I am reading Into Thin Air.  It’s a book about an ill-fated expedition up Mount Everest.  Actually, I am not to the ill fate part yet.  Right now the book is merely ominously foreboding.  There is a lot of diarrhea and headaches and stories of Sherpas who died because their lives aren’t as valuable as rich, white people.  As you can see, it is not an uplifting tale.  It’s more in the Folly Of Man vein.

Anyway, while the story is interesting and well-written I know what’s going to happen.  That is because the same thing happens in every mountain climbing tragedy story.  People take too much time to get to the summit due to stupidity, inexperience, greed, pride, ignorance, general slowness etc., and then they get killed on the way back.  For the most part, their demise comes about due to exposure.  But sometimes they die more spectacularly.  Maybe they fall into a crevasse or they are crushed by a giant glob of ice.  Or they merely trip and fall.  This doesn’t sound too deadly until you realize that they then hurtle down 3000 vertical feet of mountain at about 80 miles per hour.  And faces, dear reader, are a poor substitute for brakes.

Enterprising American that I am, I have a book idea that will spice up the Mountain/Man’s Folly/Senseless Death tale.  Actually, I have two ideas.  The first would be called “Death Zone,” in reference to the space above 26000 feet.  Except, in my story, it isn’t the lack of oxygen that gets you.  It is the family of Yetis.  In this tale of Himalayan Horror, Yetis lurk in the shadowy recesses of the mountain, patiently waiting for the opportunity to tear unsuspecting mountaineers to pieces.  I suppose they should probably eat people, too.

The second movie would be called “Sherpa.”  As you may know, Sherpas are the local mountain people well known for carrying tourists and their belongings up and down Everest (and other mountains).  They are very helpful.  But not in my movie.  They are actually a gang of crazed killers- kind of like a Wrong Turn with a Buddhist twist.  They should probably eat people as well.  “I’m thinking of going out for Japanese tonight, Tenzing,” says Dorap Sherpa with a murderous gleam in his eyes.

“I don’t know, Dorap.  Maybe we should try a little French cuisine.  Hey, Pierre?”

“MMMMMPPHHHH,” says Pierre.  Or maybe that should be “LE MMMMMPPHHH.”  I don’t know.  The only French I’ve ever studied has been in Russian novels.  Actually, I just skipped over it and tried to guess what it meant by context.

Regardless, while neither of these movies are the second coming of Casablanca, I do feel they have a market.  The Syfy Channel for example.  Someone call Ian Ziering and Tiffany to see what they are up to.  Also, I’d like to cast Danny Bondaduce as the obnoxious American mountain guide.  He could try to make a move on a transvestite Sherpa, only to be killed by a pickaxe to his man region.

And while his lifeblood oozes from his crotch, we hear David Cassidy singing “I think I love you….”  Or the Sherpa could say, “I love Barry Williams…”

The possibilities are endless.

 

I saw the new Star Wars movie the other day.  Eh.  I give it a B minus.  The acting was far superior to episodes 1-3 (that kid who played Anakin was the best they could do?), but the story was pretty pedestrian.  Plus, I like my villains to be a little more formidable.  Han Solo’s kid kind of looks like a young Marilyn Manson- sans makeup and pointy breasts, of course.  I think it’s hard to make angular people look mean.  Unless you are in a Western.

In other Star Wars news, I hear the actor who played Jar Jar Binks does not want to reprise his character for fear of ruining the next two movies.  Wise choice, Jar Jar.  You were even worse than little Ani.  They should have had your character attempt to assassinate Anakin.  I don’t know why.  I’m not that far yet.

Anyway, so Jar Jar tries to kill Anakin.  Of course, Jar Jar is a relatively harmless amphibian/Rastafarian so Anakin easily kills him by utilizing his emerging Jedi powers.  Then, he skins Jar Jar and makes boots.  Binks Boots, if you will.

Or Jar Jar just takes a stray shot from a Storm Trooper’s blaster.  And then the Storm Trooper skins him and makes boots.  Either way, so long as Jar Jar dies.

