Cheaper by the Cousin

Apparently, some people want to marry their cousins. We're not talking distant cousins here, but rather, those close family members who happen to be the children of your parent's siblings. You know, cousins. Quite frankly, the whole "cousin" thing kind of pisses me off, come to think of it. We have second cousins, cousins once and twice removed, and even more bizarre relationships.

For example, the drummer for Cream is apparantely my second cousin, once removed. At least he is according to one of my great aunts. Who never lies. At least, she has never once lied to me on the one visit we had together. My dad took me to visit her, despite my obvious lack of interest. I was seven years old, and I had never seen this woman before. Who the hell was "Aunt" Ruby? Why had I never seen her before? It all sounded shady to me. I was forced to meet her, we left, and I never saw her again.

But I digress.

Why do we have all these bizare cousin categories? Nobody has a second brother, twice removed. As far as I am concerned in the cousin cateogry, there are only two kinds: cousins, and people I am not related to. If someone has to involve more than three family relationships in order to explain how I am related to someone, then as far as I am concerned, I'm not really related to them ("Jeffery? You know Jeffery! He's Sally's husband's sister's cousin on Grandma's side." Yeah, whatever. Jeffery is a fucking stranger).

Ok, so I'm still digressing (I think perhaps I should change the name of my blog to "Digress-i Junior High". Aha. Ha. Ha. Ah yes, good times).

So, some people apparently want to marry their cousins. Now, I had always assumed that this particular act was illegal, unless you were Jerry Lee Lewis. Sure, he married his cousin (who was 14 at the time), but that was back in the olden days, when marrying cousins was probably cool or something. Maybe it was a fad. They used to do some pretty stupid things in the olden days, like build castles, burn witches, and vote Republican. The marriage also took place in the South where, to be honest, the idea of inter-cousin-breeding quite frankly seems to explain a whole lot.

So evidently, marriage amongst first cousins is not illegal in the United States. At least, not in all 50 states. If you would like to marry your cousin, you can do so legally in: Alabama, Alaska, California, Colorado, Conneticut, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Maryland, Massachusetts, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, Rhode Ilsand, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Vermont and Virgina.

That's a lot of hot cousin-on-cousin action.

But what about those poor people who don't live in one of these states, and still want desperately to marry their cousins? Well, maybe not desperately enough to travel to another state, but what about them? Luckily, there are still options. Arizona, Illinois, Indiana and Wisconsin will allow cousins to marry, provided you promise - cross your heart and hope to die - not to have kids. Because if you can't trust a cousin-fucker, who can you trust?

Maine stands alone in that it will allow cousins to marry, but only if they undergo "Genetic counseling" first. Apparently, with counseling, you can talk your genes into rearranging themselves sufficiently to eliminate your risk of producing a child that would end up ringing the bells at Notre Dame (or, alternatively, being adopted into the Bush family and becoming president).

Its nice to see the US has such a liberal attitude towards cousin-fucking (come on, lets face it ... once they're married, you know those cousins are going to fuck). Its good to see them spearheading the rights of cousins to breed, and to produce babies with extra toes, fingers, and noses. It's heart-warming to see the US finally taking a hard stand on human rights issues, and allowing cousins to marry.

Unless of course they're of the same gender.

The Spirit of Burke and Hare

Burke and Hare. For those unfamiliar with these gentlemen's works, "William Burke and William Hare were a unique pair of criminals who made a profit from providing dead bodies to the anatomy students of 19th century Edinburgh" (you can read more about them here).

Now, I can't really claim to be a fan of the body-theft industry. However, I do understand that, during the 19th century, there was a need for cadavers. Without the work done then, much of what we know about anatomy would have taken much longer to discover.

The body-theft industry pretty much died out in the mid-twentieth century, but apparently, the body-part theft industry is still alive and strong.

Believe it or not, four men have recently been charged with "...illegally harvesting and selling tissue from 1,077 dead people in the past four years". Now, while I find this reprehensible, I can't also help but find it funny. What makes a bizarre case even more interesting is that some of the body parts in question may have come from British broadcaster Alistair Cooke. Yes, that's right. The Masterpiece Theatre guy.

As a kid, I hated Alistair Cooke. Masterpiece Theatre was definitely too high-brow for me at the time, and it always seemed to be on instead of Monty Python (the only reason I ever watched PBS as a child). So, even though I have nothing against the man as an adult, my long-held childish dislike for the man has now, finally, been quenched.

