Silflay Hraka

6/22/2002





Some of our comets are missing.

Hmm. The calculated mass of the Oort cloud is the equivalent of 40 earths, even though it has never been surveyed by telescope. Occam's razor would suggest that the initial calculations of the population of the cloud were just wrong. Even if one assumes that the calculations are correct, the fact that we're seeing less than we would expect could be explained by any number of things. Not the least of which is Nemesis. If a companion star does indeed exist, a great number of the comets that we would expect to be there now would have impacted on the Sun and inner solar system millions of years ago, with countless others ejected entirely.

There's a theory that, in order for life to successfully arise, gas giants such as Jupiter and Saturn are needed to protect inner planets by sweeping out incoming comets. It's entirely conceivable that this may not be enough, that in order for life to develop, millions if not billions of comets need to be removed from the Oort cloud at an early point in a system's development. If this does not occur, could the number of comets falling down the gravity well actually increase? I've got no idea what kind of numbers to play with here, but you don't need a whole lot of impacts to effectively stymie life at an early level of development, and the more comets that come rolling down the hill, the more likely it is one will hit you. I would actually hope this is not true, just to increase the chances that we are not alone.


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Well, this looks like a hypochondriacs wet dream.

Nervous? Depressed? No point in taking Paxil, you probabably just have Mad Cow Disease. Especially if you ate beef before 1985

Update: You can get all your latest scary Mad Cow news here.


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We can rebuild her. We can make her better than she was before. Better, Stronger, Faster. Now, Fetch!


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ok. so i just joined and was wondering if i am on the site. i have this terrible habbit (like rabbit) of typing in lower case...just too lazy to hit the shift key. hope i can contribute to the menial mindless crap the others have been producing!


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Annoying the Wife - Chapter Four - Satuday Mornings

I’ve only been a parent for two years, and already my daughter is a junkie. Ngnat (pronounced nat) was warmish and clingy last night, which is normally a precursor to an ear infection or a cold. The only thing we’ve discovered that really helps is a thick grape medicine. Since someone might leave a dollar in the tip jar one day, and I don’t want to have to share it with a drug conglomerate, and I feel like some Engrish, I’ll call it Chirren’s Tyrenol. So we dosed her, she perked up, and spent the rest of the evening alternately dancing to the Wiggles and demanding that we stop dancing to the Wiggles.

You might get the idea from this post and previous ones that we watch a lot of Wiggles. This is untrue. We watch way more Wiggles than that. We wake up with the Wiggles, we go to sleep with the Wiggles, and in between we eat, drink and excrete the Wiggles. I made the mistake of burning a Wiggles cd for Ngnat early on, and now that is the only cd that we can play in the car, ever.

I just thank God it’s not Barney.

It’s Saturday, my day to get up early with the Ngnat, allowing her mother another half-hour of blessed unconsciousness before the normal crashes, cat complaints and the other divers alarums of a weekend morning drive her from the Sandman’s embrace. Ngnat takes juice and snack ( joosanack) and watches, surprise, the Wiggles. I start the coffee and warm up the oven for biscuits. Once upon a time I made biscuits from scratch, having decided that any true southern cook should know how to make, at a minimum, scratch biscuits and fried chicken, both of which are harder to do well than you would think. I do still know how to make them both, but the biscuits at least have succumbed to technology. There are frozen biscuits now, let’s call them Pirrsbully Home Baked Crassics, that are the equal of 99% of every homemade southern scratch biscuit ever made, so now I save 2 hours by sticking the frozen dough into the oven and taking out biscuits 20 minutes later. Let me make one thing clear, these are not the biscuit abominations you get from the tube. Only red-necks and white trash buy those biscuits, and they mostly feed them to the bird-dogs. I know this because that’s all mom ever made when we were growing up. The dogs weren’t allowed in the house back then, so we had to choke them down ourselves. We had to go to Grandma’s house to get real biscuits. Four children and a teaching job were no excuse, moms.

So the coffee in the insanely efficient yuppie coffee maker is brewing and the oven is warming to the optimum temperature to bake Southern scratch equivalent, non-redneck biscuits. In pads the Ngnat.

"Mehnimun."

I have no idea what idea what she’s saying, so I fall back on my normal strategy of nodding my head and agreeing.

"Ok, honey."

"Mehnimun!"

Sainted wife and mother stumbles down the stairs about this time, still hung-over from her regular Friday night pitcher of gin and recriminations. Well no, not really, but if you can’t throw a scare into the grandparents every now and then, what’s the point of telling them about the blog in the first place? Besides, I really saying "pitcher of gin and recriminations." It’s pretty fun to type, too. Gin and Recriminations. Really covers the keyboard. You know that thing Alex Beam said about bloggers needing editors? He might have something there. But we can’t afford one, so it’s messy free-association all over the place. You don’t care for the free association? Fine, drop a dollar in the bucket, and we’ll try some paid association. Just make sure you write and tell us what your poison is.

Ok, starting over. Sainted wife and mother stumbles groggily into the kitchen, still groggy from the glass and a half of Riesling she consumed during the A.I. DVD last night and gropes her way, zombie-like, towards the coffee.

"Mehnimun!"

Still no clue what’s going on. If it’s not an observation, possibly it’s a request. "Maybe later, dear. After breakfast?"

"MEHNIMUN!"

Screw this for a pony. "Ask your mother, dear."

"She wants her medicine, you idiot."

"Well, good morning to you too, princess! What do you mean, her medicine?"

"MEHNIMUN!"

"She wants her grape medicine from last night."

"Does she feel bad?

"MEHNIMUN! MEHNIMUN! MEHNIMUN!"

"How should I know? Ask her."

"Ngnat, honey, do you feel bad?"

She gives me a tentative look while her CPU spikes, attempting to find a response that will end in mehnimun being delivered. Finally, nods her head.

"Does your head hurt?"

"Es."

"Is your throat sore?"

"Es."

"Is your epidermis confabulatory?"

"Es."

Clearly she will say or do anything that allows her to get back on the purple horse. The sainted wife and mother has collapsed on the sofa with her coffee, so there’s no help forthcoming from that sector.

"Ok. Go sit on the couch with Momma, and I’ll bring you some medicine."

"Ok daddy."

Crisis temporarily diverted. I could just give her the medicine, surely it’s just liquid aspirin or something equally innocuous, but the wife probably wouldn’t go for that. What I need is a medicine substitute, some sort of Toddler Methadone. What’s in the fridge? Nothing…nothing….nothing dammit….a-ha! White grape juice concentrate!

For future reference, a third of shot glass of white grape juice concentrate with a half drop each of red and blue food coloring makes an excellent substitute for grape flavored Chirren’s Tyrenol.

One fix later, I ‘m back preparing breakfast, most of which will undoubtedly be eaten by cats. Gotta have more than biscuits, that’s no one’s idea of a balanced meal, even if you count marmalade as a fruit. Scanning….scanning….tomato! We have a solitary tomato from the garden so far, the rest having been devoured by sundry varmints. I had plucked this one to let it ripen on the sill, which it had finally done. There’s some elderly Romano cheese in the fridge…eggs…olive oil….menu complete. I pull out the biscuits, butter them while they’re hot, have some more coffee, and commence banging around on pots, pans and various implements, which rouses the bear from her sofa and brings back to the kitchen for more caffeine.

"What are you doing?"

"I’m a cooking, signorina!" Drop eggs in hot olive oil, add diced tomato and grated Romano.

"What are you cooking?" Peering in the frying pan with a look of trepidation.

"I’ma cooking anna Italian scrambled eggsa for you and the bambina." Stirring, stirring, stirring, keep those eggs a stirring.

"I don’t think you need any more coffee. What makes them Italian?"

"They’re Italian because a I’ma talking likea thisa!" Stirring, stirring, stirring, rawhide!


"Why can’t you just scramble eggs like a normal person? Which one is my biscuit?"

"Thata one."

"You buttered my biscuit!" She doesn’t like it when I butter her biscuit. "Stop talking like that."

"I always butter your biscuit. If you don’t butter them when they’re warm, the butter doesn’t melt. Besides, I used your ‘I Can’t Believe It’s a Thick Yellow Paste’ crap."

"I don’t like it when you butter my biscuit."

"Why not?"

"……"

"Well?"

"It’s an invasion of my personal space!"

"Buttering your biscuit."

"Yes."

"Is an invasion of your personal space."

"Yes!"

"I can’t a helpa it. Italianos havea different idea ofa da personal spacea thana you impersonal, teasing Americanas!"

"Ahhhhhhhh! Stop it!"

"Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen the moon hits you eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore!
When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine, that's amore!
When the stars make you drool just like a pasta fazool, That's amore!"

"You’re not Italian! No one in your family is Italian! If an Italian saw you right now he’d beat the crap out of you!"

"…….You’re right."

"Of course I’m right!"

"I’d better switch to French, they’re not going to beat up anybody."

"Oh. Dear. God." Exit, chased by a Frog.


Postscript: First time visitor to House Hraka? Wondering if everything we produce could possibly be as brilliant/stupid/evil/pedantic/insipid/inspired as the post you just read? Check out the Hraka Essentials, the (mostly) reader-selected guide to Hraka's best posts, and decide for yourself. Also, you're currently at the old site. Fresh Hraka is posted every day at our current location.





This a republished rough draft of the original post, which looks to have been lost by blogger

Annoying the Wife - Chapter Four - Saturday Morning

I’ve only been a parent for two years, and already my daughter is a junkie. Ngnat (pronounced nat) was warmish and clingy last night, which is normally a precursor to an ear infection or cold. The only thing we’ve discovered that really helps is a thick grape medicine, .…..since someone might leave a dollar in the tip jar one day, and I don’t want to have to share it with a drug conglomerate, and I feel like some Engrish, I’ll call it Chirren’s tyrenol. So we dosed her, she perked up, and spent the rest of the evening alternately dancing to the Wiggles and demanding that we stop dancing to the Wiggles.

You might get the idea from this post and previous ones that we watch a lot of Wiggles. This is untrue. We watch way more Wiggles than that. We wake up with the Wiggles, we go to sleep with the Wiggles, and in between we eat, drink and excrete the Wiggles. I made the mistake of burning a Wiggles cd for Ngnat early on, and now that is the only cd that we can play in the car, ever.

I just thank God it’s not Barney.

It’s Saturday, my day to get up early with the Ngnat, allowing her mother another half-hour of blessed unconsciousness before the normal crashes, cat complaints and the other divers alarums of a weekend morning drive her from the sandman’s embrace. Ngnat takes juice and snack ( joosanack) and watches, surprise, the Wiggles. I start the coffee and warm up the oven for biscuits. Once upon a time I made biscuits from scratch, having inherited the idea that any true southern cook should know how to make, at a minimum, scratch biscuits and fried chicken, both of which are harder to do well than you would think. I do still know how to make them both, but the biscuits at least have succumbed to technology. There are frozen biscuits now, let’s call them Pirrsbully Home Baked Crassics, that are the equal of 99% of every homemade southern scratch biscuit ever made, so now I save 2 hours by sting the frozen dough into the oven and taking out biscuits 20 minutes later. Let me one thing clear, these are not the biscuit abominations you get from the tube. Only red-necks and white trash buy those biscuits, and the red-necks and white trash feed them to the bird-dogs. I know this because that’s all mom ever made when we were growing up. The dogs weren’t allowed in the house back then, so we had to choke them down ourselves. We had to Grandma’s house to get real biscuits. Four children and a teaching job were no excuse, moms.

So the coffee in the insanely efficient yuppie coffee maker is brewing and the oven is warming to the optimum temperature to bake Southern scratch equivalent, non red-neck biscuits. In pads the Ngnat.

“Mehnimun.”

I have no idea what idea what she’s saying, so I fall back on my normal strategy of nodding my head and agreeing.

“Ok, honey.”

“Mehnimun!”

Sainted wife and mother stumbles down the stairs about this time, still hung-over from her regular Friday night pitcher of gin and recriminations. Well no, not really, but if you can’t throw a scare into the grandparents every now and then, what’s the point of telling them about the blog in the first place? Besides, I really saying “pitcher of gin and recriminations.” It’s pretty fun to type, too. Gin and Recriminations. Really covers the keyboard. You know that thing Alex Beam said about bloggers needing editors? He might have something there. But we can’t afford one, so it’s messy free-association all over the place. You don’t care for the free association? Fine, drop a dollar in the bucket, and we’ll try some paid association. Just make sure you write and tell us what your poison is.

Ok, starting over. Sainted wife and mother stumbles groggily into the kitchen, still groggy from the glass and a half of Riesling she consumed during the A.I. dvd last night and gropes her way, zombie-like, towards the coffee.

“Mehnimun!”

Still no clue what’s going on. If it’s not an observation, possibly it’s a request. “Maybe later, dear. After breakfast?”

“MEHNIMUN!”

Screw this for a pony. “Ask your mother, dear.”

“She wants her medicine, you idiot.”

“Well, good morning to you too, princess! What do you mean, her medicine?”

“MEHNIMUN!”

“She wants her grape medicine from last night.”

“Does she feel bad?

“MEHNIMUN! MEHNIMUN! MEHNIMUN!”

“How should I know? Ask her.”

“Ngnat, honey, do you feel bad?”

She gives me a tentative look while her CPU spikes, attempting to find a response that will end in mehnimun being delivered, finally nods her head.

“Does your head hurt?”

“Es.”

“Is your throat sore?”

“Es.”

“Is your epidermis confabulatory?”

“Es.”

Cleary she will say or do anything that allows her to get back on the purple horse. The sainted wife and mother has collapsed on the sofa with her coffee, so there’s no help forthcoming from that sector.

“Ok. Go sit on the couch with Momma, and I’ll bring you some medicine.”

“Ok daddy.”

Crisis temporarily diverted. I could just give her the medicine, surely it’s just liquid aspirin or something equally innocuous, but the wife probably wouldn’t go for that. What I need is a medicine substitute, some sort of Toddler Methadone. What’s in the fridge? Nothing…nothing….nothing dammit….a-ha! White grape juice concentrate!

For future reference, a third of shot glass of white grape juice concentrate with a half drop each of red and blue food coloring makes an excellent substitute for grape flavored Chirren’s Tyrenol.

One fix later, I ‘m back preparing breakfast, most of which will undoubtedly be eaten by cats. Gotta have more than biscuits, that’s no one’s idea of a balanced meal, even if you count marmalade as a fruit. Scanning….scanning….tomato! We have a solitary tomato from the garden so far, the rest having been devoured by sundry varmits. I had plucked this one to let it ripen on the sill, which it had finally done. There’s some elderly romano cheese in the fridge…eggs…olive oil….menu complete. I pull out the biscuits, butter them while they’re hot, have some more coffee, and commence banging around on pots, pans and various implements, which rouses the bear from her sofa and brings back to the kitchen for more caffeine

“What are you doing?”

“I’m a cooking, signorina!” Drop eggs in hot olive oil, add diced tomato and grated romano.

“What are you cooking?” Peering in the frying pan with a look of trepidation.

“I’ma cooking anna Italiana scrambled eggsa for you and the bambina.” Stirring, stirring stirring, keep those eggs a stirring.

“I don’t think you need any more coffee. What makes them Italian?”

“They’re Italian because a I’ma talking likea thisa!” Stirring stirring stirring, rawhide!

“Why can’t you just scramble eggs like a normal person? Which one is my biscuit?”

“That one.”

“You buttered my biscuit!” She doesn’t like it when I butter her biscuit. “Stop talking like that.”

“I always butter your biscuit. If you don’t butter them when they’re warm, the butter doesn’t melt. Besides, I used your ‘I Can’t Believe It’s a Thick Yellow Paste’ crap.”

“I don’t like it when you butter my biscuit.”

“Why not?”

“……”

“Well?”

“It’s an invasion of my personal space!”

“Buttering your biscuit.”

“Yes.”

“Is an invasion of your personal space.”

“Yes!”

Moving in, trapping her against the pantry door. “ I can’t a helpa it. Italianos havea different idea ofa da personal spacea thana you impersonal, teasing Americanas!”

“Ahhhhhhhh! Stop it!”

“Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen the moon hits you eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore!”

“Go away!”

“When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine, that's amore!”

“You’re not Italian! No one in your family is Italian! If an Italian saw you now he’d kick your ass!”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right”

“I’ll switch to the French, they can’t kick anyone’s ass.”

“Oh, dear god.”

Exit, chased by a frog.


Postscript: First time visitor to House Hraka? Wondering if everything we produce could possibly be as brilliant/stupid/evil/pedantic/insipid/inspired as the post you just read? Check out the Hraka Essentials, the (mostly) reader-selected guide to Hraka's best posts, and decide for yourself. Also, you're currently at the old site. Fresh Hraka is posted every day at our current location.




