I watched this on Comedy Central last week. I thought it fit in very well with the previous post. hehe
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
And now you know the rest of the story...
By Mohammed Asha, MD
Board Certified Gastroenterologist and former Jihad Associate, al Qaeda UK
Ever have "one of those days?" Sure, all of us go through the occasional rough patch, but I swear there are times when I think Allah must really have it in for me. I mean, I know the "Big Guy" is supposed to have a sense of humor, but do I always have to be the punch line?
Take for example this last week. A few mates and I had been planning a big martyrdom weekend for quite a while; it's something we first began discussing a few years ago in medical school back in Amman. We were sitting around the dorm eating pizza, cramming for a big anatomy final, when Ali said "You know, after graduation, we should get together for something really big." We talked about a fishing trip to Canada or something, but most of the guys thought that sounded pretty boring. Abdul suggested a golf weekend in Cancun, but the all-inclusives there can get pretty pricey in-season. Hassan (who's really into motorcycles) suggested renting Harleys and going to Sturgis for the Biker Rally, but we heard that crowd can get pretty rowdy.
Anyhoo, Achmed finally says, "How about packing cars with explosives and killing hundreds of random infidels in a coordinated series of gigantic fireballs?" And we're like, fuckin' A! Not only would it be an awesome bonding experience (with plenty of Paradise poontang, LOL), we would be doing a valuable community service. Okay, so we high-fived and made a solemn promise that we'd target two years after
graduation for the big weekend prank blowout.
I know how it usually goes with these kinds of fraternity things; what with starting up a medical practice, honor killing obligations, and starting a family, it's easy to lose touch with the old school buddies. But this thing -- our thing -- was serious, you know? Thanks to email we were able to keep in touch and keep the plan
going. As luck would have it, we all won Ahmadinejad scholarships to do our residencies in England for the National Health Service. We got our families together most every weekend for backyard cookouts and self-flagellation and TV football matches. Afterwards me and the other guys would slip out to the garage for cigars, and to pack shrapnel.
So okay, the big weekend arrives, and the guys come over to my place bright and early, everybody's jazzed about rolling up some kufr carnage. All the propane tanks and propellant and nail canisters are ready to go. I look at Ali and say, "Okay mate, back up your car to the garage and I'll start loading it up." He gets this
dumbstruck look on his face and says, "My car? I thought Hassan was going to do the martyrdom." And then Hassan does a massive spit-take with his tea, and he's like, "Whoa dude, I rigged the cell phones, I didn't agree to blow up. I thought
Achmed was going to do the blowing up." Then Achmed's like, "Don't look at me, pal, I thought I was just providing the spiritual guidance. Plus my car's in the shop for transmission work." From there it just descended into this big shouting match. Holy frickin' prophet, two years of planning this prank and now everybody wants to pussy out on the actual martyrdom.
Long story short, we decided to draw straws. And guess who wins? Yep, yours truly, good old sucker Mohammed, the same guy with a pile of charge card receipts for petrol and propane and hardware. The same guy who ended up having to host two thirds
of the martyrdom planning parties at HIS house, because his good old college "pals" always have some convenient excuse about "kitchen remodeling" or "MI6 surveillance," and never lift a finger to help clean up the empty bottles or paper plates or the C5 mess. Well, you know what they say: no good deed goes unpunished. Then the other short straw gets pulled by Bilal, and I'm like, oh, great. Now I'll be banging some celestial virgin with that wanker looking over my shoulder.
So, I'm like, "Okay, whose donating the cars?" And these dicks just look around at each other, and ANOTHER big argument breaks out, because "I still have 28 payments left," or "it's due for a tyre rotation," or some other lame excuse. So we draw straws again to pick the explosion cars, and guess who wins? Yup, my Benz, the same fucking car I just paid £129.95 to have detailed. So I go to the house and tell my wife Jumanah about the whole deal, and here it comes -- The Look, complete with the whole exasperated eye roll and head shake. I swear, if her dad wasn't my uncle, I'd be tempted to smack that irritating sneer right off her face. So she's like, "Fine, go have your fun with your lazy jihad buddies and your 72 virgins. Just leave me the keys to the Jeep so I can get groceries."
After that, I guess I was pretty much ready to get it over with. I called up the office and had them cancel the rest of my patient appointments for the day and drove the Benz to London, which incidentally cost me another £40 for gas and tolls. When I got to Piccadilly and parked in front of the nightclub and called Achmed on my cell to let 'er rip. Nothing. I sat there waiting 3 minutes waiting for the cell phone detonator to go off, nothing. I saw a cop walking toward the Benz, so I hopped out and started booking it and almost got run over by a double decker. I got on the Tube, thinking I was safe, but then all the stupid racist kufrs started giving me the stinkeye because apparently they're freaked by panting Arabs smelling of gasoline. I got out in Ealing and went to the mosque where the other guys were supposed to be, and they're all standing around like a bunch of sheepish idiots.