"Unnamed Designer" Steps Forward

San Francisco (Reuters) - In a move that shocked the scientific community today, Intelligent Design's "unnamed designer" stepped forward to identify herself. Helen Shapiro, aged 46,736,225,654 today admitted to creating the universe and guiding the process of evolution "just to piss off her husband".

According to Mrs. Shapiro, she had become tired of nagging her husgand, JHVH Shapiro, to do certain chores around the house, such as putting out the garbage and creating the universe. Apparently, JHVH was of the impression that, left to its own devices, the universe would eventually create itself. Mrs. Shapiro disagreed, and set about to do the job herself.

"It's been a lot of hard work," said Mrs. Shapiro at a crowded press conference, "but it's been a lot of fun too. The Big Bang was really loud. We had some friends over to barbeque and watch it. Of course, barbecues are one of the few times that that lazy bugger JHVH pulls His weight."

Mrs. Shapiro answered questions adroitly, whether they were placed by the press or by gathered scientists from all fields. Some of the many questions answered and asked by the crowd were:

Question: Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

Answer: The egg, obviously. As creatures were evolving, the biggest steps of evolution came from parent to child. Once, there was a bird that was almost, but not exactly, like a chicken (although it still tasted like chicken). A little nudge, mutation wise, in the genes, and the next egg laid contained a chicken, instead of an almost-but-not-quite-a-chicken.

Question: Is it morally acceptable to kill in God's name?

Answer: [ed. This question was met by stoney silence and a disapproving glare, which stretched on for a few minutes.] Next question.

Question: How many roads must a man walk down?

Answer: What kind of question is that? It doesn't even make sense! In order to what? What's the man's goal when walking down the road? If the man's goal is to get to the store, and there is a store on the same street he lives in, the answer is one. One road. New rule, no more questions from Bob Dylan songs. [ed. Half the raised hands in the room came down at this point.]

Question: Which is the one true religion?

Answer: Scientology. Hah, kidding. There is no one "true" religion. Anyone who says otherwise is selling you something.

Question: Should we be teaching evolution to our school children?

Answer: Absolutely. Think this through. If you've accepted that some divine being has chosen to create the universe, and you've accepted the idea that evolution is a real thing, you should be studying evolution. If a divine being has chosen this method, you should study it, learn what you can from it, and see where that takes you. This whole "intelligent design" thing is silly. Why waste your time searching for the man behind the curtain?

Mrs. Shapiro ended her press conference early, as she had a pie in the oven. JHVH, as ususal, was unavailable for comment.

The Theory of Unintelligent Design

Quite a bit has been said about the movement to discredit the theory of evolution. The people behind this movement are mostly inbred, mouth-breathing, cretinous toads with all the wit and sophistication of a lactating marmoset, but then again, they do have their bad sides. Apparently, they think the the theory of evolution - which is based on science - should not be taught in schools, alongside other silly subjects such as, one would assume, science.

Instead, kids should be taught that "somebody" (the ID people won't say who, but its probably God, ET, or Dr. Who) instead designed all life on earth from scratch. This idea is, of course, based on religious idealogy. As has been said before, ad infinitum, ad nauseum, science is for schools, and religion is for church. As Mahatma Ghandi so delicately put it: "People who support the teaching of Intelligent Design in schools are stupid motherfuckers". Ok, it might not have been Ghandi, it might have been my buddy Dave.

Assuming that the ID folks will eventually be successful (thanks, in part, to combined religious ferver and increased aluminum content in their drinking water) in their goals, I would also like to point out an alternative to another currently accepted scientific standard.

The "Theory" of Relativity

You know, the theory written by that Einsten quack. Seriously, how can you give that guy any credit when he obviously got his hair cut at Superclips? Anyway, the theory is boiled down to the famed equation, E=MC2. It's a very complex theory, with twins aging at different rates, and gravity being the same thing as acceleration, and all that crap. It also makes for some way cool bombs.

Now, let's replace this cumbersome, tired old "theory" with a new theory: The Theory of Intelligent Annoyance. Under this theory, instead of nucelear bombs exploding because of complex scientific principals, we instead assume that they go off because an Unamed Architect gets angry when Uranium is messed around with, and causes it to blow up through a liberal sprinkling of special "anger-juice".

