There is no spoon. We do, however, have plenty of sporks.
A Crude Proposal
I know that y'all come here looking for a few cheap laughs, but today I have important work to do. This, being the last day of twenty-diggety-six, is the day that the world turns its lonely eyes to me to solve one of the big outstanding problems of 2006. Yes, every year on this date I write down the ten biggest unresolved problems of the outgoing year on small pieces of paper and throw them in a hat. Then I put the hat on my head and dance around the house in my bathrobe to the strains of Journey's Separate Ways until all of the scraps fall out except for one. The last remaining problem is the one that I will solve, for the benefit of mankind. This year's big problems include global warming, the cancellation of Arrested Development, and that popping sound that my sternum is making these days when I move too suddenly. Most of the rest of the problems are related to some trouble spot in the world, such as Darfur, Afghanistan, or I-580 between Pleasanton and Livermore.
Having written down the world's biggest problems and placed them in a velvet fedora, I shall now proceed to dance gaily about my furniture and pets.
Whew! Ok, now that I have recovered from my cardiovascular workout and the realization that I will never be as cool as Steve Perry even if I get a sleeveless black t-shirt with a pink checkerboard design and have my testicles surgically removed, I will now reveal The Unresolved Problem of 2006 to be solved by me.
And the winner is:
Iraq!
Wow, I was kind of hoping for that sternum thing, but rules are rules. Ok, so here's the deal:
Liberals are mad because they don't like the idea of a "war for oil." Liberals don't feel like they should have to fight for their oil, because they drive hybrid cars, which means that at worst they should have to play a rough game of ultimate frisbee for oil, or maybe split the difference between making love and making war by having angry sex on the veranda for oil. Keep in mind they don't have a problem with wars per se; they would just rather talk about them over a nice latte at the U.N. rather than participate.
Conservatives are mad because they hate the idea of "nation building." They kind of like the "nation wrecking" bit, but "nation building" just blows. I mean, they hate it. They're all like, "Man, we hate nation building. It's just a bad idea all around. It never works out. I mean, hmm. Well, unless, maybe, just this once, we could.... I mean, it's not out of the realm of possibility that.... Oh. No. No, dammit! Oh man, now look what we've done. Geez. Man, I hate this nation building crap."
So here's what we do: Privatize the U.S. military. That's right, sell the whole thing off to the highest bidder.
"That's crazy!" you say. "What if some nutjob like Kim Jong Il or Tom Cruise buys it?"
"Nonsense," I say. The highest bidder is going to be (1) someone with more money than God; (2) someone who has a lot to gain by having a fleet of aircraft carriers and stealth bombers at their disposal; and (3) someone who has a lot to lose if the U.S. military falls into the hands of Kim Jong Il or Tom Cruise.
Hmmm. Who could that be...? Could it be... SATAN?!
No, it's not Satan. But you're in the right neighborhood. It's the oil companies. I mean, if you're going to turn the military over to an oil company exec, it might as well be a successful oil company exec, right? So we let the oil companies take over the U.S. military and wage war at their discretion in order to secure a free flow of oil. We let them install a benevolent dictatorship in Iraq, and then move on to Iran and Syria if those dudes start causing problems. Maybe take care of that jackass in Venezuela too. And if there are any other trouble spots in the world that threaten the flow of oil, they'll handle those as well. Peace in the Sudan? Start some rumors about Jed Clampett finding "black gold" in his backyard in Darfur and the problem will be solved by this time tomorrow.
"What about the soldiers?" You say. "They didn't sign up to work for the oil companies!" No, they didn't. Which is why they'd be free to seek gainful employment elsewhere. The only way for the oil companies to keep their current personnel would be to pay them enough to make it worth their while. And maybe get them some friggin' body armor.
"But who's going to defend the U.S. if the oil companies are out conquering new oil fields?" you ask. Well, since the U.S. is the number one consumer of oil, I'm thinking the oil companies are going to try pretty hard to keep our economy on track. Which would include preventing things that disrupt the flow of oil, like big explosions and buildings falling over.
And best of all, it doesn't cost the U.S. taxpayer anything. In fact, we make money on the deal. I'm thinking we could get a couple of trillion bucks for the whole shebang. Maybe do it over eBay, and throw in free shipping and the CIA on one of those "Buy it now!" deals.
Oh, sure, the oil guys would get out of hand once in a while and maybe overthrow a democratic regime that was trying to nationalize its oil industry, but I think it would all even out. And on the occasion where they really made a mess of things, we'd be free to throw up our hands in exasperation along with the rest of the world. "Those greedy oil companies and their secret prisons and torture chambers," we'd say. "Man, if we didn't spend all our money on ridiculous social programs we'd totally start our own military and show those oil companies what's what." And then we'd go back to sipping our lattes and filling up our blood-and-oil hybrids.