So I'm like, "WTF? What happened with the detonation?"
Get this: Achmed, whose only job it was to call in a simple fucking detonation code, switched his cell carrier to get the new iPhone and forgot to transfer his goddamn detonation contact list. So I'm like, "How about Bilal? Did he explode? Please tell me exploded." The dopey expressions around the room told me otherwise. Faaaack. Now
there's NO dead infidels, NO horny virgins, and I'm out one leased Mercedes with a £12,000 balloon payment.
So I go, "Here's the deal guys. I just put my ass on the martyrdom line, and it was Allah's will that it didn't happen. So why don't we just call it good, and try again in another two years." Crissakes, you would have thought I just took a dump in their falafel. They started talking about "Ummah Pride," and "giving it all for ol' Central Jordan U.."
So I said fine, let's draw straws again. Because, hey, what are the odds of me pulling martyrdom duty twice in a row? Guess I should have been a stat major, because there I was holding the short stick again. When Bilal pulled the other short
stick, I just went ahead and volunteered my Jeep because I figured the way this day was going it was gonna get blown up one way or the other. When Bilal and I got back to my house Jumanah had just gotten back from Tesco and was unloading groceries. "I thought you were supposed to be in Paradise by now," she said, in that stupid irritating voice. "Change of plans," I said. "We need to head up to Glasgow to blow up the airport." Here it came again. The Look.
"Um, and we need to use the Jeep."
The Look X 2.
"And our faces are all over the TV, so we need you to drive us."
I won't even bother trying to describe her face at that point. We loaded up the rest of the explosive canisters in the back of the Jeep and headed north on the M1 in the middle of the out-of-town holiday rush traffic. Jumanah pretty much seethed the entire way, complaining about the traffic and the gasoline fumes. Needless to say when we finally got to Glasgow and dropped her off at a roadside cafe, I was pretty much geared up for the sweet release of death.
Okay, so Bilal and I get psyched up, check all the equipment to make sure it's ready for a big boom, point the Jeep at the terminal, and mash the throttle. I'm shouting "Allahu Akbar," and Bilal's shouting "Allahu Akbar" and "Go Martyrs" just like the old pep squad days at CJU. And I'm thinking, "Oil up them virgins Allah, 'cause Dr. Mo's luck is about to change." BAAAAM! Right into the glass.
I was probably out for a two, three seconds. Bilal and I peeled our broken noses out of the airbags, which meant we were still alive, which meant the goddamn canisters didn't explode, again. Maybe we went through into the terminal and killed some infidels, I thought, then I saw we hadn't made it in more than a couple inches into the terminal. I mean, WTF? The Jeep salesman kept going on about how the Jeep was this awesome unstoppable American SUV that crusader cowboys use to bulldoze their way through mountain forests, with an easy payment plan, and the damn thing can't make it through a bloody plate glass window. I restart the engine and now the piece of shit just sits there spinning the tyres. "All wheel traction," my arse.
Okay, plan B. Bilal and I start pushing backup detonation buttons and cell codes. A couple of pops, but they were all duds. Then I see the cops coming at me.
As Allah is my witness, I really can't explain what happened next; maybe it was stress, or confusion, or frustration. Whatever the reason, I decided it was a reasonable idea at that point to pour a can of petrol over my head and hit the Bic.
Here's a handy tip from Doctor Mo: if you ever get a wild urge to start yourself on fire, sit down and relax until it goes away. Because (A) it's not a particularly useful method for killing infidels, and (B) it hurts. Like. A. Motherfucker. So much that I almost enjoyed the distraction those high-pressure water canons and getting my lights punched out by that crazy mumble-mouthed Scottish baggage handler. After that, I really didn't mind getting bludgeoned by those angry bagpipers. The sound was horrible, but at least they got the rest of the flames out. I was almost relieved when the cops were cuffing me face down on the pavement, because by that point I was pretty much reconsidering this whole college martyrdom pledge thing and I figured the worst was over.
No such luck. Here's another handy tip from Doctor Mo: if your skin is half melted and bubbly hot, avoid lying down on any surfaces that aren't Teflon coated. And please note: the Glasgow sidewalks aren't.
After a half hour with a spatula and ten cans of Pam, the cops finally got 95% or so of me peeled off the sidewalk. I looked down at my legs and realized that I'll be saving a lot of money on clothes from now on, because I'm sporting a permanent pair of melted-on black polyester trousers.