Lets start protesting and lobbying people! Lets get the Theory of Intelligent Annoyance forced into our schools. After all, if you deny God, he might just load up a super soaker with some anger juice, and come after you.

Other Changes

Microwave Ovens: Microwave ovens heat food, not because of microwaves, but because of tiny, invisible angels with blowtorches. They should be referred to from now on as Angel-torch Ovens.

DVD Players: Forget all that circuitry and science crap! DVDs are actually condensed soul juice. You see, when someone dies, their soul can be captured, pressed, and made into a DVD (which actually stands for Deceased Video Dispatch). When placed in a DVD player, you can then observe selected moments of the lives of the deceased, and people he or she may have known. These moments can be observed on any household Talky God Picture Viewer (TgpV).

Un-Cheney My Heart

Further information in the Dick/Harry shooting spree has come to light. I have managed (through cunning, stealth, and invention) to create ... I mean, obtain ... a copy of the official sheriff's report regarding the shooting.

KENEDY COUNTY SHERRIF’S DEPARTMENT

TX XXXXX INCIDENT REPORT

02/11/2006 NUMBER: XXXXX

REPORT DATE: 02/15/2006 - ORI: FSXXXXX

LOCATION: ARMSTRONG - RANCHZONE: ARMSTRONG

At approximately 18:30 hours on Saturday, February 11, 2006, Kenedy County Sheriff XXXXX XXXXX contacted me, Chief Deputy XXXXX XXXXX. The phone call was in reference to a hunting accident that occurred on the Armstrong Ranch.

On Sunday, February 12, 2006, I arrived at the rear gate of the Armstrong Ranch, and was met by Secret Service Agents. The agents inspected my vehicle, clothing, and anal cavity, and then accompanied me to the main house. At the main house, I was met by Vice President Cheney, who proceeded to shoot me in the foot with a pellet gun. I complained at this treatment, and was referred to by the Vice President as a “whiney pussy-baby”.

Mr. Cheney accompanied me inside, and told me he was there to cooperate any way he could with the interview. He then pointed to a piece of paper, where someone had written the following: “If you charge the Vice President with any crime, your wife will be sent to Gitmo at Guantanamo Bay”. Mr. Cheney then laughed, and said, “Just kidding. Not really.” He then proceeded to shoot me in the foot with a pellet gun.

Mr. Cheney then informed me that at approximately 5:30 pm on the day of question, he and Mr. Harry Whittington were out hunting when their dogs indicated that they had located a covey of quail. He said that he took aim at the quail when Mr. Whittington inadvertently walked in front of his shotgun. He yelled out “Get down, Harry” but said that Mr. Whittington refused to reply. This happened several times in a row, prompting Mr. Cheney to “Bust a cap in Harry’s annoying ass because he kept getting in the way”.

After this, Mr. Cheney then began to laugh loudly, and said “No, no, kidding. Hah. Really what happened was, Harry has magnetic plates in his head that attracted the shot. I mean, no, he’s a terrorist. I mean, no, wait, no, yeah, he snuck up on me. Like a dirty terrorist. I mean no, he snuck up on me real quiet like.” He then proceeded to shoot me in the foot with a pellet gun.

I ruled that no crime had been committed.

STATUS: CLOSED

STATUS DATE: 02/15/2006

Deadly Danish (or "How I Learned to Quit Worrying and Love Cartoons")

Step back folks, I've got my rantin' hat on.

Ok, you've all heard about them. If you're at all curious, you've seen them. Danish cartoons depicting the prophet Mohammed wearing a bomb-shaped turban. The insinuation being, apparently, that Mohammed was a terrorist. I'd like to say a few words about this.

First off, the idiot who drew this cartoon is a jerk. No question. The moron who decided to print this cartoon in a newspaper was also a jerk. Even then, the cartoon was printed almost a year ago, and the backlash was limited largely to Denmark. But then, some jackass in Germany decided to reprint the cartoon, and that's what sparked the world-wide controversy.

Was the cartoon tasteles? Yes. Was the cartoon idiotic? Yes. Is the cartoon considered offensive by a large number of Muslims? Obviously, yes. So now, everybody and his brother has jumped n the bandwagon to condemn the people responsible. They have been labled racists, bigots, hate-mongers, and worse.

Get the fuck over it.

