ways in what is considered one of the nastiest and most heart-breaking divorces in show business, both parties stating that things were not so "super." This recent development amidst allegations that the Princess has been having a torrid love affair with Mario’s brother and partner in crime fighting, Luigi.

Luigi declined comment.

This couple got together in 1990 after Mario heroically rescued her from the clutches of Bowser for the third time.

Bowser has since gone on to recording rap albums, including his most recent album “Little Bow-Bow,” the follow-up to his hit multi-platinum record “No Limit Koopa.” He said the whole kidnapping thing was just a misunderstanding. “I wasn’t throwing hammers AT Mario. I was just practicing my hammer throwing in his general vicinity. I think that’s happened to us all, hasn’t it?”

The Princess is quoted at the divorce hearing as saying, “You never even rescue me any more!”
Mario exclaimed vehemently, “Mama mia! Sometimes I wish I had never even rescued you all those times!”

The Princess continued later to reporters, saying “Sure, it was fun at first. There was Mario Party 1. Then Mario Party 2. But soon there were so many parties, that I was beginning to wonder if we were ever going to have time by ourselves. You know, like old times.
Plus, he never does anything nice for me. I mean, the one time he brought me flowers he ended up eating them, then throwing fire balls all around the room.”

Greatest Story Ever Told

Too often in life we take things for granted. We bustle about in our daily routines, passing by the finer things, such as art. A fine painting or a beautiful song.

What most people don't realize is that movies are an art form too. Cinema combines the elements of sound and video to create a form of expression like no other. And in this case, the animation techniques of some of the most brilliant minds in the world.

And what drives this art form, as it glides across the silver screen, are emotionally moving stories about interesting characters.
Since 1895, when the first motion pictures were shot, cinema has shaped this great nation. But it wasn't until 2003, nearly 110 years later, that it was perfected in this truly synergistic and indescribable display of storytelling.

Some may argue that Citizen Kane is the greatest movie ever made. Or the Godfather trilogy. Or even Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen's How the West Was Fun. But I say, "Nay. I have found it. The best movie ever."

So, without further ado I present to you, the greatest story ever told:
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0374020/

Spongebob a Little TOO Soft for Some

Soak this one up. Christian Groups have recently slammed the children’s cartoon Spongebob Squarepants for promoting homosexuality to kids. The purple Teletubby and him have joined forces to infiltrate and spread gayness at an early age.

Apparently the group, erroneously called Focus on the Family, is up in arms about a video where Spongebob appears with a few other television pals about tolerance and multiculturalism after 9/11.

Here’s an actual quote from the leader Christian fundamentalist whack-job about the Spongebob video.

"We see the video as an insidious means by which the organization is manipulating and potentially brainwashing kids," he said. "It is a classic bait and switch."

CLASSIC bait and switch. Happens all the time. The evil cartoon empire lures children in with loveable characters and then swaps them for naked men having sex with each other. Classic.

I personally don’t see anything wrong with him. Last thing I heard there’s nothing in the Bible about enjoying a little carefree cartoon sponge hangin’ out with his buddies. He looks like a sponge version of Dilbert, actually. And he’s not gay, that I’m aware of. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Cartoons were never criticized as potentially gay in the past. Speed Racer was never accused of “driving on the other side of the road.” The environmentalist superhero Captain Planet, clearly quite liberal, was never questioned about “swinging that way.” Even He-Man never stirred up this kind of controversy.

Besides, a gay cartoon would never be caught dead in socks like those.

Hugging

You ever notice how hugging can get awkward if done incorrectly? I think we've all had our hug-tastrophes. I’m no exception. I’ll admit; I don’t even know which one is the hug, the X or the O. I guess it doesn’t matter, since I’m not really crafting hand-written notes for flower bouquets.

Hug-tastrophes come in all different forms, lurking and waiting to create an uncomfortable moment. For example, have you ever had the problem of the accidental face-to-face? You go to hug, and there’s that split second where you have to choose which side your head is gonna go. You have a 50/50 chance of picking the wrong side and almost turning that hug into a kiss. Sometimes it’s awkward enough as it is, but now you have to worry about head juking on the way in.