And then the kicker: I looked down at my package and noticed "Little Mohammed" was AWOL. As they were loading me into the police wagon I glanced back over my shoulder and saw what was left of him charbroiling on the sidewalk. A fat lot of good those 72 virgins are going to me now.
Final box score: I'm out one Mercedes, one Jeep, £2000 in miscellaneous bomb materials, three layers of skin, and one very low-mileage penis.
Infidels killed: nil. So the next time you want to bitch to me about how bad your day is going, don't expect a lot of sympathy.
Well, gotta go. The interrogators are coming, and afterwards I've got an appointment to have my arse skin grafted on to my face. But I will leave you with one more handy tip from Doctor Mo: no matter how many virgins they promise, don't ever join a fraternity.
Board Certified Gastroenterologist and former Jihad Associate, al Qaeda UK
Ever have "one of those days?" Sure, all of us go through the occasional rough patch, but I swear there are times when I think Allah must really have it in for me. I mean, I know the "Big Guy" is supposed to have a sense of humor, but do I always have to be the punch line?
Take for example this last week. A few mates and I had been planning a big martyrdom weekend for quite a while; it's something we first began discussing a few years ago in medical school back in Amman. We were sitting around the dorm eating pizza, cramming for a big anatomy final, when Ali said "You know, after graduation, we should get together for something really big." We talked about a fishing trip to Canada or something, but most of the guys thought that sounded pretty boring. Abdul suggested a golf weekend in Cancun, but the all-inclusives there can get pretty pricey in-season. Hassan (who's really into motorcycles) suggested renting Harleys and going to Sturgis for the Biker Rally, but we heard that crowd can get pretty rowdy.
Anyhoo, Achmed finally says, "How about packing cars with explosives and killing hundreds of random infidels in a coordinated series of gigantic fireballs?" And we're like, fuckin' A! Not only would it be an awesome bonding experience (with plenty of Paradise poontang, LOL), we would be doing a valuable community service. Okay, so we high-fived and made a solemn promise that we'd target two years after
graduation for the big weekend prank blowout.
I know how it usually goes with these kinds of fraternity things; what with starting up a medical practice, honor killing obligations, and starting a family, it's easy to lose touch with the old school buddies. But this thing -- our thing -- was serious, you know? Thanks to email we were able to keep in touch and keep the plan
going. As luck would have it, we all won Ahmadinejad scholarships to do our residencies in England for the National Health Service. We got our families together most every weekend for backyard cookouts and self-flagellation and TV football matches. Afterwards me and the other guys would slip out to the garage for cigars, and to pack shrapnel.
So okay, the big weekend arrives, and the guys come over to my place bright and early, everybody's jazzed about rolling up some kufr carnage. All the propane tanks and propellant and nail canisters are ready to go. I look at Ali and say, "Okay mate, back up your car to the garage and I'll start loading it up." He gets this
dumbstruck look on his face and says, "My car? I thought Hassan was going to do the martyrdom." And then Hassan does a massive spit-take with his tea, and he's like, "Whoa dude, I rigged the cell phones, I didn't agree to blow up. I thought
Achmed was going to do the blowing up." Then Achmed's like, "Don't look at me, pal, I thought I was just providing the spiritual guidance. Plus my car's in the shop for transmission work." From there it just descended into this big shouting match. Holy frickin' prophet, two years of planning this prank and now everybody wants to pussy out on the actual martyrdom.
Long story short, we decided to draw straws. And guess who wins? Yep, yours truly, good old sucker Mohammed, the same guy with a pile of charge card receipts for petrol and propane and hardware. The same guy who ended up having to host two thirds
of the martyrdom planning parties at HIS house, because his good old college "pals" always have some convenient excuse about "kitchen remodeling" or "MI6 surveillance," and never lift a finger to help clean up the empty bottles or paper plates or the C5 mess. Well, you know what they say: no good deed goes unpunished. Then the other short straw gets pulled by Bilal, and I'm like, oh, great. Now I'll be banging some celestial virgin with that wanker looking over my shoulder.
So, I'm like, "Okay, whose donating the cars?" And these dicks just look around at each other, and ANOTHER big argument breaks out, because "I still have 28 payments left," or "it's due for a tyre rotation," or some other lame excuse. So we draw straws again to pick the explosion cars, and guess who wins? Yup, my Benz, the same fucking car I just paid £129.95 to have detailed. So I go to the house and tell my wife Jumanah about the whole deal, and here it comes -- The Look, complete with the whole exasperated eye roll and head shake. I swear, if her dad wasn't my uncle, I'd be tempted to smack that irritating sneer right off her face. So she's like, "Fine, go have your fun with your lazy jihad buddies and your 72 virgins. Just leave me the keys to the Jeep so I can get groceries."