Speaking of skinning people, Ted Cruz kind of reminds me of the aliens from the show “V.”  If you have forgotten the story line, aliens arrive in large, looming motherships.  They appear to be benign, even friendly.  But, they have a sinister plan.  This is because they are really reptilian creatures disguised in human skin suits.  And they need us for food!  And sometimes companionship as one of the aliens breeds an Earthling female.  This most unnatural coupling results in a half man, half alien monstrosity- who subsequently saves Earth from his father’s reptilian compadres.  We win again!

Anyway, Ted Cruz certainly is wearing a human skin suit.  I think his wife is as well.  But I don’t want to start any unsubstantiated rumors.  Anyway, somebody should take a peek behind the moon just to make sure there isn’t an alien Armada massing there.

Ted Cruz could also be the actor who played Jar Jar Binks.

He probably is.

Far be it for me to criticize other people, but why do you continue to put paper toweling in the toilet?  From a purely logistical standpoint, this makes no sense.  Have you no spatial awareness?  Paper toweling does not typically reside in a bathroom stall.  Someone has to get up in the middle of their business, walk to the paper towel dispenser, and then return with said towels.  Then, after using these towels (for purposes I’d rather not think about) this towel-getter then tries to flush the paper towels down the toilet.  Newsflash.  They don’t go.  And if they try to go, then someone else will have to fish them out of the toilet.  Not me, of course.  I’d rather declare the toilet condemned than take on such a distasteful task.  Being a janitor is far from all glory.

Also, is it really that hard to throw paper toweling (I’m talking properly utilized paper toweling, not whatever goes on in the stall) into the garbage?  Go into any public bathroom.  There are paper towels next to the sink, on the floor, sticking out from the ceiling tiles.  It is a scandal.  Certainly, it helps to explain the voting patterns in this country.  Somebody should start shooting these paper towel miscreants.  I’m sure enforcing bathroom etiquette is in the Constitution somewhere.  Right next to the part where gay people should be stoned to death.

The bathroom should be a place of peace, a sanctuary against the hustle and bustle of daily living.  How I love to sit in the bathroom and read.  My thoughts wander to pleasant subjects in a time that is all my own.  Yet, this reverie is not merely idle.  And that is the beauty of the bathroom.  It is one of the few places a person can multi-task and yet not feel harried.

Unless one of my stepsons is knocking on the door so that he can ask me whether I think Lebron is better than Michael Jordan.  The answer, goddammit, is “No.”  Jordan was quicker and a better defender.  How many times do I have to answer the same questions?  And, yes, the 80’s was better because they let the players fight.  But it scared suburban white people so they made them stop.  Suburban white people ruin everything.  Look at rap music if you don’t believe me.

I think I’m going to use some fairy tales to explain to these children the stepchild/stepparent dynamic.  Leave me alone or I will abandon you in a witch-infested woods.  Green witches, like the one from Wizard of Oz that scares you so much.

HEEE HEEE HEEEEE HEEEEEEE!!!  Come here, little boy.  I’ve got a punishment for you.  Guess what it is?  Give up?  I’m going to eat you.  You should have listened when Jason told you Brett Favre wasn’t as good as Aaron Rodgers.

But first you can clean out my toilet.  Some idiot stoppered it up with paper towels.  It was probably Glenda.

Good witch, my ass.

I was watching a horror movie the other day and I got to wondering.  What do these crazed murderers do with the majority of their time?  For example, take the inbred cannibals from the Wrong Turn series.  Sure, they can run around killing and eating people a few times a year, but that can take up maybe a few weeks.  And I am inflating this number for torture and unnatural acts.  Still, these hill people have a good 48-49 weeks on their hands.  Of course, some of that time is spent committing incest and sharpening their machetes.  Even so, there is a lot of their lives that remain obscured from the moviegoer.