It’s like when you’re walking towards someone and you try to step out of the way. But uh oh, they chose that side too. Now you’re both practically waltzing, until one finally slides past and you both move on, thinking, “Man, that was awkward.”

It’s exactly like that, but now your face is inches away from theirs and you’re already in a half embrace. Your arms are out there. You're moving slowly closer. You are now committed to a hug. There is no turning back now. And your head is shaking back and forth like Jay Leno as you desperately try to avoid turning that harmless hug into a sudden smooch. But you can’t abort now because you don’t want to offend.

Now that you’re in the huddle, someone has to call the play.
“All right, you go left.”
“Which left? Your left or my left?”
“Just pick a side and go with it.”
“Ok. Ready? Hug.”

Those Italians have it down though. Everyone seems to know which way they’re going on The Sopranos. I think it's because they add that double cheek kiss onto it.

It’s like a handshake. Always with the right hand. Everyone knows you’re going right.
But with hugs, there ARE no rules. HUG AT YOUR OWN RISK, PEOPLE.

I’ll never attempt the double cheek kiss though. Hopefully never have to. Because I know I’d screw it up. I just know it. I’d wind up mouth kissing my mother-in-law or something. Or worse, my father-in-law.

When two guys hug there’s a whole new set of insecurities thrown in there. I mean, if they’re family or something, they just bear hug and are done with it. But otherwise, there’s that phase where you’re past the handshake greeting, but you’re nooooot quite at the bear hug level.

Here are a few of the possible maneuvers in the man arsenal:
The Sideways Hug:
This consists of throwing the arm casually around the shoulders or waist of the other male, avoiding any chest to chest or incidental face-to-face contact. Perfect for homophobes.

The Handshake Conversion:
What starts out as a handshake suddenly becomes a pull move into a shoulder bump. I’ve read they execute this maneuver in “the hood.”

The Manliest Hug Possible:
When it would be awkward NOT to hug, as “other people are doing it,” there’s always the "Manliest Hug Possible." This includes much grunting, growling, and “hey there, big guy” comments as you can fit into the hug duration. Also a firm back pounding is in order.

But sometimes, despite the risks, I can be a hugger. A real squeezer. You know why? Because then women think I’m sensitive. Right there in the greeting they’re thinking, “He tends to my needs.” And I’m thinking, “I just saw the front, and helloooo there’s the back.”

I’m a short guy too, so any girl over six feet is going to be giving me a face full of mammary, which is nice.




Ok, so that was probably wrong of me to say. And possibly offensive. I didn’t really mean it. I’m sorry.
How about we hug it out?
XOXO

AOL SLIM

America Online: Super Lightweight Instant Messenger 1.0™


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Screenshot:



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Features:
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TiVo

For Christmas my brother bought my parents a TiVo. Then he escaped to Boston, leaving me to set it all up for them. He’s an evil genius.

Though, to be fair, they did need an upgrade. A few days before Christmas we were gathered in the living room, watching something on a tape, when the VCR started emitting a high-pitched squeal.

You know when you pick up the phone during a fax and it makes that horrible shrill sound? Yeah, it sounded a lot like that. Only that is what is SUPPOSED to happen during a fax. This sounded like the VCR was crying out for help.

I waited about a minute before I said, “Uhh… the VCR is about to explode.”
“Just ignore it” came the reply from my dad as my sister cranked the volume on the TV to drown it out.
I tried to tune it out, like they had grown accustomed to, shutting out the piercing plea to be put out of its misery. In the meantime, I shifted the blankets in front of me like a shield, calculating an estimated blast radius in case it finally combusted.