Guess what? This the price we pay to have free fucking speech. Free speech means exactly that - free. Its a simple word, and one we should all be able to understand by now. Free speech would be easy if no one ever said anything that anyone else disagreed with or found offensive. But this isn't a butterfly and lollipop world filled with universal friendship and love. Its a real world, filled with hard opinions and ideas. Some of these opinions and ideas are anathema to one another, and as such stating these opinions publically tend to piss some people off. Its a sad fact of reality, but it is a fact.

Has anyone else noticed the irony here? Let me illustrate through an anecodote. When I was in high school, my grandfather came to me and said "You're so smart, tell me what 'belligerent' means". I told him that it meant "War-like, prone to violence or confrontation". I asked him why he was interested, and he told me what had happened. Apparently, a guy at work had called my grandfather belligerent. So my grandfather punched him.

My grandfather realized the irony of punching a man who accuses you of being prone to violence.

So now, we have a cartoon depicting Muslims as violent. Their response? Death threats, bomb threats, and actual deaths. People have been killed in protests, including a 7 year old boy. One has to wonder, do the idiots responsible realize the irony of threatening terrorist activities against someone for drawing a cartoon that depicts them as terrorists?

People are dying because of a cartoon. Fuck me sideways. How fucking stupid are we as a species when we start killing each other over a cartoon? Even the phrase "Anti-cartoon protest" sounds idiotic. What's next? The Care Bear Million Man March? How about a sit-in to protest Fred Flinstone's misogynistic treatment of his wife Wilma?

Yes, the cartoons were blasphemous. But when is the world going to start to understand that you can't kill someone for insulting your deity? Its wrong. Hell, if I popped a cap in someone's ass every time they blasphemed against God, I'd be surrounded by corpses.

In a perfect world, we would all be respectful, and never ever do anything that anyone else found offensive. In this perfect world, bunnies and wolves would frolic together, nobody would ever swear, and no one would ever kill someone because of their religious or political beliefs.

But its not a perfect world.

Fun with Dick and Pain

As you have probably already heard, Dick Cheney "accidentally" shot his buddy Harry Whittington in the face and neck. On a hunting trip. With a shot gun. Cheney claims it was an accident, and for his part, Harry has confirmed this by tapping out his statement on his Blackberry, which, thank God, was unharmed in the incident.

Sources close to the Vice President confirm that the incident was not an accident. According to White House insiders (who, to be fair, are largely fictional), Mr. Cheney shot his friend deliberately, because he was sick and tired of President Bush and other Washington dignataries referring to the duo as "Harry Dick".

It seems that whenever Mr. Bush introduced Mr. Cheney and Mr. Whittington to his friends, family, foreign diplomats, or Saudi money launderers, he would say "I'd like to introduce my friend Harry Dick". He would constantly refer to the two of them as a unit, and even went so far as to send out inter-office memos with the name "Harry Dick" included on the TO line.

According to the lady at the Whitehouse coffee shop, Mr. Bush was heard to say: "I'm gonna throw a party. A big party. A big party, boy. So big, it'll be a ball. Everyone will have a ball at the ball. Even Harry Dick. Ha, get it? Harry Dick at the ball!"

For Cheney, the last straw came when Mr. Bush had 40,000 bumper stickers printed up, which read "Nothing I like better than Harry Dick". Mr. Cheney's wife, Pussy Cheney, reported to her friends that Dick had been watching "The Deer Hunter" over and over the night before the incident.

Further evidence came to light when doctors admitted that each and every piece of shot extracted from Whittington's body was carved with a tiny carricature of Whittington himself. "The detail is incredible," said Mount Sinai's chief of surgery, Doctor Cox. "Underneath a microscope, you can even see that Mr. Whittington is waving."

The FBI has refused to investigate my allegations, noting that they are "spurious" and "motivated entirely by the infantile desire to make juvenile penis jokes". Stupid fuckers.

Happy Valentine's Day

Make your own hearts here.
Thanks to the Velvet Blog for the link.

Yet Another New Blog

Occasionally I like to post essays and thoughts on the nature of improv performance. This blog really didn't seem like the right place to do this, so it occurred to me that I should create a specialized improv blog.

Then I thought, hey, why not invite some other improvisors over to contribute to this new blog? Then it turns out, my friend Laura had the same idea.

So we created Improv Notation. If you're interested in improv or stage craft, make sure you check it out.

If you're more interested in reading my rantings, just hang around here until I make a new post. Try pressing refresh now to see if I've made a new post while you were reading this one. No? Press refresh again.