Policy on linking to Silflay Hraka*

It has come to our attention that many sites out on the Web are NOT linking to Silflay Hraka. It is our considered legal opinion that this is a violation of our right to spread propaganda, myth and mayhem throughout the world. Therefore, Silflay Hraka is adopting a policy of mandatory linking. Web sites, and blogs in particular, will no longer be allowed to not link to Silflay Hraka. Reading this statement shall constitute acceptance of this new policy, and shall be considered a legally binding agreement to link to Silflay Hraka. Violators of this term of service will be pursued most vigorously via pandering, begging, pleading emails to please, please link to our blog here at Silflay Hraka. We may even have our lawyer email you to further whore for links.

And we want permalinks, mind you. Transient links are nice, but permalinks are really nice.

And then, you must bring us a shrubbery!

* Much thanks to NPR for the idea.





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6/21/2002




Hi Moms!

The latest Melungeon story is here.


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How we see America. How they see America.


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So if you can't spot a Sea Lion sneaking into the airport, how are you going to spot an Arab with a belly full of C-4?


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San Antonio is the sweatiest city. Houston, the # 1 fattest city, is the number four sweatiest. My God, if they all went outside at once, maybe Texas wouldn't have a drought.


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The imaginary political comedy conversation meme lands at File 13.

I'm not gonna claim this, but I still don't remember seeing any of this until after the first Conversation with Zod was posted. Then Meryl posted the Fudd Doctrine, and then they were everywhere..


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Close Call

Surprise!!!! You almost died.


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TANSTAFFL stays calm and collected while he ponders "THE MIDDLE EAST AND WHAT WE MUST DO TO RID OURSELVES OF THIS PUSTULENT BOIL ON THE BACKSIDE OF CIVILISATION"

The thing I've always wondered about the "72 black-eyed houris" who greet each martyr in paradise...well, not always, but lately, is this. "Black-eyed." Do they come pre-beaten up for the convenience of the Islamic male? Allah forfend that the new hero of Islam lift a finger to remonstate with a wayward houri. Or, since no human woman has irises of black, are they not even human at all? I suspect not. You know who does have black irises? Goats. Goats have black irises. I hope the martyrs enjoy them.

Update: Fuck the Palestinians.

Quoting from the TANSTAFFL post above:
"Killing children is CHOSEN as the best path to take. There is not a single Palestinian who can’t lay their grubby paws on an AK-47, and more ammo than they can carry. They physically can’t get more than an hour’s walk from an Israeli checkpoint, which come conveniently supplied with ample targets. Any of these cretins could make their way right up close to all the enemy soldiers they want, and start firing."


And from Lileks::
"This is, or rather was, five-year old Gal Aizenman. She was ripped to shreds by poison-soaked nails at a Jerusalem bus stop this week. Your task: find the Western value that says she deserved to die. Find the Western value that says God wants this child to be blown up in front of her mother. Find the Western value that insists God not only smiled upon her death, but welcomed her killer to a whorehouse heaven. Find a big-league Bishop who commended her killer to paradise, and a murderer's mother who exhulted in this child's extermination.

Last question: you remember that famous, horrible photo of the young girl fleeing naked from a napalm attack in Vietnam. You may know that she was treated in Saigon by American-staffed hospital. She survived, was held up as a heroine by the Communists, sent to Cuba to be educated - and she defected to the West for freedom the first chance she had.

Describe, in as many words as necessary, the likelihood of a neighbor of Israel giving intensive medical care to Gal, granting her citizenship, appointing her to an international human rights board, and writing stories - for domestic newspapers - drenched in shame for the trauma she suffered.

Assume, for the sake of argument, Gal is alive.":


Update 2: The Clint Eastwood Solution
link via Meryl


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So I decided today that I'd fallen too far behind in keeping up with the blogs over on the left, what with having a job, a family and the self-created onus of putting up something new in the Hraka slot regularly. I try to visit them all at least once a day, and, here's the kicker, read everything on each of them that's new to me. Frankly, most days that's impossible. I've found that my new favorite blogs are the ones where I can pop in, see that there's nothing new, and exit. I love ya'll. Coyote at the Dog Show hasn't updated since the 18th. I give a little bark of joy every time his page loads. On the other hand, there's War Now, File13 and Tres Producers, the tar babies of the blogosphere. It's like that dream, that dream, where the toilet is rising, overflowing and all you have to bail with is your wife's toothbrush cup? Everyone has that one, right? So, it's bail, bail, bail, trying to make sure nothing slops over out of the Internet and onto the floor. I start at the bottom and work up, so most nights Instapundit gets a cursory visit or none at all, which I know leaves him heartbroken. Pretty much everyone above Ernie's Stupid Weblog is ranked by the amount of pain they inflict on my brain in the wee morning hours.

So here I am with a few hours, having read the news, made some posts and deposited a sufficient amount of familial devotion to cover several hours. Time to read everything new in every blog over there.

Ok, so here's the thing. It can't be done. Not in the time I have, with the brain I have left to me, and I read 9000 words per minute. Well, once, I read 9000 wpm. In my ninth grade English class. And I was cheating. I’m sorry, Mrs. Griffin.

My family views competition like a dingo views a nice fat baby, apart from my mother and the various in-laws, who view us with the same horrified fascination and condemnation said dingo gets. If we can’t win at something, or at least cheat in an enjoyable manner, we don’t participate. Family board games involve the sturm und drang of a mid-level globalization riot. A ninth-grade speed reading course, involving my entire class? That’s a baby, covered in gravy, rolling in bacon bits.

The course was built around a 10 lesson workbook, containing 5 pages of reading material and 20 questions on the content of the material. We were supposed to scan thru the material, than answer the questions. Anything less than 70% comprehension of the material meant that you were reading too fast. Once you finished reading, you raised your hand and the teacher announced the time expired since the start of the lesson. Announced the time! Out loud! In. front. Of. The. Entire.Class! mmmmmmmmmmm…notoriety.

I discovered early on that on any given test, I already knew 50% of the answers. I was already the fastest reader in my class, so I could have slid through with minimal effort. But this wasn’t about laziness, this was about humiliation. I easily doubled, then tripled the scores of the next fastest reader, and she bore the same relation to the rest of the class. Then came THE day, the day the section was on Winston Churchill, the day after I finished a biography on Winnie. I went for broke, turned the pages without even looking at them, and slammed my hand into the air at the three second mark. You know the gasp that went up from the audience just after Kerry Strug landed her vault? You remember the gasp you gasped the first time you saw Michael Jordan move the basketball through 18 different vectors before slamming it down at the speed of sound? When Tony Hawk landed a 720?

That was my gasp. I heard it first, arising from the chunky throats of a dozen sons of farmers and automobile dealers, as they realized that they were going to beat the crap out of me at lunch. They cast their gimlet gaze upon me as Mrs. Griffin announced “9000 words per minute, 80% comprehension” (I marked four wrong on purpose, figuring that it would sell better). My god, it was good.

An important thing to remember here, is that in situations like this, quoting Gimli’s rejoinder to Eomer on the beauty of Galadriel* doesn’t stop you from getting your ass kicked. Indeed, it’s kicked a little harder. But it has style, of a sort, which you may as well have if you’re going to get pulverized anyway.

Ok, my original point, before the free-association kicked in, was that, even in the microscopic slice of the internet represented on the left, there’s too much content. Even when I get through most of it, I’ve got no idea what to post here. My guess is that any of you who don’t know us personally already have 5 or 6 other blogs you visit at a minimum, and I hate posting stuff that’s found in lots of other places. Like this rabbit thing, that I saw over on the blog that’s made from peeeeopleeeee. It’s also listed on blogdex, and if it’s there it’s at daypop, which to means that most everyone has already seen it. At least that’s what I surmise. If you saw it for the first time here, let me know, maybe I’ll post more of the well-covered memes.

What I want, what I need, is an internet spider or agent that can go out and read anything that I might be remotely interested in. When the agent returns, it’s able to integrate with the wetware in a manner that will allow me to recall an article as if I did actually take the time to read it. Then I could spend my time doing…whatever.

Would I even be human at that point? Possibly not, but I’d still be me, so I don’t care. That kind of thing would lend itself to directly exchanging memories between people, but it’s not like you become Borg. My computer’s connected to the internet, but it still exists apart from it. Anyway, that’s what I want.


*You speak ill of that which is fair beyond the reach of your thought, and only little wit may excuse you.




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Blind Ambition

Ben Affleck a Daredevil?