I should take this time to mention the phenomenon known as the “Greg Field.” Basically, the “Greg Field” is an invisible (but very real) bubble that interferes with electronic signals. Scientists have been able to pinpoint the center of the field, determining the cause to be my dad, who knocks out electric devices as he moves about the house. Machines previously working flawlessly before entering “The Field” are rendered to expensive and bulky paperweights. Just so you know what I’m working against.

Setting up the TiVo was like an intense wrestling match, only there were less tights involved. Not saying there weren’t tights, they were just hidden under my tear-away pants in case that devil machine REALLY wanted to throw down.

Everything started out smoothly. I set it all up in the living room without reading the instructions because, after all, I’m a man. “Pathetic little video recorder,” I sneered as I turned on the TV to make sure it was all set up, and… nothing. Touché TiVo.

I scrambled behind the TV, checking wires and connections. Nothing seemed to be fixing it. Apparently I underestimated unplugging and plugging it back in.

So once sweet power was flowing to my opponent, I knew we were in for more of a struggle than I had anticipated. According to the instructions, (which I finally gave in and consulted) the TiVo requires a phone connection to activate. Unfortunately, the only plug was on the other side of the room. So I ended up stretching a phone cord across the living room. You know that scene at the end of Back to the Future where Doc is stretching the power cord to send Marty back to the future? Well, let’s just say that while I was hanging on for dear life I thought, “The things I do to record digital television.”

Ok, so the TiVo is activated. The Teletubby-esque TiVo logo was merrily doing a mocking jig. Now I can’t have a phone cord snaking its way across the room, so I decided I was going to hook up the wireless internet. Here is where the “Greg Field” kicked in. I plugged in the wireless adaptor and looked up eagerly at the screen, only to see “No signal found.” Fantastic. After doing a fair amount of fiddling, I carried the TiVo back to the bedroom where the wireless signal originates. I hooked it all up and placed the wireless adaptor literally on top of the router. No signal. Well played, TiVo. Well played.

Six hours later I changed some random setting somewhere. As I left the room, taking a much-needed break from the bout, I glanced over at the screen. Eureka! A signal had been found and was operating at 80%! Wait, 80 percent? It’s sitting directly on top of it! The antennas are touching each other. Damn you “Greg Field!”

To make a long story short, I moved the TiVo back into the living room and when Dad goes to the store it gets a 15% signal.

I would learn later that the biggest feat of all was teaching TiVo. You know what they say. “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” And not only was my dog not interested, my parents weren’t too keen on learning either.
My sister hasn’t even warmed up to the idea yet. “Just show me how to change the channels,” she said.
“But you can –”
“No, I don’t care.”
“And there’s the –”
“No, shut up.”
“With the –”
“GO AWAY!”
“And the –”
She then made a sound that reminded me of the old VCR. Ahhh, the memories.

But they also say, “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.” I’ve read about 5 pages of the manual, so I’m the reigning recording royalty. That is until the “Greg Field” knocks out the power.

Church of Seuss

Now that we’ve read from the Book of the Cat in the Hat Comes Back and joined hands to sing together the song of the Lorax, we shall pause for a moment to remember. We should remember that each and every one of us is truly blessed to have a wocket in our pockets, and that others around the world are sadly… wocketless. Please take a moment, fellow Seussians.

Ok, now that we’ve taken care of that little agenda item, let’s have Brother Babbagazoo come up to the podium. And while he is reading, we will be sending around a way for you to help the Church of Seuss. If you empty all your dozzles from your purzles into the collection bazzles, then Seuss might forgive you for all your snizzles.

So, without further ado, here is Brother Babbagazoo!

Thank you, Brother Popealopalus. This is a reading from the Book of One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, Chapter 1: Verses 1-4.

One fish
Two fish
Red fish
Blue fish

Black fish
Blue fish
Old fish
New fish

This one has
A little star.

This one has a little car.
Say! What a lot
of fish there are.

This is the word of the Seuss.
Amenssical.

Now what does that teach us? Huh? Anyone?
That’s right, there are plenty of fish in the sea. So divoraxedoodle, while still a snizzle, can sometimes be the only way. Half of all unions end in a divoraxedoodle, which means about half of you sitting out there are wasting your time. Unless you give us more dozzles. Thank you.