Top Seven Failed Slogans for Barqs

7. Barqs has bugs.
6. Barqs has breasts.
5. Barqs has boogers.
4. Barqs has large intestinal worms.
3. Barqs has a bitter, crappy taste.
2. Barqs sucks.
1. Barqs has bait.

They Shoot Bushes, Don't They?

Bush is a fucktard. Let's face it, the man has the IQ of potato-salad, the ethics of a genetically bred shark/used-car salesmen hybrid, and all the appeal of an intestinal cyst. And yet, he is the US president. All hail the power of money. If the word "bush" wasn't already a slang-term for cunt, it would be after Dubya.

Bush is against global-warming. Not the actual global warming, but rather, the idea of global warming. Bush tells us that global warming is not real. Bush tells us we have nothing to worry about in regards to global warming. Bush is rich because his family makes insane fortunes selling oil.

Scientists tell us that global warming is a real possibility. Scientists tell us there is plenty to fear about global warming. Scientists tell us that the burning of fossil fuels - aka, oil - is one of the primary causes of global warming.

So, to encapsulate.

The more oil we burn, the more global warming increases.
The more oil we burn, the richer George W. Bush becomes.
Does anybody else see a conflict of fucking interest here?

And now, a fairy tale.

Once upon a time, there was a man named George Deutsch. George Deutsch did a lot of hard work on George W. Bush's 2004 election campaign. As a reward, Mr. Deutsch (who's name, I believe, is Dutch for "douchebag") was given a nice job at NASA, working in the press office.

Its ok though, its not like he was unqualified for the job. After all, he was awarded a journalism degree from Texas A&M University. So obviously he could do the job. Its not like Bush would give a job to a buddy if he couldn't do it. *cough*

Once in place at NASA, Mr. Douchebag was "...linked to a campaign to stifle discussion by space agency scientists on global warming".

Hmm. Seems that Mr. Douchebag was trying to get the scientists - who believe that global warming is a problem - to shut the fuck up about it. One cannot help wonder why he would do such at thing. Of course, the guy who gave him his job doesn't want people to talk about global warming (for reasons that remain mysterious, but might be financially related). And here, conincdentally, we have Mr. Douchebag furthering that agenda.

Now, some people - who might be less charitable than I am - might intimate that Mr. Douchebag was nothing more than a presidential plant, meant to support and advance the president's political agendas in a body that, by its very nature, should be apolitical. But I am inclined to be more understanding. Maybe Mr. Douchebag is just a fucking idiot.

Mr. Douchebag was also linked to an order instructing NASA's website to remove a posting mentioning that 2005 was the warmest year on record. Sure, such information might be interpreted as evidence of global warming. But to be fair to Mr. Douchebag, there could be alternate explanations. Perhaps, despite their fathers' dire warnings, the nation's children had been leaving the front door open, and thereby "heating the entire neighbourhood". It could happen.

The New York Times quoted a Nasa source as saying his involvement was part of "...an intensifying effort at the agency to exert political control over the flow of public information. The effort antagonised Nasa's most senior scientists, and last week prompted Michael Griffin, the agency's administrator, to offer a review of information policy, and a renewed commitment to 'scientific openness'."

One day, Texas A&M University came forward and said that Mr. Douchebag did not in fact have a degree in journalism. It seems that he lied on his resume. Just like the guy who ran FEMA into the ground. A man who, by the way, was given his job by - you guessed it - Bush.

But I'm sure that's just a coincidence.

So Mr. Douchebag resigned.

And they all lived happily ever after.

So, let's boil all this down to its simplest elements.

- Bush makes money from oil

- Burning oil may contribute to global warming

- Global warming, if real, is bad

- Bush doesn't want people to talk about global warming

- Bush gives jobs to unqualified people, so long as they further his agenda

How fucking stupid are we? How can this horseshit continue, time and time again, while we sit back and do nothing? Why is it Clinton undergoes an insanely long trial over oral sex and a cum-stained dress, while Bush can continue to behave in this criminal fashion without any official action?

Are we seriously so fucked up a society that we care more about presidential adultery than we do about graft, theft, and overt lies? Why do we care more about Monica's mouthful than we do about Bush's "...politically motivated campaign to stop scientists from speaking publicly on global warming or giving interviews to the media"?

Its about time we woke the fuck up, people. The wet dream has given way to a nightmare.