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Have A Heart (preferably one that works)

Take the following with a grain of salt, a LARGE grain of salt. I am a self-labeled liberal who tends to lean to the left on many issues, but I am also a strong supporter of the USA. I am a bit disturbed at an article appearing on the MSNBC website. It is already wondering who might/will replace Dick Cheney in 2004. Isn’t this a bit premature? This rubs me the wrong way and I believe it sends the wrong message to countries outside of the US. This irritates me in the same way that the entire Clinton scandal did a few years ago.

In that example I felt it was useless to spend so much time talking about whether or not the President received a hummer from an intern. I did not care then, and I continue to not care about that now. I just want someone who is competent to lead the country effectively. That scandal was largely motivated by partisan politics and does more harm than good. The same has been true since Bush took office. Did he know, did he not know about the impending attacks against America? Maybe our government had some information, but how could he have stopped it? Do you believe he purposely allowed the attacks to happen? I am a Democrat, I voted Democrat and I lost, so I moved on and I intend to support the man who holds the highest office in the world. Let’s not bicker about issues for our own party’s goals. Try to have some goals in common.

Now we are already focusing on who will replace Cheney when the next election comes around. I know the man has a bad heart, and may choose to retire, but are we trying to kick him out now? A couple of years before he actually has to leave? Doesn’t this hurt his reputation and the reputation of our government in the eyes of countries around the world? I realize that Waldo has been easier to find over the past 10 months, but is Cheney becoming another ineffective, or useless leader in the same way that Tom Ridge is being labeled? Is Tom Ridge really a potential candidate for the VP job in 2004? At the present time that would seem like political suicide. Your choice of a leader may not be in office, hell, mine isn’t either, but let’s at least give support to whoever holds that office and want that person to succeed. It doesn’t do our country any good to undermine the respect associated with these positions.


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I Believe I’m a Dumbass

R. Kelly, who is charged with 21 counts of child pornography is now singing about it. His new song slams his critics while stating that he hopes to regain his fans’ support. Kelly says he is not the man on the tape while his defense attorney is suggesting that the girl was not under 18 years old when the tape was made. Does this sound like the two of them are even on the same page? Perhaps you two should get your strategy straight. If that is not him on the tape then who the hell cares if she was 18 or not?

This brings up an interesting question, why the hell do people film this stuff? I am in no way supporting R. Kelly, and if it was my daughter on those tapes I would want his crooning ass head on a platter, but come on people. Cut the camera off when you feel the need to get your groove on. Is he planning on watching himself later to critique his technique? His defense consists of, “That’s not me on the tape.” This is no different from people who write everything down in a journal…….WHY????? If you are stupid enough to write down every wrong thing you do in a journal, or to videotape yourself banging an underage girl, then you deserve to have the book (which you are probably unable to read) thrown at you. Ignorance is not a defense, and excuses do not free you from responsibility. You are a celebrity and people want to get their freak on with you, but it is up to you to make sure that it is legal.


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Build it and They Might Come

Recently much has been made about the state of professional sports in America. Many people claim that professional athletes are a collection of spoiled cry babies who get paid an astronomical amount of money to play a kid’s game. Fans often feel as though they are left out in the cold, forced to pay $100.00 just to take the family to one game, while being at the mercy of the owners and athletes who may strike at any given point in the season.

Cheers should be given to North Carolina, who showed the owners of the Charlotte Hornets who was in charge. Basically, the owners threatened the city with a move if they did not get what they wanted (new building, greater revenue generated, etc) and the fans responded by not going to the games. Charlotte led the league in attendance for nearly a decade, but when push came to shove, the fans in NC shoved the hardest. You could hear an echo during the playoffs because the place was so empty. The owners, realizing the threat didn’t work, moved from NC to New Orleans, a place that has already proven it doesn’t care about an NBA franchise.

Attention!!! Hell may have frozen over. NC chose not to support a professional basketball team in the land of the ACC, but has rallied around a hockey team. Look for Lucifer in the streets, but do not approach!! Fans of other professional teams are also following this trend, trying to put power back into the hands of the paying public, rather than in the hands of greedy owners who claim they are going broke. Several groups have organized a Major League Baseball Fan Strike slated for July 11, 2002. On this day, fans are encouraged to stay home to make a statement to the owners and players that they cannot survive without the fans.

I am a fan of sports (some more than others), and don’t have many complaints about the games. I don’t care how much money they make, and regardless of what you think, if a player generates a large amount of revenue, then he is worth his paycheck. But I do resent that a season can come to an end at any time because two sets of rich people (owners & players) can't get along and want even more money. Congratulations once again to NC for showing professional sports owners that the power is still in the hands of the fans.


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6/20/2002




New Googles
We are the #1 and only hit on a search for "baptist sex scandal"
We're also the #1 hit for the words "Paul a Abdul attracted to the contestants on American Idol"

Welcome home, people.


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Blow Sweet Blow

It appears that all the stuff Vince Neil said on VH-1's Behind The Music about being sober isn't exactly accurate. Apparently he still likes to "kiss the sky." Listen here (scroll down to find audio).


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He'll find out how the llama felt soon enough.


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Real-life repercussions of the war on terrorism

This story provides an important counter-point to all the anti-Arab/anti-Muslim rhetoric going around the blogosphere. Family upset as father is deported. There is no evidence that this man did anything wrong, other than want to stay in the U.S. Of course, immigration violations are still violations of U.S. law, but you'd like to see justice applied a little more evenly.


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Fatty-Fatty Wideload

Okay. After noticing BigWig's post to a story regarding Southwest's policy of having persons of extra-girth purchase extra seats on Southwest flights, I decided to follow the chain of blog posts regarding the subject. You can read the whole series by File 13 Amish Tech Support, Protein Wisdom, Tres Producers, and Up Yours. There is some discussion amongst these bloggers as to who qualifies as "too big" to fly in one seat. How do you separate the marginally fat person that doesn't impinge upon other flyer's air space from the over-the margins fat person that does?

Isn't it obvious?

Treat passengers the same way carry on baggage is treated. Have a normal tourist class seat set upnear the ticketing/check-in counter. If a person sits in that seat and overflows the bounds, make them purchase another seat. Sure, it's humiliating, butt... It may not work in all cases, of course. Everyone has probably tried to cheat the space constraints for carry-on bags by stuffing their bags into that little cube (What do you call that thing, BTW?) or by thinking that their bag is only a little bigger than the allowed space. I am sure people would think the same thing and try the same tricks. "Look! I fit if you stuff me in!" or "I mostly fit!"

Another option would be to have airline attendants equipped with a set of people calipers to take passengers girth measurements.

I wonder if places like theaters will follow suit? I know people that hate sitting next to the smallest of strangers in a theater. I imagine they would hate it even worse if the person next to them were both a stranger and an over-the-armrest invader. Hmmm...

I wonder if a policy like this is enforceable. On the surface, it certainly seems like discrimination, even if it is in all honesty a pretty fair policy to those of us who want to have our own space on a plane, train, bus, or theater. Moral of the story: next time you're at Wendy's, don't ask them to value size your meals.


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The Palestinian Chronicle has a poll on whether armed struggle is helping their cause. Vote early and often.

link via the Ocean Guy


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Laurence had the gall to write a better song than me. If he starts writing poetry, it might be time to start a blog called "File 14's Mennonite Help Desk."


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No Bull

For the love of God daddy, please stop drinking!!!!!


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So, at the end of the burden I thought "Screw it, I'll do it myself."

The Western Burden

Take up the Western burden--
Send out the best ye breed--
To bind themselves to exile
To serve our children’s need.
To wait, in heavy harness,
On savage folk and wild--
On sullen war-like tribesmen,
Half devil and half child.
Take up the Western burden--
In patience to abide,
To end the threat of terror
And check the show of pride.
For democracy and freedom,
At last they will attain.
To seek another's profit--
First then, be their bane.
Take up the Western burden--
The clear-eyed quest for peace--
To fill the mouth of Famine,
And put the sick at ease;
And when our goal is nearest
(And one for others sought)
Watch torpor, greed and folly
Bring all our hopes to nought.
Take up the Western burden--
No iron rule of faith,
But rather that of parent
Running constantly, in place.
Their house we shall not enter,
Nor disturb their daily bread,
We will teach with our living
but mark them with our dead.
Take up the Western burden,
And reap our bitter wages--
The hate of those protected,
And those we freed from cages.
The cry of mobs we humor
herded slowly towards the light:
"Why free us from our bondage,
our dark Arabian night?"
Take up the Western burden--
We must not stoop to less--
Nor cry about our Freedoms
To cloak our weariness.
By all we will or whisper,
By all we leave or do,
The silent conquered peoples
Shall weigh our ways. And you,
Take up the Western burden,
Be done with childish ways--
The lightly-proffered laurel,
The easy ungrudged praise.
Come now, find your manhood
And end your bitter tears,
To win, with dear-bought wisdom
The judgment of the years.