Ok, that was a great reading. Now, as you all know, before he was Seussified, Sam-I-Am would not eat green eggs and ham. He would not eat them with a mouse, he would not eat them in a house. But eventually he does eat them, with a goat in a boat. Today we will eat green eggs and ham, as a symbol of our belief in Seuss.
So everyone form a line to the front, we’re going to give you pieces of green eggs and ham and you can feel totally blessed and shizzle with symbolic food.

Alright, well, that about wraps up today’s lessons. Next time we will read from the Book of Fox in Socks.

One final word to all the young Seussians. If you’re going to “Hop on Pop,” make sure you take birth control piddlediddledizzles!!!

Seuss be with you!

Sleeping

Sleep and I were never friends. We never really saw eye-to-eye on the whole "getting rest" part. Most people go to bed and they fall asleep. Not so with me. I go to bed and I try to log hours. A couple hours here. A couple hours there. Anything I can get, I take.

When most people get tired while they are driving, they press on, turning the radio up a little louder, or rolling down the window. I yank the wheel over to the side of the road and set up camp. Cars are flying past at 70 mph and I’m taking a nap on the shoulder.

Ok, so that was an exaggeration. But seriously, I can’t sleep.

I’ve tried everything; adding and subtracting pillows of varying sizes, taking dangerous combinations of sleep-inducing medication, or imbibing indeterminable amounts of alcohol. Nothing seems to work. Of course it doesn’t help that my bed at home is a concrete slab with a sheet pulled over it.

I’m not exactly a morning person either. I can’t function the first hour or two after the alarm goes off. If I can go that full time without speaking, then I’m ok. Otherwise you’ll probably get an instinctive response that may or may not be offensive to midgets.

My parents and friends think I sleep until way past noon sometimes, because I’ll just stay in my room with the door closed. Trust me, I’m doing everyone a favor. It’s like they expect me to wake up and rush to the door, fling it open, and announce to the world that Jeff is awake. Because after I break that threshold to the rest of the world, I know I have to be at least semi-sociable. I’m not making any promises.


You ever stay up so late that you realize its morning? I have. It happened to me this morning, actually. I’m lying there, wondering why I'm still awake and I look over at the window and there’s sunlight coming through it. Yeah, that can’t be good. At that point I was like, “Well, I’m up any way” and got out of bed for breakfast. I haven’t had breakfast since it was served out of a bottle. Not on time, any way.

So I go into the kitchen and the dog looks up at me thinking, “What the hell are you doing up?” And I’m like “I know.” I’m rooting around in the pantry trying to remember what people usually eat for breakfast. Then I see a Fruit Loops box on the top shelf that my mom got for me a few months ago in hopes that I might actually eat that first meal.

I groggily pour myself a bowl of old cereal with milk and in my deliriousness I decide I’m going to eat it in my room. Have you ever tried hopping across the house with a bowl of cereal? (I wasn't wearing my prosthetic leg) It’s not easy. The dog was thinking, “Jackpot!” though, as I jumped down the hallway, leaving a trail of stale fruit loops behind.


Ok, I have to go. I think I feel a nap coming on.

More Halftime Hilarity

Ashlee Simpson (you know, the one who lipsynced on Saturday Night Live) got booed off the stage at the half time show during the Orange Bowl tonight.

If you haven't seen it, here's the video. If you listen closely, you can hear me yelling, "YOU SUCK!" from Houston.

I don't know who's worse, the Simpson sisters or the Hilton sisters. I bet you're thinking, "What did Nikki Hilton do?" Not much, but Paris does enough stuff (people) for the both of them.



I wonder what Ashlee will have to say for this one. Last time it was a long list of excuses, including (not kidding) gastroesophageal reflux disease. This time she sang on her own, though I'm sure William Hung could have done a better job.

No hoe down this time, Ashlee?