I wonder if any of them paint?  Perhaps they favor landscapes or pictures of birds.  After all, they spend all of their time in the backwoods.  It would stand to reason that the subject of nature would be dear to their hearts.  They may also have other, more practical, hobbies such as crocheting or whittling.  Who knows?  I guess I would just like a little more insight into the inner lives of these characters.  It is easy to see them as one dimensional, cannibalistic torturers.  But they have hopes and dreams and an aesthetic instinct.  At our core, we are all just people.

In the same vein, do you ever wonder what happens to kids after the movie is over?  Specifically, I am talking about Eliot from ET.  I am glad ET escapes back to his planet.  Good for him.  Eliot, however, is left on Earth holding the proverbial bag.  I mean, the government isn’t going to just let him off the hook.

Not long after ET escapes, Eliot is taken into custody- say, Guatanamo Bay.  There he is held for years, questioned and probed and drugged in an attempt to squeeze every bit of alien information from his adolescent brain.  Years later, he is released back to society.  Unable to cope, he has problems with drugs and alcohol.  He tells and retells his story of ET and his subsequent incarceration, leading to a stint in the Psych ward.  He is released once again, only to fall back into the same cycle of self-destructive behavior.  Rather than being put into an institution, Eliot goes into hiding into the Appalachian Mountains.  Alone in a cabin in the woods, he finally makes peace with himself by taking up cannibalism and incest (I forgot to mention that his little sister was equally traumatized and went with him).

This is called bringing the story together.  Double Pow.

There are a lot of commercials on TV for erectile dysfunction.  I have a lot of smart things to say about that.  The only problem is that I am a little superstitious.  At least, I worry about irony.  It is everywhere, lurking and waiting for an opportunity to pounce on the unsuspecting bigmouth.  You know what would be some awesome irony?  If Donald Trump was assassinated by a redneck hillbilly who was carrying in a newly minted Gun-Approved Zone.  Hahahaha.  I love revenge fantasies.  Greatest revenge fantasy movie of All-Time?  The aptly named “Payback” with Mel Gibson and Marie Bello.

Marie Bello could probably help some of these men with their ED.  Except for the fact that she is a lesbian.  There’s irony again.  Looming bastard.

Speaking of uprisings (and hillbillies), a gang of armed vigilantes has taken over a bird sanctuary in Oregon.  It would be ironic if they contracted bird flu and died.

Anyway, I digress.  It seems these guys want to use public land as they see fit.  Some of the things they see fit to do are commit arson, graze cattle illegally, and poach deer- just for reference.  And this gang of self-styled Freemen is willing to shoot it out in order to protect their rights.  Ironically, these rights interfere with the rights of others.  But hillbillies don’t understand irony.  That is why they continue to vote Republican.

Another irony in this armed standoff is that the land in dispute was actually stolen from the Paiute Indians.  I’ll bet if you’re an Indian you probably have had enough of irony by now.  I know that I would have.  But I am getting a little sensitive in my old age.  I suspect it is all of those ED commercials.  Watch a football game once.  There is an ED commercial every time somebody gets a first down.  “First Down!  Now, speaking of down, there are a lot of men out there….”

You know, Catholics had it right all along.  As sex is only for procreation, it doesn’t affect any Catholic who is too old to have any children.  Anyway, if you don’t try, you can’t fail.

If you can’t accept failure, you can always lay siege to a wildlife sanctuary.  This is America.

With the New Year on the way, it is time to make some resolutions.  So, with no further adieu, I will quit writing French words.  Non sequitur.  That is Latin.  And makes sense when considering the previous sentences as a group.

Anyway, my first resolution is to quit using the word pusillanimous.  This is an easy one as I have seldom, if ever, used the word pusillanimous.  It frightens me.

I resolve also to avoid participating in Gay Pride parades.  This is not because I have anything against gay people.  It is just that I am a terrible dancer.  Like really bad.  Though not as bad as my dad or brother.  They dance like the Tin Man having an epileptic seizure.  If they only had some rhythm.  Da da da da da dum.