My apologies to Mr. Kipling.

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Have No Fehr, Donald’s Here

Can anyone find a bigger hypocrite than Donald Fehr? This guy speaks out of both sides of his mouth as he tries to satisfy his responsibilities to two allegiances. Donald Fehr is a board member of the U.S. Olympic Committee. It is part of his responsibility to decide on punishments handed out to those who would dare violate the drug policies of the Olympics. Yet this same bastard does not want his Major League Baseball players to be tested for steroids. He is the chief negotiator for the Players Association in the collective bargaining with major league baseball clubs. Make up your mind Donald. Do you understand the term “respect?” How do you expect people to respect you? On the one hand you kick people out of the Olympics and strip them of their medals for using some banned (but not illegal) substances, while you protect MLB players who engage in behavior that is ILLEGAL in this country. It is hypocritical and I would expect someone in your position(s) to recognize that.

I love the game of baseball, but I swear if you and your gang of overpaid druggies strike this year, you can take my support and shove it up your hypocritical ass. You will kill the game that our fathers grew up loving, America’s Pastime. Do the right thing, settle the labor dispute and allow your players to be tested for steroids. To allow steroid use to continue weakens all the records that are set in the sport and cheats the old timers out of the successes they achieved without being juiced. I would rather the players smoke pot than do steroids. It cheapens the game I love, and damn you all for not realizing that.


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Living (Like a Greedy Sumbitch)

Martha Stewart is in the news again this week, but not because she is telling the world how to make a Christmas wreath out of pecans and rubber cement. She is being accused of some illegal maneuvering of some of her stocks. Apparently she conveniently sold an assload of her stock a day before it dove into the crapper. Surely she wouldn’t dabble in insider trading, would she? After all, this is the woman who helps us have more meaningful holidays by showing us a lifestyle that 99.9% of the population can never enjoy. She sips on fine wine and gourmet cheeses, while the rest of us eat macaroni and cheese from a box and guzzle 40's of the Bull.

I realize that she is just “suspected” of these activities, and not charged with anything, but isn’t this what we have come to expect from the leaders of today? This woman is the head of a billion, that’s billion with a big ass B, dollar company and yet she feels she has to cheat to save herself $250,000. It’s just another example of the rich trying to get richer. How much is enough?

My question is, if she is guilty, could any business in America be more damaged from this type of error? Few companies could suffer the same consequences as this one. The entire company is designed to promote the lifestyle of one woman, Martha Stewart. When her reputation is damaged, so then will the company’s be damaged as well. She has somehow managed to survive accusations and books which label her as being the biggest BI-ATCH in the world, can she survive this type of publicity?

Now is the time when she will be looking for support. Now is the time she will want to begin spinning some damage control and surround herself with friends who can act as character witnesses. Unfortunately for her, Martha may be alone for this one, the result of burning all of her bridges on her climb to the top. Still, as of today, her company is reporting strong earnings and her stock is actually rising.

Today she is sipping on Dom Perignon and dining on caviar .......tomorrow she may be drinking from a prison toilet enjoying butch loving from caged heat. Now that is Living.


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Instapundit has a leaked FBI memo saying Mohammed Atta mailed the anthrax letters.


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6/19/2002




Pop.Culture.Irony.Taking.Over.Must.Own.All.Five.

Link via PCJM


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Fatty Fatty, Two by Four. Squashes a guy into the floor.

Link via the Obscure Store



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There but for the grace of God go I.


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What to do, what to do about the Adjacent Jew Haters?
link via Vodka


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Seems I'm a Left Libertarian. I'd call myself an Imperial Left Libertarian, but that makes no sense whatsoever.


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A while back, Ones and Zeros compared us to HWRNMNBSOL. Thing is, we're not nearly as funny. Hell, it gave me blogblock for a week.

To head off the inevitable question, it's He Whose Real Name Must Not Be Said Out Loud.

link via who else?
Acronym explication courtesy of Laurence



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Seems to be an appropriate name for a suicide bomber.


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Fatty Fatty, Two by Four. To fly you'll have to pay some more.

Update: Looks like the story I link to above has struck some sort of nerve. Eric, Dawn and Richard all have posts on the subject

Update: I made the mistake of following the top link of a Google search for fatty-fatty. It's pop-up hell, so I'm not linking to it. Let's just say it's a dream site for the chubby chasers.


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Indepundit has also discovered the joys of conversation.
Link via Daily Pundit

Before you judge a country, ride for a mile in their buses. Ted, Cherie, I'm talking to you.


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War Now is getting bomber fatigue. Now I know he loves the Wiggles, so I've altered one of their hits to cheer him up.

Hot Potato!

As sung by members of The Israeli Defense Forces.

Shot a bomber, shot a bomber.
Shot a bomber, shot a bomber.
Shot a bomber, shot a bomber, a bomber, a bomber, a bomber, a bomber!

Watched him wiggle, watched him wiggle.
Watched him wiggle, watched him wiggle.
Watched him wiggle, watched him wiggle, he wiggled, he wiggled, he wiggled!

(Yasser Arafat runs by, singing)
Oy jewy, jewy, jewy. Oy jewy, jewy, jewy. Gimme a, gimme a, gimme a state.
Oy jewy, jewy, jewy. Oy jewy, jewy, jewy. Gimme a, gimme a, gimme a state.
(exeunt Arafat)

Rolled into Gaza, into Gaza.
Rolled into Gaza, into Gaza.
Rolled into Gaza, into Gaza, to Gaza, to Gaza, to Gaza!

Shot a missile, Shot a missile.
Shot a missile, Shot a missile.
Shot a missile, Shot a missile, a missile, a missile a missile!

(Yasser Arafat runs by, singing)
Oy jewy, jewy, jewy. Oy jewy, jewy, jewy. Gimme a, gimme a, gimme a state.
Oy jewy, jewy, jewy. Oy jewy, jewy, jewy. Gimme a, gimme a, gimme a state.
(exeunt Arafat)

Shot a bomber, shot a bomber.
Shot a bomber, shot a bomber.
Shot a bomber, shot a bomber, a bomber, a bomber, a bomber, a bomber!

He didn't wiggle, didn't wiggle.
He didn't wiggle, didn't wiggle.
He didn't wiggle, didn't wiggle, no wiggles, no wiggles, no wiggles!

Next up, the history of Islam, sung to Toot Toot, Chugga Chugga, Big Red Car.


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Abstinence Makes the Liver Grow Fonder?

Beer is good. Beer is good for you. How could it not be? Beer helps you overcome your shyness, makes you smarter, makes everyone prettier, and makes the uncoordinated able to dance. I will not allow science to take beer away from me.

First they said eggs were bad for us, then they changed their minds, then changed it again, and yet again. Being in the sun can be dangerous, eating food can be dangerous, masturbating can be dangerous, and even sex can be dangerous. The best advice science has given us for these dangers is, “DON’T!” Don’t be in the sun, don’t eat unhealthy foods (I now eat only granola and drink water…..I weigh 16 pounds), don’t flog the dolphin, and don’t have sex (you don’t know where those people have been). Now scientists have the audacity to suggest I give up beer in order to save my liver. GO TO HELL!!!

You have taken all of the joy out of our lives up to this point, but it is time we draw a line in the sand. You conduct your study again, and again, and again, until you discover that you made a mistake about beer and that you actually meant to say that we should be doing beer bongs in the morning and be hooked up to a beer IV during the day. I don’t care if I eat it, drink it or smoke it, I am going to have my beer and I don’t care if my liver grows to be the size of a Water Buffalo, it’s time to take a stand. Norma Rae, Norma Rae!!!

Do you really want to take my beer? You will have to do so over my cold, dead body in which is stored an inflated, broken down, useless liver. If beer was good enough for Norm, it is good enough for me!!! Beer, I’ll drink to that!


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In response to my post about "The White Man's Burden", Joseph Hertzlinger makes a cogent point. There's already been an American Raj.

The Yankee occupation of Dixie was classic colonial imperialism. Capitalist civilization went forth and crushed a world view opposed to tolerance and free speech. The d@mn Yankees used state terrorism (Sherman's march to the sea), which set off a "cycle of violence" in the form of the KKK and Jesse James (who started out as a pro- slavery terrorist). There were even Yankee settlements on Dixie soil. Dubya himself is a second-generation settler.