After that, I guess I was pretty much ready to get it over with. I called up the office and had them cancel the rest of my patient appointments for the day and drove the Benz to London, which incidentally cost me another £40 for gas and tolls. When I got to Piccadilly and parked in front of the nightclub and called Achmed on my cell to let 'er rip. Nothing. I sat there waiting 3 minutes waiting for the cell phone detonator to go off, nothing. I saw a cop walking toward the Benz, so I hopped out and started booking it and almost got run over by a double decker. I got on the Tube, thinking I was safe, but then all the stupid racist kufrs started giving me the stinkeye because apparently they're freaked by panting Arabs smelling of gasoline. I got out in Ealing and went to the mosque where the other guys were supposed to be, and they're all standing around like a bunch of sheepish idiots.
So I'm like, "WTF? What happened with the detonation?"
Get this: Achmed, whose only job it was to call in a simple fucking detonation code, switched his cell carrier to get the new iPhone and forgot to transfer his goddamn detonation contact list. So I'm like, "How about Bilal? Did he explode? Please tell me exploded." The dopey expressions around the room told me otherwise. Faaaack. Now
there's NO dead infidels, NO horny virgins, and I'm out one leased Mercedes with a £12,000 balloon payment.
So I go, "Here's the deal guys. I just put my ass on the martyrdom line, and it was Allah's will that it didn't happen. So why don't we just call it good, and try again in another two years." Crissakes, you would have thought I just took a dump in their falafel. They started talking about "Ummah Pride," and "giving it all for ol' Central Jordan U.."
So I said fine, let's draw straws again. Because, hey, what are the odds of me pulling martyrdom duty twice in a row? Guess I should have been a stat major, because there I was holding the short stick again. When Bilal pulled the other short
stick, I just went ahead and volunteered my Jeep because I figured the way this day was going it was gonna get blown up one way or the other. When Bilal and I got back to my house Jumanah had just gotten back from Tesco and was unloading groceries. "I thought you were supposed to be in Paradise by now," she said, in that stupid irritating voice. "Change of plans," I said. "We need to head up to Glasgow to blow up the airport." Here it came again. The Look.
"Um, and we need to use the Jeep."
The Look X 2.
"And our faces are all over the TV, so we need you to drive us."
I won't even bother trying to describe her face at that point. We loaded up the rest of the explosive canisters in the back of the Jeep and headed north on the M1 in the middle of the out-of-town holiday rush traffic. Jumanah pretty much seethed the entire way, complaining about the traffic and the gasoline fumes. Needless to say when we finally got to Glasgow and dropped her off at a roadside cafe, I was pretty much geared up for the sweet release of death.
Okay, so Bilal and I get psyched up, check all the equipment to make sure it's ready for a big boom, point the Jeep at the terminal, and mash the throttle. I'm shouting "Allahu Akbar," and Bilal's shouting "Allahu Akbar" and "Go Martyrs" just like the old pep squad days at CJU. And I'm thinking, "Oil up them virgins Allah, 'cause Dr. Mo's luck is about to change." BAAAAM! Right into the glass.
I was probably out for a two, three seconds. Bilal and I peeled our broken noses out of the airbags, which meant we were still alive, which meant the goddamn canisters didn't explode, again. Maybe we went through into the terminal and killed some infidels, I thought, then I saw we hadn't made it in more than a couple inches into the terminal. I mean, WTF? The Jeep salesman kept going on about how the Jeep was this awesome unstoppable American SUV that crusader cowboys use to bulldoze their way through mountain forests, with an easy payment plan, and the damn thing can't make it through a bloody plate glass window. I restart the engine and now the piece of shit just sits there spinning the tyres. "All wheel traction," my arse.
Okay, plan B. Bilal and I start pushing backup detonation buttons and cell codes. A couple of pops, but they were all duds. Then I see the cops coming at me.
As Allah is my witness, I really can't explain what happened next; maybe it was stress, or confusion, or frustration. Whatever the reason, I decided it was a reasonable idea at that point to pour a can of petrol over my head and hit the Bic.