So there you go. You're welcome. Maybe next year I'll get to that popping sound in my chest.
Due to some complaints about Blogger's word verification component not working properly, and even more complaints about it working properly, I have disabled word verification for commenting. I'm going to give this a try and see if the spam is manageable.
That is all. Tune in tomorrow for some important end of the world year news. Tagus Intactus, Civitate Intactus.
Since my recent post regarding my retirement, many of you have asked what it is that Galactic Invertebrates does exactly.
That's a lie. Nobody asked. Nobody cares what Galactic Invertebrates does. I don't even care, and I worked there for three years.
You know what GI does? In a word, nothing.
You know how most companies make widgets or widget holders or widget accessories or anti-widget cream? Well, those companies need someone to market those widgets and widget-related products, right? And they need somebody to ship them to far-away widget-deprived (or widget-infested, as the case may be) regions of the globe. And they need someone to assist them with meeting the federal guidelines for widget calibration, of course. In short, there is a lot more to widget-related product manufacture than just making the widget-related products.
Unfortunately, GI doesn't do any of those things either.
So what do they do? Well, let's say Company A and Company C both make widgets.
"Wait," you say. "What happened to Company B?"
Exactly! That's exactly my point. What did happen to company B? Nobody really knows for sure, because the only place companies line up in alphabetical order besides the phone book is Red China, and they don't even use the same friggin' alphabet, so good luck sorting that out.
So you've got Company A and Company C, not necessarily in that order, each doing their own thing. Except they both coincidentally decide to make widgets, and not just because every fictitious company makes widgets. In this example it's very important that they are both making widgets. Why? Well, because with all those widgets you're going to need a widget holder, right? Right. But now you're screwed, because the widget holder made by Company Q only holds widgets made by Company A, but you've got both kinds of widgets. And you have to buy a special cable from Company H and an adapter from Company 7 just to get your A and C widgets to talk to each other, not to mention the fact that the anti-widget cream you just bought apparently only works on widgets made by company Epsilon, and you don't even have any of those and you lost the receipt and you don't think the store will take back a half-used tube of anti-widget cream anyway, because ewww.
Now wouldn't it be nice if all those companies could get along and talk to each other so that all your widgets and widget-related products would work together? No, because that's how things work in Red China, you big Commie. I thought we covered that.
So short of that, wouldn't it be great if these companies could get together in a friendly non-monopolistic sort of way, you know, just over coffee or whatever, and agree that all widgets and widget-related products should use the 3428b interface, so that Sally Widget Consumer (not her real name) wouldn't have to get a PhD. in Widgetology just to get her friggin' widgets to work together? Yes, that would be nice. You could call it the Widget Consortium (W.C.). And the W.C. would have big member meetings in Prague and send out press releases about how just yesterday they came really close to agreeing on something and have a website where people with nothing better to do could learn fascinating facts about the W.C.
But wait a minute. Who is going to do all this stuff? Who is going to organize the meeting in Prague and send out the press release about almost agreeing and build the scintillating website? Oh, sure, Company C would love to do it, but then the meeting would be in Trenton, New Jersey and the press release would be all about how unreasonable those bastards at Company A are, and the website would be in the shape of a giant letter C. No, you need someone who can claim with a straight face to be impartial, while at the same time kowtowing to the demands of Company C, because everybody knows that if Company C leaves, the W.C. is going straight down the toilet.
That's where Galactic Invertebrates comes in. The very name of the company heralds its commitment to going to unprecedented lengths to seek out new life forms and civilizations and bend over for them. You remember when scientists found water on Mars and there was a buzz about how Mars might once have supported life? Well, GI immediately put together an expedition which traveled to Mars, went back in time ten million years, scoured the surface of the planet until they found a small patch of primitive lichens, and bent over for them. That's how good they are.
So basically GI runs a set of fictitious companies that don't earn any profits and don't make any products. And, of course, it's very difficult to do that kind of volume of nothing without some special software that makes nothing easier to do. And that, my friends, is where I came in. Yes, I was the guy who wrote the software that was used by nonexistent companies to share vast amounts of misinformation that might some day be used in generating a specification that could conceivably be released in the distant future, at which time there would be a genuine possibility that actual companies making actual products would accuse each other of not complying with it.