My next resolution is to stop stereotyping others.  This does not apply to the Jews.  Quit hoarding my money and making bad movies.  In fairness, I still haven’t seen the newest Star Wars.  That may change my mind about the movie thing.  Paul Newman is my favorite actor, however.  Best movie?  The Verdict.  “We live in a cynical world.  But today you are the law.”  He also made Cool Hand Luke.  “Nobody can eat fifty eggs.”

I do not resolve to quit quoting movies in the next year.  Or ever.  “Somethin’ ta’ do.”  A little trivia for you related to that last quote.  What crime did Cool Hand Luke commit to end up in the workhouse?  Answer:  He was cutting the heads off of parking meters.  As I say, I mean to educate as well as entertain.

I am also resolve to not shoot heroin this year.  I have a great fear of needles and prison.

I also resolve to quit stating the obvious.  The Republicans can’t win.  There is always next year, I suppose.  I rhyme with Lump.  I rhyme with Lump.  My hair is bad.  I rhyme with Lump.  At least people figured out that Ben Carson is insane.

I further resolve to not be insane in the upcoming year.  At least not in a way that is legally actionable.

Finally, I resolve to be a good person in the next year.  Hahahaha.  Fail.  I don’t resolve that at all.  What are you?  Stupid?  Gullible, at the very least.  I hate good people.  What did they ever do?  The Nazis got us to the moon.

My next resolution is to prove that the moon landing was a hoax.

This is the final resolution.  Pow.

Do you ever read the Comments section of online articles?  If you don’t, you really should start doing so.  These comments will take you through the entire gamut of emotions; joy, fear, shock, anger.  I mean there is nothing funnier than somebody with a Rebel flag on their Facebook page talking about how “we need to take the country back.”  From whom?  That is a rhetorical question.  Billy Joe Bob means minorities and women.  In fairness, during the Confederacy blacks were slaves, women were bearing children and making dinner, and Mexicans had been pacified north of the Rio Grande.  Ahh, nostalgia.  An American favorite.

So, Millennials are a bunch of pussies.  That’s what I hear.  I hear this on comment boards.  You are also entitled and comparable to snowflakes.  But mostly you are pussies.  In fact, an old man wrote the other day that if the WW 2 generation got into it right now with the Millennials, they would kick your ass.  In your face, you video game playing, loafer wearing, non-racist pansies.

In this spirit of this challenge, I would like to suggest the following resolution.  Using one of those new-fangled computers, a random list of three hundred twenty-five year old males and three hundred males aged seventy to eighty-five will be generated.  These people will represent their respective generations.  “Gamers versus Geezers- Answering the Challenge.”  (This name is trademarked and anyone using it will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law- Pow. Pow. Pow.)  Anyway, these randomly selected warriors will be taken by bus to Area 51 in the New Mexican desert.  They will be armed with forty-two inch oak sticks and made to march on each other.  Whoever successfully eliminates the other is the winner.  This solution is both simple and elegant.

As a member of Generation X, I will agree to officiate.  Generation X.  I’ll bet you haven’t heard of them in a while.  We are the generation that nobody wants to deal with.  We are too disillusioned to ever get along with the Boomers or WW2 folk, but way too grumpy for the Millennials’ taste.  Speaking for all of us, that is the way we like it.  And when you are beating each others’ brains out in the desert, we will enjoy it very much.  Do you know how annoying our lives have been?  You all suck.  The people older than us took every resource they could get their hands on.  The people younger than us expect us to give them what little we have.  You can’t find your way to the grocery store without Google maps, but you can always remember to ask for money.

I haven’t forgotten they have made another Star Wars, either.  Get your own series.  What about Harry Potter?  That wasn’t enough?

I’ll make you a deal.  Win the death match and we are even.

I need my Social Security.