Here's a handy tip from Doctor Mo: if you ever get a wild urge to start yourself on fire, sit down and relax until it goes away. Because (A) it's not a particularly useful method for killing infidels, and (B) it hurts. Like. A. Motherfucker. So much that I almost enjoyed the distraction those high-pressure water canons and getting my lights punched out by that crazy mumble-mouthed Scottish baggage handler. After that, I really didn't mind getting bludgeoned by those angry bagpipers. The sound was horrible, but at least they got the rest of the flames out. I was almost relieved when the cops were cuffing me face down on the pavement, because by that point I was pretty much reconsidering this whole college martyrdom pledge thing and I figured the worst was over.
No such luck. Here's another handy tip from Doctor Mo: if your skin is half melted and bubbly hot, avoid lying down on any surfaces that aren't Teflon coated. And please note: the Glasgow sidewalks aren't.
After a half hour with a spatula and ten cans of Pam, the cops finally got 95% or so of me peeled off the sidewalk. I looked down at my legs and realized that I'll be saving a lot of money on clothes from now on, because I'm sporting a permanent pair of melted-on black polyester trousers.
And then the kicker: I looked down at my package and noticed "Little Mohammed" was AWOL. As they were loading me into the police wagon I glanced back over my shoulder and saw what was left of him charbroiling on the sidewalk. A fat lot of good those 72 virgins are going to me now.
Final box score: I'm out one Mercedes, one Jeep, £2000 in miscellaneous bomb materials, three layers of skin, and one very low-mileage penis.
Infidels killed: nil. So the next time you want to bitch to me about how bad your day is going, don't expect a lot of sympathy.
Well, gotta go. The interrogators are coming, and afterwards I've got an appointment to have my arse skin grafted on to my face. But I will leave you with one more handy tip from Doctor Mo: no matter how many virgins they promise, don't ever join a fraternity.
Football!!!!
The new season is here, so get to know your favorite SEC team !!!!!!
Here is the traditional collegiate football quiz to begin the season. Even though you may know most of the answers, it is still fun to reminisce the halcyon days of yore.
(1) What does the average Alabama player get on his SATs?
.........Drool.
(2) What do you get when you put thirty-two Arkansas cheerleaders in one room?
.........A full set of teeth.
(3) How do you get a South Carolina cheerleader into your dorm room?
.........Grease her hips and push.
(4) How do you get a Georgia graduate off your porch?
.........Pay him for the pizza.
(5) How do you know if a Mississippi State football player has a girlfriend?
........There is tobacco spit on both sides of his pickup.
(6) Why is the Kentucky football team like a possum?
.........Because they play dead at home and get killed on the road.
(7) What are the longest three years of an Auburn football player's life? .........His freshman year.
(8) How many Florida Freshmen does it take to change a light bulb?
.........None -- that's a sophomore course.
(9) Where was O. J. headed in the white Bronco?
........Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He knew that the police would never look at LSU for a Heisman Trophy winner.
AND FINALLY (drum roll and cymbal crash.....)
(10) Why did Tennessee choose orange as their team color? .........You can wear it to the game on Saturday, hunting on Sunday, and picking up trash along the highways the rest of the week.
Here is the traditional collegiate football quiz to begin the season. Even though you may know most of the answers, it is still fun to reminisce the halcyon days of yore.
(1) What does the average Alabama player get on his SATs?
.........Drool.
(2) What do you get when you put thirty-two Arkansas cheerleaders in one room?
.........A full set of teeth.
(3) How do you get a South Carolina cheerleader into your dorm room?
.........Grease her hips and push.
(4) How do you get a Georgia graduate off your porch?
.........Pay him for the pizza.
(5) How do you know if a Mississippi State football player has a girlfriend?
........There is tobacco spit on both sides of his pickup.
(6) Why is the Kentucky football team like a possum?
.........Because they play dead at home and get killed on the road.
(7) What are the longest three years of an Auburn football player's life? .........His freshman year.
(8) How many Florida Freshmen does it take to change a light bulb?
.........None -- that's a sophomore course.
(9) Where was O. J. headed in the white Bronco?
........Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He knew that the police would never look at LSU for a Heisman Trophy winner.
AND FINALLY (drum roll and cymbal crash.....)
(10) Why did Tennessee choose orange as their team color? .........You can wear it to the game on Saturday, hunting on Sunday, and picking up trash along the highways the rest of the week.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Going Home
4:00 a.m., Annapolis, Maryland
I am up at this ungodly hour to get ready for my flight back home to Savannah which leaves at 6:30 a.m. It has been a strange weekend (what a long, strange trip its been - name that tune).
Anyway, I may or may not post about things that happened on this trip. One detail will emerge I suspect, if not the rest, but I am not quite ready to share it.
One thing I will share will make some of your eyes roll at me and wonder wtf I am thinking when I do this - I again snooped on the ex boyfriend's blog. Yes Biker and Odat.... I know.