And it's worked incredibly well. Four of the last 8 presidents have been from the south, and southern members hold most the of leadership posts in Congress. The economy has been kicking the crap out of New England's for the past ten years, and the population is booming. This is why we must occupy Saudi Arabia, for it's own good.


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So, there was tempest in a teapot last week when this redneck Southern Baptist (yes, I know it's redundant) claimed among other things, that Mohammed was a pedophile. Well, turns out he was right. Old Mahomet was also an adulterer and general all around sex maniac. Was he also posessed by demons? I dunno. The sources the minister cited are here, though.

Not that this means Islam is an illegitimate religion, mind you. Why, Mohammed is at least as qualified as L. Ron Hubbard and Joseph Smith to found a religion. But it does seem that Mohammed Atta was being more devout that you might think.


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Google vs. AllTheWeb

AllTheWeb.com is claiming that it has indexed and searches more Web pages than Google. I don't know whether that's the case or not, but I do know that we don't come up at all when you search AllTheWeb for "Silflay Hraka" or "Zod Pee". Given the great popularity of those search keywords, I'll be sticking with Google, thank you very much.


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Hi Moms.

Here's the latest Melungeon link.


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OK, the Italians are really sore losers.


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British engineers say they have invented a revolutionary tooth implant that works like a mobile phone. Here's one installed.


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Joke

Received this in my email this morning. I appreciated it.

The Saudi Ambassador to the U.N. has just finished giving a speech, and
walks to the lobby where he meets his American counterpart. They shake
hands and as they walk, the Saudi says, "You know, I have just one
question about what I have seen in America."

The American says, "Well Sir, is there anything I can do to help you
understand?"

The Saudi whispers "My son watches this show called "Star Trek" and in
it there are Russians, Blacks, Asians, Scots, even Irish, but never any
Arabs. He is very upset. He does not understand why there are never any
Arabs in "Star Trek."

The American laughs and leans over. "That's because it takes place in
the future."


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6/18/2002




Confession

Okay. I don't watch a LOT of television. I don't have the time or the inclination. However...the last few weeks, I've been sucked into watching "American Idol". It's what "Star Search" would have been if Ed McMahon was a total Son-of-a-Bitch to the contestants. As far as I can tell, you have a lot of half-talented boy-band and girl-band wannabes auditioning for Paula Abdul, some anonymous guy, and one completely, thoroughly, evil bastard. The bastard, Simon, is a record executive who appears to gain some kind of perverse sexual pleasure in telling the contestants how utterly awful they are/were. He does so in no uncertain times. He just told one guy he should be singing in a "Chilean variety show". More than one of the contestants has broken down in heart-wrenching sobs after he basically ended whatever pipe-dream they might have had about making it in the music industry. He's like a one man karaoke gong show. It's great. It's entertaining in the way that watching a man on America's Funniest Home Videos being repeatedly struck in the genitals is entertaining. If only Simon had gotten to N-Sync and the Back Door Boys before they were set lose on society...


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Annoying the Wife - Interlude

W: Would you get married again if I died?
H: No, I doubt it.
W: Why not?
H: More time for blogging that way.


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Science Proves Afterlife?

Can people send signals to their loved ones after they die? According to one researcher siting the law of conservation of energy, the answer might be yes. Could John Edward be for real?

Nah.



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Do You Smell What the Rock Lizard is Cooking?

Sometimes we get caught up in our own lives, the daily chores, and don’t take the time to notice when important world events take place all around us. We turn a deaf ear, a blind eye, a gimp leg, or a tennis elbow towards the news because we don’t want to waste our time with things that don’t affect us, or we try to ignore that which is too painful to bear. We are probably all guilty of this is recent weeks.

Rednecks everywhere are in mourning. Trying to understand how their heroes, people such as the Rock, Stone Cold Steve Austin and the Big Show, got their asses kicked by a lovable, furry panda. Vince McMahon has come to realize that the large collection of bad asses that the World Wrestling Federation has assembled was not enough to beat some tree hugging, hemp smoking, hand-holding, Cum-bah-yah singing hippies (pass the hemp). All the time in the gym, years of eating healthy, personal sacrifices, and loans taken out for steroid purchases were not enough to win the final battle between the World Wildlife Federation and the World Wrestling Federation. From this point forward the wrestling organization will be known as World Wrestling Entertainment, and I know what you are thinking, “Who the hell cares?”

I’ll tell you who cares. Every backwoods, Bud guzzling, NASCAR watching, Billy Ray Cyrus dancing, monster truck following, redneck who’s personal athletic goals include drinking and fishing, or drinking and bowling. Those people lived through the wrestlers, and this loss crushes their ability to idolize their heroes. It may even get them to question, "Is the sport I love even real?” (please don’t spoil it for them, it’s all they cling to).

But I would have expected more of a fight from these guys. Who wouldn’t have forked out $49.99 for a cage match between Chyna and a Chinese Panda, winner take all? Or perhaps a fight to the death, no disqualification, between nature and the Nature Boy? At least they could have gone out in a blaze of glory, a blast that would have caused a pay-per-view bonanza!! But, I guess that is the circle of life.


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Long Island Pulitzer??

Extra, Extra, read all about it!! Complete story inside!! Read it or I'll shoot you in the face!!


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File 13's Amish Tech Support is dead.


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Hi Moms!

The new Melungeon stories are here and here.


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Australian scientists are on a roll.
Update: What it is, I just realized, is an ansible.


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Attention Florida! Every time you flush, another elkhorn dies.


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This doesn't happen when you finish them with the Stunner, Stevie. Myself, I'm hoping this eventually makes you a Pillow Biter.


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The Burden

Supposedly everything changed on September 11th. America was awakened, we unleashed the terrible swift sword, Osama will be caught, dead or alive, state supported terrorism will be brought to an end, yadda yadda yadda. The problem is that nothing concrete has really changed. There’s an eerie feeling of Sitzkreig in the air. Yes, airline security personnel are taking your tweezers, but does anyone think that makes a flight any safer? The Taliban is gone from Afghanistan, but the poison they represented keeps chugging right along. We have a pre-emptive strike policy, but no post strike policy, other than to get out as quickly as possible. No one offers a logical blueprint for what the future should hold. There are no goals set for 10 years or even one year down the road, not to mention roadmaps on how to get there. Yes, America is a hyperpower, with a military, culture and economy second to none, and comparable to nothing in history before us. BFD. We were all that before September 11th. We were all that the September 11th before that, and the September 11th ten years before. And what good has it done us? Well, we’ve got nice houses, and fast cars, smooth putting greens and widely available internet porn. Does any of that make you feel safer? How do you feel about a trip to the Pyramids this year? Gonna take your daughter and wear your WWJD t-shirt when you ride out there on the camel?

With great power comes great responsibility, and just because Spiderman said it first doesn’t make it any less true. America’s troubles, like Peter Parker’s, can be traced to our attempts at dodging that responsibility. Without fail, we’ve been a nation that, once a war has been won, turns inwards. The noble excuse is that we’ve had had George Washington’s “no entangling alliances” bred into our very souls. The other excuse, and the one that most of the world believes, is that we’re self-centered, navel-gazing party girls. And, since the end of World War I, that has come back to bite us in the ass several times. The truth is, for 100 years we’ve been an empire, and have strenuously denied it the entire time. It’s time to accept that fact, and act like one, rather than stumbling about like the idiot savant giant we’ve been for the past century. We’re fortunate in that there is already advice on what the Pax Americana should be, inspired by the purest of motives, from the high water mark of the previous western empire. It's time for America to finally answer Rudyard Kipling's call, and take up The White Man's Burden.

I’ll give you a second to finish cursing at me.

Kipling's biggest failure in The White Man's Burden is the title’s specificity. Had he entitled it something along the lines of "The Burden of the West", the phrase might not have attracted as many sneering put downs and violent condemnations as it has throughout the years. Had he the sense to entitle it "The Radical Lesbian Feminist’s Burden" or "The Lefty Linguist's Burden" we might even now be strolling through Riyadh's Sahara Mall in our short-shorts and Nascar bimbo T-shirts, sipping pina coladas and munching on pork loin sandwiches sold to us by the humble Saudi proprietors. Rudyard’s been trashed by the left as an imperial racist since the publication of the poem and trashed by the right for daring to ask America to involve itself in overseas entanglements. The right at least has a case, because that’s exactly what Kipling was doing. The left? Not so much.