 

I was going to write another post about Siri.  You know why?  Because I can’t remember anything any more.  Sometimes I try to rationalize my diminishing mental capacity.  It is because life is so hectic or because I just know so many things.  Of course, this is all to keep from facing reality.  I’m on the downhill slide and the sled is picking up speed.  Anyway, did you ever wonder where Siri is?  And is there a real woman behind that haunting, mechanical voice.

I feel better now.  Happiness is gained by living in an alternate reality.  Why do you think religion does so well?  It certainly isn’t the excitement value.  Have you ever been to a church service where the pastor goes overlong on his sermon?  No one likes that.  They aren’t there to listen to some clown talk.  They just want to make sure that god knows they care.  And to be able to look down their noses at the neighbor who is too lazy to get out of bed on Sunday morning.  I heard he is a drinker.

Speaking of nostalgia, do you remember when there were dedicated drinkers?  If you went to the bar now or six months from now, they would be sitting in there spot, pounding taps of some shitty beer because it was cheap.  Those guys really knew how to live in an alternative reality.  They always had four or five songs that they played on the jukebox.  And it was an eclectic mix; Johnny Cash, Kid Rock, the Doors.  If they were really drunk, they would sing along, pounding out the beat on the bar.  Then the bartender would tell them to calm down and threaten to kick them out.  Sometimes they would stop their pounding.  Sometimes they would get tossed.  Que Sera Sera.  Doris Day sang that song.  I’ll bet there have been a few drunks who have played it on the jukebox.  It kind of lends itself to slurred accompaniment.

Those guys always had short, ordinary names.  Ralph or Toby or Buck.  Their real name may have been Ezekiel, but Skip was a hell of a lot easier to remember after sixteen Grain Belts.  Ah, memories.  What ever became of you Toby?  Have you gone to that great barstool in the sky?  And does Jesus let you play the 500 miles song?  “I’m gonna’ be the man who walks right back to youuuuuuu,” you sing after a few, your arm draped over Jesus’ shoulder in a show of camaraderie.  I don’t know if Jesus is a drinking man, but he made you that way.  So, who knows?  He at least takes a shot of wine now and then.  Maybe he will throw down a few Grain Belts on his birthday.  Wooooooo!!  2016 years old, bitches!  Pow.  Pow.  Pow.  Still going strong.  Does somebody have a dollar?  I want to tee up a little Cash.

Oh, yeah.  That’s right.  Cash is right over there.  Hey, Cash, let’s here a little music.  “I shot a man in Re-nooooo, just to watch him dieeee.  When I hear that whistle blowin’, I lay my head down and cryyyyyyy!!!!”

Tob-eeeeeeee!  Glad you died, man.  It was getting boring as hell up here.  Not that hell is boring, mind you.  I was there once, you know.  Truth is, I would have stayed longer, but Dad wouldn’t have it.  Said it looked bad.  Anyway, glad to see you.  You’re damn right we have the 500 miles song.

If you want, I could just kill those guys.  Save the dollar, get a live performance.  I think they’re Irish or something.  You know those guys like to drink.

Britney Spears says that “mean people suck.”  This is both profound and true.  Vampires, for example, are mean.  Though I am not certain as to whether they actually quality people.  I’m sure there is some definition for personhood.  Maybe being Undead excludes one from being a person.  It’s a point to ponder.  I can say with certainty, however, that vampires are mean.  It is not very nice to bite someone and drain their lifeblood.  At least most people wouldn’t consider that a very nice thing to do.  Who the hell knows what some people are into?  Anyway, I digress.

Prior to my vampire tangent (though I am a big vampire fan, I must confess), I mentioned Britney Spears.  She is, or at least was, a celebrity.  Because of this, people are interested in what she has to say.  I find this remarkable because of a couple things.  Britney has little formal education.  Britney isn’t very intelligent.  Ergo, Britney will be running for the Republican nomination when she is old enough.  Pow.  I love getting in those political shots.  Remember when I said I wasn’t going to politicize this blog?  That was complete bullshit.  And you fell for it so easily.  You have to learn to judge people by what they do, not what they say.