Cam Cloudhammer, Director of Human Resources, Order of the Jedi
Dear Mr. Cloudhammer,
As a recent graduate of the Tatooine Academy of Arts and Sciences, I was excited to hear about the opening with the Jedi Knights for an entry level Force Technician I. I have long dreamed of joining the Jedi Order and I think I will be a valuable asset to your organization.
As you can see from my enclosed resume, I graduated with a 3.2 GPA and I scored a 1242 on the Force Assessment Test. I did particularly well in Advanced Midi-Chlorianology and Pre-Imperial History. I believe I could have performed even better academically, but I worked my way through school recalibrating moisture vaporators. I think the combination of my rigorous coursework and practical experience will serve me well as a Force Technician I.
I'm available for an interview on short notice on most weekdays. I know my resume probably isn't the most impressive you will receive, but I think you'll find that I'm "good Jedi material" if you take the time to meet me in person. I thank you for your time and look forward to hearing from you.
Best Regards, Kenny Skywalker
P.S. I forgot to mention that I can type 40 words per minute and levitate small objects with my mind.
P.P.S. Not to name-drop, but in case you're wondering, Luke is my second cousin.
8/21/06
Heinous Vlaak, Personnel Director, Order of the Sith
Dear Mr. Vlaak,
I recently graduated from the Tatooine Academy of Arts and Sciences and was interested to learn of the part time Tractor Field Operator position that was recently posted on the Sith website. I have long been intrigued by the shadowy workings of the Sith, and have recently begun to consider a career in the service of the Empire.
As my enclosed resume indicates, I am an above average student, but I think that the highly structured nature of the Tatooine Academy prevented me from reaching my true potential, as I am something of an "outside the box" thinker. It's true that my experience with the Dark Side is limited, but my current job at the Mos Eisley Spaceport Cantina requires that I be very assertive with droids and others whose kind we don't serve. I am also led to believe that my destiny lies with the Dark Side by my co-workers' frequent reminders that I'm "really not a people person."
I thank you for your time and look forward to hearing from you.
In Your Service, Kenneth Skywalker (No relation)
P.S. I once pantsed a Jawa, which is considered pretty evil around here. I am also good with Excel.
9/29/06
Boba Fett, Proprietor, Fett Investigations, Bounty Hunter and Polygraph Service
Dear Mr. Fett,
Boy, are you hard to track down! I got your contact information from a mutual acquaintance who indicated that you may have an opening for a henchmen/tough. I know that with my B.A. in Force Theory I may seem overqualified for this position, but I've decided that I'm more interested in a life of adventure than a stable job with a reputable organization at this point in my career. I've dealt with my share of rough characters at my current job at Mos Eisley Spaceport Cantina and my neighborhood is pretty regularly terrorized by Tusken Raiders, so I don't think I'll have much trouble adjusting to the life of a bounty hunter. Please contact me as soon as is convenient for you, because I'm anxious to get started!
Sincerely, Ken Skywalker
P.S. In case you're concerned about my academic background, I only attended the Tatooine Academy to get my parents off my back. Trust me when I say that I have learned that hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster at your side.
11/4/06
Jabba the Hutt, C.E.O., Hutt Enterprises, Inc.
Dear Mr. Hutt,
I recently learned of an opening with your crime syndicate here on Tatooine. I'm not sure what the job entails exactly, but I think I'm up for just about anything after working as the Assistant Manager of the Mos Eisley Cantina Spaceport. Since I was put in charge of marketing, we were named 2nd runner up for "Most Wretched Hive of Scum and Villainy" by the Imperial Travel Bureau. Although I've never killed anyone myself, I am often expected to clean up the charred corpses of bounty hunters and other scoundrels, and I think I'm becoming rather inured to the spectacle of mutilation and manslaughter.
I know I probably don't fit the typical profile of your applicants, but I think that if you give me a chance you won't be disappointed. All I'm asking for is a chance.
Eagerly awaiting your reply,
Ken S.
P.S. I don't need health insurance and I don't mind sleeping on the floor or whatever.
12/27/06
Dear Uncle Skip,
Do you still own that Chili's in the Dagobah system?
Or Maybe "I See a Red Door and I Want It Painted Black"
I've been tagged with a Christmas meme by Poppy of Opiate of the Masses. I'm supposed to list what I got for Christmas, or didn't get, or wanted to get, or something. I'm not so good with following rules. It doesn't look like Poppy followed them precisely either, nor did the person who tagged her. So I'm figuring that by this point this meme is probably like one of those games of telephone where the first person says "There's another city under attack" and the last person hears "Things are going swimmingly in Iraq."