The word “white” in the poem, rather than representing your standard Anglo-Saxon Caucasian, is meant to convey a purity of spirit. Of course, aside from characters such as Gunga-Din, most of the people in Kipling’s world with this purity of spirit were your standard Anglo-Saxon Caucasians. Yes, it’s racist, but it’s from a racist time, when respect for human rights, freedom of religion, and freedom of movement, were seen only in the nations founded by white men. Yet, like a lily sprouting from manure, the poem is profoundly idealistic.

“…it was the responsibility of the richest and most civilized nations to help the poorest, not for reasons of vanity or self-aggrandizement, but because it was their duty to keep the peace, to bring justice and education, to protect minorities, to prevent people from dying of disease and starvation. Their officials would not be thanked, and their work might not endure, but it was their duty to try, to do their best to alleviate suffering where they found it.” p.130 The Long Recessional – David Gilmour.

The other standard argument is that the poem sees the non-white people in the world as violent children, in need of a firm parental hand.

“Your new-caught sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.”


And yes it’s offensive, and yes, it’s untrue. But not wholly untrue. There are children in the world today in need of a firm parental hand. I’ll give you a clue, they have a lot of oil, and they live in the desert. Like many a spoiled brat, they have too much money and waste most of it. There are some decent kids, Oman, maybe Qatar, but most of the Arab world has been given all the tools, privileges and wealth that Western Society can provide without having done dick to earn them. You may as well give guns, liquor and driver's licenses to 13 year olds. You’ll get similar results. September 11th was the international equivalent of Columbine, and the US was the absent parent. And you know what? It’s time somebody got a goddamn spanking. And after that spanking, there needs to be some loss of privileges and an indefinite grounding.

But, like many spoiled brats, you cannot trust Saudi Arabia, Syria and Iraq to behave unless you are on top of them all the time, telling them what to do, showing them what to do. You take care of the three troublemakers, and the other kids (Egypt, Iran, Libya) will likely fall in line. Once again, we’ve got an example to follow, one that created the world’s most populous democracy. It’s time for an American Raj.

I figure it’ll take 75 years, or less than a third of the time the British were in India. Three generations taught and ruled by Americans rather than a corrupt religious oligarchy will bring an explosion of art, wealth and learning to the Arabian peninsula that hasn’t been seen in 600 years. The best way to prevent another 9/11 is to make sure that the next Arab generation grows up memorizing the Constitution in a public school instead of the Koran in a madrassa. This is no longer only the white man's burden. The burden belongs to those who have benefited the most from the civilization built by the racist white men of the 19th century, to those who would suffer the most under the New Caliphate Osama dreamed of.

It’s the black woman’s burden.
It’s the Jewish burden.
It’s the homosexual’s burden.
It’s the feminist’s burden.
It’s your burden.


Postscript: First time visitor to House Hraka? Wondering if everything we produce could possibly be as brilliant/stupid/evil/pedantic/insipid/inspired as the post you just read? Check out the Hraka Essentials, the (mostly) reader-selected guide to Hraka's best posts, and decide for yourself. Also, you're currently at the old site. Fresh Hraka is posted every day at our current location.

6/17/2002




The Burden This is a rough draft of the final post, posted until Blogger finds the original.

Supposedly everything changed on September 11th. America was awakened, we unleashed the terrible swift sword, Osama will be caught, dead or alive, state supported terrorism will be brought to an end, yadda yadda yadda. The problem is that nothing concrete has really changed. There’s an eerie feeling of Sitzkreig in the air. Yes, airline security personnel are taking your tweezers, but does anyone think that make a flight any safer? The Taliban is gone from Afghanistan, but the poison they represent keeps chugging right along. We have a pre-emptive strike policy, but no post strike policy, other than to get out as quickly as possible. No one offers a logical blueprint for what the future should hold. There are no goals set for 10 years or even one year down the road, not to mention roadmaps on how to get there. Yes, America is a hyperpower, with a military, culture and economy second to none, and comparable to nothing in history before us. Bfd. We were all that before September 11th. We were all that the September 11th before that, and the September 11th ten years before. And what good has it done us? Well, we’ve got nice houses, and fast cars, smooth putting greens and widely available internet porn. Does any of that make you feel safer? How do you feel about a trip to the Pyramids this year? Gonna take your daughter and wear your WWJD t-shirt when you ride out there on the camel?

With great power comes great responsibility, and just because Spiderman said it first doesn’t make it any less true. America’s troubles, like Peter Parker’s, can be traced to our attempts at dodging that responsibility. Without fail, we’ve been a nation that, once a war has been won, turns inwards. The noble excuse is that we’ve had had George Washington’s “no entangling alliances” bred into our very souls. The other excuse, and the one that most of the world believes, is that we’re self-centered, navel-gazing party girls. And, since the end of World War I, that has come back to bite us in the ass several times. The truth is, for 100 years we’ve been an empire, and have strenuously denied it the entire time. It’s time to accept that fact, and act like one, rather than stumbling about like the idiot savant giant we’ve been for the past century. We’re fortunate in that there is already advice on what the Pax Americana should be, inspired by the purest of motives, from the high water mark of the previous western empire. It's time for America to finally answer Rudyard Kipling's call, and take up The White Man's Burden.

I’ll give you a second to finish cursing at me.

Kipling's biggest failure in White Man's Burden is the title’s specificity. Had he entitled it something along the lines of "The Burden of the West", the phrase might not have attracted as many sneering put downs and violent condemnations as it has throughout the years. Had he the sense to entitle it "The Radical Lesbian Feminist’s Burden" or "The Lefty Linguist's Burden" we might even now be strolling through Riyadh's Sahara Mall in our short-shorts and Nascar bimbo T-shirts, sipping pina coladas and munching on pork loin sandwiches sold to us by the humble Saudi proprietors. Rudyard’s been trashed by the left as an imperial racist since the publication of the poem and trashed by the right for daring to ask America to involve itself in overseas entanglements. The right at least has a case, because that’s exactly what Kipling was doing. The left? Not so much.

The word “white” in the poem, rather than representing your standard Anglo-Saxon Caucasian, is meant to convey a purity of spirit. Of course, aside from characters such as Gunga-Din, most of the people in Kipling’s world with this purity of spirit were your standard Anglo-Saxon Caucasians. Yes, it’s racist, but it’s from a racist time, when respect for human rights, freedom of religion, and freedom of movement, were found only in the nations founded by white men. Yet, like a lily sprouting from manure, the poem is profoundly idealistic.

“…it was the responsibility of the richest and most civilized nations to help the poorest, not for reasons of vanity or self-aggrandizement, but because it was their duty to keep the peace, to bring justice and education, to protect minorities, to prevent people from dying of disease and starvation. Their officials would not be thanked, and their work might not endure, but it was their duty to try, to do their best to alleviate suffering where they found it.” P.130 The Long Recessional – David Gilmour.

The other standard argument is that the poem sees the non-white people in the world as violent children, in need of a firm parental hand.

“Your new-caught sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.”

And yes it’s offensive, and yes, it’s untrue. But not totally untrue. There are children in the world today, in need of a firm parental hand. I’ll give you a clue, they have a lot of oil, and they live in the desert. Like many a spoiled brat, they have too much money and waste most of it. There are some decent kids, Oman, maybe Qatar, but most of the Arab world has been given all the tools, privileges and wealth that western society can provide without having done dick to earn them. You may as well give guns, liquor and driver's licenses to 13 year olds. You’ll get similar results. September 11th was the international equivalent of Columbine, and the US was the absent parent. And you know what? It’s time somebody got a goddamn spanking. And after that spanking, there needs to be some loss of privileges and an indefinite grounding.

But, like many spoiled brats, you cannot trust Saudi Arabia, Syria and Iraq to behave unless you are on top of them all the time, telling them what to do, showing them what to do. You take care of the three troublemakers, and the other kids (Egypt, Iran, Libya) will likely fall in line. Once again, we’ve got an example to follow, one that created the world’s most populous democracy. It’s time for an American Raj.

I figure it’ll take 75 years, or less than an third of the time the British ruled India. Three generations taught and ruled by Americans rather than a corrupt religious oligarchy will bring an explosion of art, wealth and learning to the Arabian peninsula that hasn’t been seen in 600 years. The best way to prevent another 9/11 is to make sure that the next Arab generation grows up memorizing the Constitution in a public school instead of the Koran in a madrassa. This is no longer only the white man's burden. The burden belongs to those who have benefited the most from the civilization built by the racist white men of the 19th century, to those who would suffer the most under the New Caliphate Osama dreamed of.

It’s the black woman’s burden.
It’s the Jewish burden.
It’s the homosexual’s burden.
It’s the feminist’s burden.
It’s your burden.