Cargo Boom

My car went boom.

Well, ok, not so much "boom" as "hiss", but still, its pretty bad. Before I continue, I would like to make the following disclaimer:

* ASH KNOWS NOTHING ABOUT CARS. THIS IS NOT HIS FAULT, BECAUSE NOBODY EVER TAUGHT HIM ANYTHING ABOUT CARS. ANY BAD DECISIONS ASH MAKES REGARDING CARS SHOULD BE BLAMED ON HIS FATHER. *

I'm pretty sure I killed my car myself. Not deliberately mind you, because I like my car. Ok, sure, its dented and rusty, but its fairly sleek, it has balls, and it gets me places fast. Last week, it was overheating, and I didn't know why. I checked my oil levels, and the oil was completely dry. So I added some oil. 5 litres of oil, to be precise. Apparently - as I have now learned - adding too much oil is a very, very bad thing.

And the car was still overheating.

So I checked my rad fluid levels, and they seemed ok. Just to be safe, I topped off my overflow resevoir, and hoped against hope that this would solve the problem. But it didn't. Now, not only was my car overheating, it was farting out huge clouds of noxious fumes, much like my Uncle Frankie the day after eating chili. Now, bear in mind, all this work I was doing on my car was probably the equivalent of asking a drooling twit to perform open heart surgery using only a steak-knife and a copy of the Coles Notes (Cliff Notes for you Americans) version of Grey's Anatomy.

Yesterday, on the highway, the car started to smoke. From under the hood. Tapping my vast knowledge about all things automotive, I assumed that this was a bad thing. I pulled over when I could, and watched helplessly as smoke poured out of my car. I wondered briefly if it was going to catch fire, but decided not to hang around and watch. I left my car, and walked to work.

So today, I called my mechanic and he sent out a tow truck. The truck has come, and taken my car away. I'm now waiting to find out the verdict: how much it will cost me remains to be seen.

My mechanic warned me that it might just be time to scrap the car. I believe he used the phrase "put it out of its misery".

UPDATE

My car is dead. In lieu of flowers, please send me money.

Superbowl Hiss Story

I can't claim to be a football fan. I don't dislike the sport or anything; in fact, I have been trying to cultivate an interest in the game. For the past year and a half, I have been watching the occasional game, and have even learned a bit about the sport. This year, I decided I was going to watch the Super Bowl, having missed my opportunity the year before (I had to work).

Now, I have never actually watched a Super Bowl before in my life, so I was looking forward to this as a new experience. My friend Gary had just recently come into a new (to him) big-screen TV, and he was planning on watching the game at home. His wife Laura had promised to head out for the day, bringing the boy (Daxon) with her, freeing the house for uninterrupted Super Bowl watching.

During half-time, we were watching the Rolling Stones (who, by the way, wimped out like they did on Sullivan, caving to the NFL's pressure to modify their lyrics ... but what can you expect from Rolling Stones Incorporated?) when the phone rang. It was Laura, who wanted to come home. We were a little surprised, and mentioned that perhaps she didn't fully understand the phrase "uninterrupted Super Bowl Watching". I volunteered to go pick her up, as Gary had been drinking.

I headed out, and picked Laura and her son up, and was driving back when I decided to check out the game on the radio. As I was listening, Laura started to tell me a story about something that had happened at karaoke, when my attention was grabbed by the game announcer. Somebody had the ball, and was running ... past the 20, 30, 50, 70 ... touchdown! According to the announcer, it was the longest run from the line of scrimmage in Super Bowl history.

And I missed it.

I like Laura, and the last thing I would want to do is hurt her feelings (ok, in reality, the last thing I want to do is saw of my testicles with a bread knife), so I remained silent. While a part of me was a little disappointed at not being there to see the play, it wasn't like a huge deal in my life. We drove quietly for a few moments, when I heard Laura speak.

"Are you upset with me?"

Like I said earlier, I didn't want to hurt Laura's feelings, but I did want to have a little fun with her.

"I ain't sayin' nothin'," I said oxymoronically. I was going to let her twist for a few moments, but it became obvious that we both knew how I felt, and that while mildly disapointed, it was no big deal. We both laughed.

"Besides, if it had been Gary, he would have killed you." Gary is a huge sports fan. "And after he returned home, I would have mocked him severely, so perhaps this is for the best."

We both had a laugh out of it, and Gary was actually nice enough not to mock me when we get back.