He had a picture of a hippo in a bikini, and the usual comments about his ex girlfriend. Also gleefully participating was the new girlfriend. I find it interesting that the type of woman he chooses to knock boots with would suck up to the extent of castigating someone she doesn't know, has never met and has never seen, all for the sake of being a yes girl. Come on girlfriend, he's not that good. (LOL)
Anyway, I wouldn't be caught dead in a yellow bikini.
I am up at this ungodly hour to get ready for my flight back home to Savannah which leaves at 6:30 a.m. It has been a strange weekend (what a long, strange trip its been - name that tune).
Anyway, I may or may not post about things that happened on this trip. One detail will emerge I suspect, if not the rest, but I am not quite ready to share it.
One thing I will share will make some of your eyes roll at me and wonder wtf I am thinking when I do this - I again snooped on the ex boyfriend's blog. Yes Biker and Odat.... I know.
He had a picture of a hippo in a bikini, and the usual comments about his ex girlfriend. Also gleefully participating was the new girlfriend. I find it interesting that the type of woman he chooses to knock boots with would suck up to the extent of castigating someone she doesn't know, has never met and has never seen, all for the sake of being a yes girl. Come on girlfriend, he's not that good. (LOL)
Anyway, I wouldn't be caught dead in a yellow bikini.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
15 Men On A Dead Man's Chest.........
Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum..........
Okay, that was the extent of my original pirate posting for today. I've got a busy day ahead of me and as much as I love Talk Like A Pirate Day, I am just not going to have the time to celebrate it properly. However, because I do not want to leave the day unaknowledged, I have reposted last year's hilarity.
Sorry for the unoriginal content. Hopefully you will find it in your hearts to forgive me.
Later Swabbies.
Okay, that was the extent of my original pirate posting for today. I've got a busy day ahead of me and as much as I love Talk Like A Pirate Day, I am just not going to have the time to celebrate it properly. However, because I do not want to leave the day unaknowledged, I have reposted last year's hilarity.
Sorry for the unoriginal content. Hopefully you will find it in your hearts to forgive me.
Later Swabbies.
Alas, The Last One
My last pirate post. I must reluctantly call an end to all the immoral fun. No more pillaging or plundering. No more looting. No more searching for booty.
I have stretched this routine to the bitter end. I am forced to return to the doldrums before I be keelhauled by me mutinous scurvy swabbies (the scabrous dogs).
No no, I'll be okay. Really.
Arr.
He'll Make Me Walk The Plank
Markoos is usually the one that posts the chicken cartoons, but he has gotten me addicted to them, so I'm pirating this one (snicker).
You know I had to.
You know I had to.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh I'm Telling!!!!
I've complained about the search hits for "nudist blogspot" that lead loads of people here. Well now I've had one from the FCC.. the exact search was "blog nudists "washington dc" from the domain fcc.gov. Our government has now begun its search for nudists.
I guess that is easier than the way the senators do it, eh?
I guess that is easier than the way the senators do it, eh?
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Exquisite Terror
Setting the scene:
Sound asleep. The only sound to be heard within miles is the sound of my fan blowing a cool breeze. Wrapped up to my ears in a blanket, Jake also asleep somewhere in the near vicinity.
What happpens next:
Gunshots. Several of them, right outside my window. I woke up in utter terror and afraid to move.
And then:
I called JC. Then I came here to blog about it. I hear no sirens, no activity outside. The neighborhood has again become quiet and serene.
Sound asleep. The only sound to be heard within miles is the sound of my fan blowing a cool breeze. Wrapped up to my ears in a blanket, Jake also asleep somewhere in the near vicinity.
What happpens next:
Gunshots. Several of them, right outside my window. I woke up in utter terror and afraid to move.
And then:
I called JC. Then I came here to blog about it. I hear no sirens, no activity outside. The neighborhood has again become quiet and serene.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The Epic Saga of The Palmetto Bug
Also known as palmetto bug, water bug or sewer roach, it is the largest of the species - up to 3.8 cm long and reddish brown in color. They are attracted to sweets, grain, and decaying matter. These roaches are found under wood, near pools, dense vegetation and utility boxes. They will invade both inside and outside the house. They are known to come up through the drains and toilets and get into peoples homes from the sewer.
Courtesy of this bug site. Yuck.
I had one of these in the middle of my kitchen floor yesterday when I came home for lunch. It was on it's back and struggling to regain his footing, but alas, I took advantage of its moment of weakness and sprayed the vile creature with a biological weapon of mass destruction (a/k/a Raid).