After all, I can say anything.  For instance, I am god (I don’t know which one, this is just an example).  Look at all the things I know about Britney Spears.  If you give me some money, I’ll make sure you get into heaven.  Payment received, golden ticket earned.  If you give me enough money, some of it will surely trickle down to you (if you’re worried I might not invest all of it in your Heaven Ticket).  Win, win.  Also known as the Double Pow.  Or Double Pow Pow.  I can never remember which.

Anyway, back to vampires.  I don’t know about you, but I find them much more interesting than real life.  Imagine if they were real.  I’ll bet the bar business would tank.  I surely wouldn’t go in a bar at night knowing there might be vampires lurking about.  Also, I would only attend matinee movies.  Movie theaters would be an excellent venue in which to ply one’s vampiric trade.  A vampire could turn him or herself into a bat and hide right along the wall of the theater.  Then, after people are sufficiently inattentive due to the movie, the vampire could casually turn back into human form.  If the vampire worked their way from back to front, it could be a real slaughter.  Geeks in yoda t-shirts, soda spilling brats, horny teenagers- all dead.  And when the vampire was done, he (or she) could pull off their cape to reveal a cool t-shirt.  It could say something like “Vampires Do It in the Dark” or “This Movie Sucks” or “I Killed the Popcorn Guy and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt.”

Or “Chester’s Bar.”  There is a real Chester’s Bar.  It’s kind of a dive, but I am not that choosy.

 

Do you know the song “Teenage Wasteland?”  No, you don’t.  It’s not called “Teenage Wasteland.”  It is called “Baba O’Reilly.”  Apparently, that was the Who’s way of being artsy.  I find it rather irritating myself.  I guess the name was a combination of the names of a couple of gurus.  That was in a time when there were a lot of gurus around.  Like Charles Manson.  All gurus, it seems, are not equal.

Anyway, a “Bullet with Butterfly Wings” is another nonsense title masquerading as art.  The song should be called “Rat in a Cage.”  But it isn’t, mostly because Billy Corgan is a pompous ass.  Have you seen Billy Corgan lately?  He is still bald, except now he has the body of a seasoned softball player.  He should also put away the Chuck Taylor’s.  They aren’t cool if you can’t see them past your expansive abdomen.  Billy has parted ways with the rest of the Smashing Pumpkins.  Broken to pieces is that band.  However, Billy has reassembled some new Pumpkins. They are all young and hip and very much admirers of Billy.  As Billy fashions himself as some sort of Svengali, I am sure this situation suits him very well.  Interestingly, Svengali is just another word for guru.  It may not seem like it, but all of these posts have a plan.  You just have to feel them.  Don’t worry, I will show you the way.

Speaking of guru type folk, you don’t see as much crazy religious death cult action as you used to.  Sure, people throw around the phrase “drink the Koolaid” all the time, but how many of them know who Jim Jones was?  Damn few, I’ll guarantee you that.  For a while there, these guys were all over the place.  David Koresh in Waco.  The guys in the Nikes who killed themselves so the aliens could transport them away.  Billy Graham.

Did you know that Billy Graham is still alive?  He must have made a deal with Satan.  I can’t see another explanation.  Unless he was with the Nike aliens for a while and then they dropped him back off.  I don’t blame them if this is the case.  He is annoying as hell.  Of course, the aliens could have given us a break and dropped him off somewhere else.  Venus, for example.  I guess it’s a case of you raised him, you deal with him.

I wonder if these aliens know the aliens who made the pyramids?  I suppose it is possible that they are one in the same.  Of course, Ben Carson doesn’t believe aliens had anything to do with the pyramids.  He says that Joseph built them as elaborate, artistically pleasing grain bins.  And you said the Jews had no style.

You know what would be a good name for a band? Nike Aliens. Their first single could be “Jumpstart Turtlehead.”  But it should really be called “Billy Loves Ben.”  Take a while to mull that one over.  You’ll get there.

Pow.