The Stereotypical Hobson's Choice

Tired and cramped. Stressed. In need of nothing so much as a good blowjob, a good meal and true love. Friday night meant relaxation; a chance to slip the grind and to live briefly as if he were free. Vincent started the bath, pouring a measure of luminescent pearl liquid from a glass decanter into the frothing waters. He stood, swaying suddenly at the head rush. A recently smoked fattie (really meant for two to share, if he cared to admit it) had taken firm effect.

Vincent briefly swayed to the sounds coming from his stereo, the low subwoofer beat driving through him like soft butter spikes. In the Arms of an Angel, from the simply astounding Sarah McLachlan, wove waves over him as he walked to the counter. Lighter in hand, he lit several strategically placed, finely yet subconsciously balanced, candles. A generous portion of liquid potpourri quickly filled the air with the subtle yet heady scent of an unidentified flower.

A gesture and a nod was enough, and his dog Storm (a pedigree boxer) lay down on the bath mat, and looked up at him with soft eyes. While to some, a dog would be considered a pet, to Victor, his dog was a family member, as loved as any brother or cousin. He suspected that, were he ever to be lucky enough to find out, he might love a son or daughter more than his dog, but he wasn’t sure.

Fuck, Vincent thought as, de-robed, he slipped into the comfortingly horrific hot waters. As scalded as he felt, he was grateful that the water was not as hot as he usually made it. The bubbles creaked and popped silently as he slid into the water. He leaned back slowly, removing his glasses and setting them on the counter. He sighed, his ego and his id went to war as he flew into the music, transported and uplifted; only to wrench and frown as a phalanx of reason would assert itself over the situation.

As his two natures warred, he was presented with a thought.

This would be, like, the most possibly stereotypical way in which to actually encounter a vampire.

He chuckled to himself, equally amused with his folly as he was interested in the possibility. Perhaps interested, a certainly useful and admirable transitive verb, was in and of itself entirely inadequate in its ability to properly express this particular shade of emotion. To be fair, that’s hardly what the word was intended to convey, but I don’t think they’ve come up with a single word meaning “interest/dread/lust/fear”.

Sarah faded away, to be replaced by Marilyn Manson’s cover of Tainted Love. The soft and kind notes receded, beaten down by the driving beat and the sound of menace filled silken hatred. Once again, Victor thought, a pretty standard song for the soundtrack.

Manson faded, and Bowie was born, growing stronger into Scary Monsters. The discordant beat and jarring imagery flooded through his mind, and he slid deeper into the waters. He started suddenly, in the corner of his eye spying a man, tall, handsome, classically-trimmed van dyke twisting in the fingers of a black-gloved hand. He wore a dark suit, impeccably tailored, dark red satin shirt; tasteful black cloth (not leather, so at least that particular cliché had been narrowly averted) trench coat over it all.

The time has come.

The thought was strong, the though was heard, the thought was not Vincent’s. Vincent saw it, still not quite believing: the first stage, the Enticement was upon him. He thought back to every book, movie, and graphic novel on vampires he had ever read. Enough books to fill – and even Victor would be surprised to somehow learn this – a medium-sized bookmobile. Not the full-sized Winnebago, mind but rather the middle-sized one that you sometimes ran too with a hopeful gleam in your eye, only to realize that it wasn’t the ice-cream truck.

Which would I honestly choose? Vincent wondered, fully lost with the reality side of this possibility. To live life on as I have, with no guarantee of success, health, or happiness? A live with no guarantee of heaven? Or would I renounce my life, my soul, perhaps, and become as one of the undead?

The possible futures lay themselves out before him, each an eager whore, anxious for the seed of his belief. If he stayed … well, human, he supposed … he might live out a sad and lonely life, and die in pain; destination oblivion. However, he could also live well, gain success in his life, and die a happy and prosperous man; bound for Heaven with a song in his heart. Tra la la.

But then, there was … oh, hell, to call it the Gift sounded too fucking melodramatic. If he called it the Gift he’d have to change his name to Lucius or Julienne and go move into a gothic fucking mansion in downtown Atlanta. And Vincent fucking hated Lestat. He just couldn’t take the chance that the bastard might be real.