Jake usually is my big bug killer. In the past he has taken great delight in stomping, biting and kicking these things to death, but as I was standing in the kitchen, the possibility for edible delights was upon him and his concentration sagged. He glanced at it, he kicked it around once or twice, but then he resumed his focused watching of my every move in case he missed me offering him something tasty. I ended up having to dispose of the thing by myself. I'm a girl. Girls are not equipped to deal with 2 inch long roaches.
It is just plain disgusting and I felt I needed a bath afterward.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Getting Caught Up
I haven't felt like blogging. It is that simple. I haven't read blogs, I haven't posted, I haven't thought much about blogging at all. I have found it a tad discouraging that when someone writes something original, they get very little feedback, but if a forwarded email is posted there are comments out the wazoo... I suppose us bloggers are just like everyone else, we want to be entertained, not enlightened. Anyhoo.. I was talking to a close friend yesterday and was reminded that this blog is for me, nobody else, so I needed to get back to it. She may be right, that is yet to be seen. Until then I will post when I feel like it, or not at all if I don't feel like it. Read this stuff or don't read it, tis up to you.
On to (somewhat) current happenings:
I was up in Annapolis last weekend, an unexpected trip. JC had emergency surgery and I took off to spend some time with him while he recovered. He lives outside of Annapolis, Maryland and I drove up on Friday afternoon. It is a 9 1/2 hour drive, but I am used to long drives so that really didn't bother me much. The worst part was trying to find my way around Washington D.C., but even that wasn't too bad because I had JC on the phone with me telling me what roads to take. ("495 North or 495 East??" "I don't know, the exit to the right." "Okay, that one says Baltimore/Tyson Center, I'll take that one." "NO! NOT THAT ONE!" "Alright then... I'll take the other one.") I did eventually find my way to his doorstep. It isn't nearly so complicated as it always seemed when he was doing the driving.
While JC was in the hospital, we spoke on the phone several times a day. He called me a couple of days after his surgery, and he sounded lucid. I had no reason to suspect otherwise anyway, until he started telling me about hallucinating after coming out from the anesthesia. I asked him what he hallucinated and he claimed he didn't remember. I told him that he wasn't allowed to hallucinate about anyone but me. He laughed and said, "That will be difficult with all these short little presidents."
"What... huh??? Did you say short little presidents??" He said, very quietly, "Yeah, I think I need to go now."
I knew then that he wasn't quite as lucid as I had first thought. I was laughing as we hung up.
He is now on the road to recovery and remembers nothing about short little presidents. I have taken on the task of making sure he doesn't live it down.
When I was driving home from Annapolis on Monday, I got a call on my cell phone from my mother, who felt it her duty to inform me of the goings on with my #1 child. Seems she let her boyfriend drive her car, and somehow it ended up totaled after smashing into two other cars (one of them a newish BMW). He had had a couple of beers, so we all assumed that he had been drunk and smashed it. He claimed, however, that the car had been stolen and he wasn't driving it. The police say otherwise. They claimed there was a witness who saw him get out of the car and leave the scene of the accident. He was promptly arrested. My daughter was distraught; she punched the wall and broke her wrist. I had been speaking to lawyer friends and telling her what was what, and trying to keep her calm for the last week.
Fast forward to yesterday afternoon: I get a call from the #1 child, and she was both weak and giddy at the same time. When the boyfriend's attorney pulled all the records from the accident, it showed what time he reported the car stolen. 20 minutes before the wreck ever happened. That seems to be proof that he was speaking the truth. The attorney said that the guy was below the legal limits for DUI, so he can't even be charged for that. I feel a little bad that I didn't believe his story. To my daughter's credit, she stuck by him the entire time.
He will now have to listen to me nag at him for leaving the keys in the car while he went into the store. It is my duty as his future mother in law. hehe (It's a good thing he likes me.)
Work happenings:
For those of you who care to remember this post and this post, and also this post, regarding the continuing saga of the bathroom light, it is update time. Through all the drama, I was never nasty to Potty Monitor, I just did my own thing. I spoke to her if she spoke to me (which rarely happened).
A while back I had some copying that had to be done at work. If there is a lot of copying, we give the task to an outside company, who does the copying quickly and efficiently, and also who brings a small bag of six cookies when they return with the completed job. I had one of those bags of cookies on my desk. After doling them out to anyone who wanted one, there was one cookie left in the bag.. which I ate (it was sublime). A few minutes after the last crumb had been demolished, Potty Monitor strolled into my office and asked if she could have a cookie. I confessed to her that I had just eaten the last one. I did have the good grace to feel bad about it though. So on my lunch break that day I bought a candy bar and took it to Potty Monitor and apologized for being such a pig. She looked absolutely shocked, but thanked me.