Postscript: First time visitor to House Hraka? Wondering if everything we produce could possibly be as brilliant/stupid/evil/pedantic/insipid/inspired as the post you just read? Check out the Hraka Essentials, the (mostly) reader-selected guide to Hraka's best posts, and decide for yourself. Also, you're currently at the old site. Fresh Hraka is posted every day at our current location.

Postscript: First time visitor to House Hraka? Wondering if everything we produce could possibly be as brilliant/stupid/evil/pedantic/insipid/inspired as the post you just read? Check out the Hraka Essentials, the (mostly) reader-selected guide to Hraka's best posts, and decide for yourself. Also, you're currently at the old site. Fresh Hraka is posted every day at our current location.




White Supremacists?? In Mississippi? Politicians hanging close to the "Good ol' Boy Network?" What is this world coming...........oh, did you say Mississippi? Hey, Mississippi, here is something to add to your reading list, "The Emancipation Proclamation."


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How is it that we have put a man on the moon and can build a ship in a bottle, yet we still don't know who Deep Throat is? How can this secret still be holding fast after 30 years? The fact that this has remained a secret in D.C. rivals Stonehenge. I guess we can mark Linda Tripp off the list of suspects.


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Kids today don't understand the stressors of life. They don't understand that we are at war with terrorists, that the economy took a hit, or that STD's are real and can kill them. They are too preoccupied with Hollywood and rock stars to concern themselves with the reality of life. They would rather indulge themselves in the fantasy world of the rich and famous. They can't focus on anything for more than a minute at a time. Where do they get it from? How can they survive when.........oh, my God, I can't believe they are cancelling V.I.P., but at least they are creating Stripperella!!! Where was I?


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When they came for the scumbags, I did not stand up, because I was not a scumbag.


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Postscript: First time visitor to House Hraka? Wondering if everything we produce could possibly be as brilliant/stupid/evil/pedantic/insipid/inspired as the post you just read? Check out the Hraka Essentials, the (mostly) reader-selected guide to Hraka's best posts, and decide for yourself. Also, you're currently at the old site. Fresh Hraka is posted every day at our current location.

Postscript: First time visitor to House Hraka? Wondering if everything we produce could possibly be as brilliant/stupid/evil/pedantic/insipid/inspired as the post you just read? Check out the Hraka Essentials, the (mostly) reader-selected guide to Hraka's best posts, and decide for yourself. Also, you're currently at the old site. Fresh Hraka is posted every day at our current location.

6/16/2002




Looks like Lara Croft missed this one.


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Conversations with Zod

You can find the first part of conversations with Zod here.

ZOD COMMMANDS YOU TO PEE IN THE CAR SEAT!
Car seat? What am I, two years old? My daughter rides in the car seat. Go talk to her. Got a better chance of hitting a gusher there, anyway.
She does not know Zod. She hears....another.
What the hell do you mean, another?
ZOD COMMANDS YOU TO MAKE A RIGHT ONTO ELM!
I have to turn here to get home anyway. What's next, "Zod commands you to digest?"
What is important is that you did as Zod commanded. Truly, Zod has his foot in the door now. Do Zod's bidding you will.
You're losing your accent, Zod. What do you mean by "She hears another"?
Zod does not have an accent. That was Zod's Yoda impression. Zod also does a mean Buttercup. Truly Zod is the voice of 1000 voices.
Isn't that just a wee bit out of character?
Zod's fact checker all of a sudden you are?
Umm. I'm just saying that the Zod everyone knows doesn't really seem like the impressions type?
A PERSONAL LIFE ZOD IS ALLOWED TO HAVE!
So sorry. I'll try to do better.
Do or do not. There is not try.
Look, you don't even sound like Yoda. You don't even sound like you're trying to sound like Yoda. You sound like Zod trying to sound like Zod. There's more to impressions than just saying the words
Zod would like to see you do better, meat bag.
ZOD COMMANDS YOU TO EAT YOUR BRUSSEL SPROUTS!
That doesn't sound like Zod in the least!
ZOD CRIED LIKE A BABY AT THE END OF GHOST!
Y0U WILL CEASE THIS INFERNAL PRATTLE!
Touchy much?
Zod does not care for this line of conversation.
Then quit dodging my question.
Your daughter does not hear Zod. She hears only Murray, from the Wiggles.
Murray, the freak with the guitar?
Yes, Murray commands her to bite others and eat from the cat's bowl.
Murray's kicking your ass in the results department, then.
ZOD COMMANDS YOU TO INHALE!
Give me a freaking break.
ZOD COMMANDS YOU TO EXHALE!
.....
EXHALE!
.....
EXHALE!
......
You can't hold your breath forever, you know.
.....
And since when does holding your breath mean that you can't have an internal conversation?
Dammit.
ZOD SCORES AGAIN! WHOOP, THERE ZOD IS! WHOOP, THERE ZOD IS!
Look, commanding me to do things I have to do anyway doesn't mean you have any sort of power.
So the reason you nearly passed out from lack of oxygen just now was due entirely to some sort of whim?
All I'm saying is that Murray seems to get better results.
Hoop tee doo! It's a wonderful day to eat from the cat's bowl!
Out of here, you!
Murray?
GET THEE GONE, MURRAY, THOU ART COMMANDED IN THE NAME OF ZOD.
Seems more like a tricameral than a bicameral mind in there.
Do not try and distract Zod with vague references to Julian Jaynes.
Hoop tee doo! It's a wonderful day to pee in the car seat!
Gosh Murray, that sounds like a good idea!
Hoop tee doo!
ZOD COMMANDS YOU NOT TO PEE IN THE CAR SEAT!
Whatever you say, Zod.
NO! WAIT!
Gotcha.


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Postscript: First time visitor to House Hraka? Wondering if everything we produce could possibly be as brilliant/stupid/evil/pedantic/insipid/inspired as the post you just read? Check out the Hraka Essentials, the (mostly) reader-selected guide to Hraka's best posts, and decide for yourself. Also, you're currently at the old site. Fresh Hraka is posted every day at our current location.





One of these things is not like the others.


Google search for "Methodist Sex Scandal"
Google search for "Baptist Sex Scandal"
Google search for "Presbyterian Sex Scandal"
Google search for "Episcopalian Sex Scandal"
Google search for "Anglican Sex Scandal"
Google search for "Lutheran Sex Scandal"
Google search for "Mormon Sex Scandal"
Google search for "Catholic Sex Scandal"

Methodist Ministers: Allowed to Marry. Not Celibate
Baptist Ministers: Allowed to Marry. Not Celibate
Presbyterian Ministers: Allowed to Marry. Not Celibate
Episcopalian Ministers: Allowed to Marry. Not Celibate
Anglican Vicars: Allowed to Marry. Not Celibate
Lutheran Ministers: Allowed to Marry. Not Celibate
Mormon Elders: Allowed to Marry, preferably multiple times . Not Celibate. Yes, I'm making a dig at Mormons in the middle of a Catholic church post. I'm an equal opportunity offender.
Catholic Priests: Not Allowed To Marry. Celibate

Given that homosexuality is spread evenly across any given population, if homosexuality is the underlying cause of the rampant pedophilia within the church, then the same thing should be occuring within the other churches, as well as in the population as a whole. Yet it does not.

This is not to say that churches other than the Catholic church don't have sex scandals. They do. The Anglican church in particular has sex scandals. They're modeled pretty closely after the Catholic church, though, so maybe that shouldn't be surprising.

You could also make the point that if I searched in a different manner, I'd not have results as dramatic as those above. So let's remove the quotes that force a phrase to be searched on in Google, and just look for the association of words within the same article.

Google search for Methodist Sex Scandal 3780 results
Google search for Baptist Sex Scandal 8000 results
Google search for Presbyterian Sex Scandal 2390 results
Google search for Episcopalian Sex Scandal 682 results
Google search for Anglican Sex Scandal 2970 results
Google search for Lutheran Sex Scandal 2200 results
Google search for Mormon Sex Scandal 2560 results
Google search for Catholic Sex Scandal 89,300 results

The problem in the Cathlolic church is not homosexuality, but celibacy, and a culture of secrecy enforced by a corrupt hierarchy more concerned with power than the lives
of their smallest parishoners.


Postscript: First time visitor to House Hraka? Wondering if everything we produce could possibly be as brilliant/stupid/evil/pedantic/insipid/inspired as the post you just read? Check out the Hraka Essentials, the (mostly) reader-selected guide to Hraka's best posts, and decide for yourself. Also, you're currently at the old site. Fresh Hraka is posted every day at our current location.

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