Call it a choice. Small case 'c'. Nothing more, or less. Nothing greater, for that matter. For from here, he made his choices based upon full knowledge. I know not what I did would no longer be a phrase he could honestly use. He could choose life, good and God, or death, depravity, and Damnation. Or maybe not, Vincent dared to hope. Some books are about vampires who follow a good path, worship God, and therefore might be saved. There might be enough time to redeem himself.

Vincent allowed himself to follow these future paths fully, exploring and considering every angle. The vampire – for really, to refer to it as anything else from here on in would just be coy – stood silently, following Vincent’s thoughts through their fluid course. The vampire sniffed, softly. Hmm. Jasmine.

Victor followed each path to its end. First, the good. Life, sunlight. Then, the bad. Death, darkness. Eternity. Heightened experiences, a chance to do everything, to go everywhere, to read everything. Vincent felt his decision forming as the shadow of the vampire fell slowly across the still water. Vincent saw himself, in his minds eye, acquiescing; feeling the short, soft twin stings of fangs as the slow rush of death and desire dashed through his body like angry waves against a solitary rock. The slow draining death, replaced the by rush of cold blood, mixed with his own warmth, flooding over his lips, hungrily sucking, not even pretending to be repulsed.

The coldness of death, of feeling his own warmth fade as the waters of the bath cooled and grew tepid. How long, he couldn’t say. Hours, perhaps, but no more than a night, judging from the blackness outside the window. Vincent imagined standing, glowing with newfound power and insight. Undeath, in Proprius Gloria, Laus Cavus.

He imagined stepping out the tub, cool water slipping off of palid flesh. He imagined slipping into his robe, and stepping out into the hall. He saw himself encountering Storm. He saw her hackles raised, her shoulders hunched as she snarled and drooled her implacable hatred.

Fuck, Vincent thought, I forgot dogs hate the undead. The bubble popped, and the decision reversed. Try has he might, he could never imagine living as someone that dogs would hate. A dog was, to Vincent, the last shred of evidence of goodness in the world. No matter how foul mankind could be, how spiteful, petty, greedy, and hateful, for in the eyes of a dog, Vincent could see love.

Vincent made his decision. He would live.

A most interesting decision, and an enjoyable tale. The thought was not his own. But sadly, predicated upon a fallacy. Your choice, as you put it, is not between life and undeath. It is between undeath, and regular, ordinary, every day death.

So be it.

Vincent shook himself from his cannabis-laced fantasy, and chuckled softly as he reached out a toe to shut off the tap. He sighed contentedly, swatting briefly at two, sudden pricks of pain in his neck. He sunk deeply into sleep.

Diet: Week 16

STARTING WEIGHT: 281.6 pounds
THIS WEEK'S CHANGE: - 1.0 pound
TOTAL WEIGHT LOST: 31.6 pounds
CURRENT WEIGHT: 250.0 pounds

Well, things could be better, but at least I am back on track. A few trips to the Pad Thai palace, but other than that, mostly on focus. I'm still not drinking enough water (pause while I take a drink of water) so that's definitely something to work on.

I've Been Tagged

I was "tagged" by a "meme". I don't know precisely what that means (nor am I motiviated enough to Google the phrase to find out), but I did understand the questions. So here they are, with my answers.

Seven things to do before I die
- Travel to England. See everything
- Finish my novel and screenplay, and write many , many more
- Find true love (possibly in England, just to kill 2 birds with 1 stone)
- Take a cruise
- Vacation somewhere hot
- Learn to ballroom dance
- Take acting classes

Seven movies I love
- The Princess Bride
- Lord of the Rings trilogy (ok, I know its 3 movies, fuck off)
- The Ring
- A Clockwork Orange (even though Kubrick cacked the ending)
- One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
- American History X
- Vs. The Dead (just because I'm in it)

Seven books I love
- Piers Anthony, On a Pale Horse
- JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Ring Trilogy (Counting Nazis: See the movies)
- Steven King, Bag of Bones
- Neil Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, Good Omens
- Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Trilogy (in 5 parts)
- Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange
- Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

Seven things I say
- I rarely pay attention to the things I say

Seven things that attract me to people
- Intelligence
- Humour
- Honesty
- Similar interests
- The ability to ignore the desire to forward on Internet jokes and funny pictures
- Intelligence (it's important)
- Humour (ditto)

Seven things I can't do
- Write with my left hand
- Tightrope walk
- Speak another language
- Program in C++
- Annoy people by forwarding on Internet jokes and funny pictures
- Count to seven

Seven people to tag
- I do't like to tag people