Since that day her attitude towards me has thawed. She has begun to come into my office just to chat. The people in the office have now started teasing me about my new best friend. It just goes to show that being nasty gets a person nowhere.
I still turn off the bathroom light at every opportunity.
Okay.. so it is 11 days until Talk Like A Pirate Day, September 19. That is the day I will being flying up to see my own personal pirate, and he can tell me how much he likes my booty and show me his swag. ;-)
Later, me Hearties.
On to (somewhat) current happenings:
I was up in Annapolis last weekend, an unexpected trip. JC had emergency surgery and I took off to spend some time with him while he recovered. He lives outside of Annapolis, Maryland and I drove up on Friday afternoon. It is a 9 1/2 hour drive, but I am used to long drives so that really didn't bother me much. The worst part was trying to find my way around Washington D.C., but even that wasn't too bad because I had JC on the phone with me telling me what roads to take. ("495 North or 495 East??" "I don't know, the exit to the right." "Okay, that one says Baltimore/Tyson Center, I'll take that one." "NO! NOT THAT ONE!" "Alright then... I'll take the other one.") I did eventually find my way to his doorstep. It isn't nearly so complicated as it always seemed when he was doing the driving.
While JC was in the hospital, we spoke on the phone several times a day. He called me a couple of days after his surgery, and he sounded lucid. I had no reason to suspect otherwise anyway, until he started telling me about hallucinating after coming out from the anesthesia. I asked him what he hallucinated and he claimed he didn't remember. I told him that he wasn't allowed to hallucinate about anyone but me. He laughed and said, "That will be difficult with all these short little presidents."
"What... huh??? Did you say short little presidents??" He said, very quietly, "Yeah, I think I need to go now."
I knew then that he wasn't quite as lucid as I had first thought. I was laughing as we hung up.
He is now on the road to recovery and remembers nothing about short little presidents. I have taken on the task of making sure he doesn't live it down.
When I was driving home from Annapolis on Monday, I got a call on my cell phone from my mother, who felt it her duty to inform me of the goings on with my #1 child. Seems she let her boyfriend drive her car, and somehow it ended up totaled after smashing into two other cars (one of them a newish BMW). He had had a couple of beers, so we all assumed that he had been drunk and smashed it. He claimed, however, that the car had been stolen and he wasn't driving it. The police say otherwise. They claimed there was a witness who saw him get out of the car and leave the scene of the accident. He was promptly arrested. My daughter was distraught; she punched the wall and broke her wrist. I had been speaking to lawyer friends and telling her what was what, and trying to keep her calm for the last week.
Fast forward to yesterday afternoon: I get a call from the #1 child, and she was both weak and giddy at the same time. When the boyfriend's attorney pulled all the records from the accident, it showed what time he reported the car stolen. 20 minutes before the wreck ever happened. That seems to be proof that he was speaking the truth. The attorney said that the guy was below the legal limits for DUI, so he can't even be charged for that. I feel a little bad that I didn't believe his story. To my daughter's credit, she stuck by him the entire time.
He will now have to listen to me nag at him for leaving the keys in the car while he went into the store. It is my duty as his future mother in law. hehe (It's a good thing he likes me.)
Work happenings:
For those of you who care to remember this post and this post, and also this post, regarding the continuing saga of the bathroom light, it is update time. Through all the drama, I was never nasty to Potty Monitor, I just did my own thing. I spoke to her if she spoke to me (which rarely happened).
A while back I had some copying that had to be done at work. If there is a lot of copying, we give the task to an outside company, who does the copying quickly and efficiently, and also who brings a small bag of six cookies when they return with the completed job. I had one of those bags of cookies on my desk. After doling them out to anyone who wanted one, there was one cookie left in the bag.. which I ate (it was sublime). A few minutes after the last crumb had been demolished, Potty Monitor strolled into my office and asked if she could have a cookie. I confessed to her that I had just eaten the last one. I did have the good grace to feel bad about it though. So on my lunch break that day I bought a candy bar and took it to Potty Monitor and apologized for being such a pig. She looked absolutely shocked, but thanked me.
Since that day her attitude towards me has thawed. She has begun to come into my office just to chat. The people in the office have now started teasing me about my new best friend. It just goes to show that being nasty gets a person nowhere.
I still turn off the bathroom light at every opportunity.
Okay.. so it is 11 days until Talk Like A Pirate Day, September 19. That is the day I will being flying up to see my own personal pirate, and he can tell me how much he likes my booty and show me his swag. ;-)
Later, me Hearties.
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