Anyway, here's a list of things I got for Christmas. I may have embellished a few of them. If you feel like playing, consider yourself tagged.
My daughter Maddie gave me a grocery bag full of all of the vegetables she hadn't eaten over the previous year. It smelled like cabbage and sneakers.
My mentally challenged brother Phil gave me a comic book that he made by cutting pictures of people out of Sports Illustrated, Fangoria and Martha Stewart Living magazines and pasting speech bubbles over their heads. The story is about a team of superheroes led by Joe Montana who defeat an army of Uruk-Hai and zombies led by Martha Stewart. In the climax, Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods meet their match in the form of a giant robot made of pine cones and taffeta.
My neighbor Billy gave me a "time machine" comprised of a refrigerator box with a bottle of Jim Beam inside.
My mother-in-law, mindful of my high blood pressure and a family tree regularly pruned by strokes and massive heart attacks, gave me a deep fryer and fifty pounds of bacon-wrapped twinkies.
My wife promised to stop having "feminine troubles" for a year.
My freshman year college roommate Scott sent me the wad of hair he fished out of our dorm room shower at the end of the 1988-89 school year with a note that said, "I think I'm finally at a point emotionally where I don't need this any more."
Marilu Henner dropped the restraining order.
My cheap great-uncle Walt gave me an LED watch. He said he thought it might be broken, but I told him that was ok, because I didn't really care what time it was in 1984 anyway.
My friend Joe gave me Season One of Friends on DVD, which is great, because I've almost stopped seeing the reruns on my eyelids.
Uncle Karl stopped by and finally gave my nose back. He tried telling me that it was all a "trick", but I beat him with a tire iron until he fessed up and gave it back. Then I took his.
10 Things That Suck Less Than Working at Galactic Invertebrates
If I weren't retired, I'd be on my way to work at Galactic Invertebrates* right now rather than sitting at home watching my kids watch Dora the Explorer. I love the part where you have to say "Swiper no swiping!" to keep Swiper from swiping. Then when Dora says, "Gracias!", I say"De Nada, baby. I got your back!" Man, if I was 30 years younger....
Anyway, it occurred to me that today would be a good day to post an IM conversation I had a few weeks back with a fellow ex-Galactic Invertebrates employee. You know her as "Not Karen," a pseudonym that cleverly hints that her real name could be virtually anything. We were chatting on a day that I took off from work to sign papers for refinancing my property, and we came up with the idea of listing all the horrible things we'd rather do than work at Galactic Invertebrates. The list was pretty funny, but I think the conversation about the list was even better.
not karen: any new news? diesel: nope diesel: signing papers at 4:30 diesel: took a PTO today not karen: sa-weeeeet. diesel: you want to know how sick of that place I am? diesel: I've spent most of the day shoveling dirt in the rain, and all I can think of is how happy I am that I don't have to see Human Inertia** today not karen: dang diesel: I'm actually happy to be out in the cold, working in the mud not karen: wonder if that comes before or after "I'd rather chew broken glass." not karen: "would rather shovel dirt in the rain." not karen: Top 10 list of things that suck, but suck less than working at Galactic Invertebrates... diesel: exactly not karen: Shoveling mud/dirt in the rain diesel: Having your face swell up to twice its size because of a scorpion sting not karen: lol not karen: Do your taxes not karen: in Spanish diesel: lol diesel: I like that one not karen: thanks! diesel: it should be German though not karen: even better. diesel: taking a transatlantic flight seated between Mickey Rourke and Courtney Love not karen: oh [expletive] not karen: that's HORRIBLE diesel: :) diesel: thanks not karen: moonlighting as a bunny in an animal test lab diesel: nice not karen: doing the Macarena diesel: lol diesel: French kissing Janet Reno not karen: (puke) diesel: :D not karen: Dry heaving diesel: sorry, that one may actually be worse not karen: that shit's painful not karen: i think we have a good list going. how many is that? diesel: 100? diesel: Gotta be close to 100 not karen: i'm retyping into Word. This is a good exercise. diesel: how about playing rock-paper-scissors for real, and being paper diesel: paper covers rock...rock breaks knuckles not karen: i know you're not used to hearing constructive criticism from all your worshipping readers, not karen: but that's not funny diesel: ;( diesel: it will hit you in about 3 hours diesel: you'll just bust up for no reason diesel: and you'll be like, "Dammit, Kroese!" not karen: LOL shut up not karen: and i KNOW you didn't bust out the Crocodile Tear smiley diesel: how about having to write a master's thesis on the use of double entendres in Who's The Boss? diesel: too subtle? not karen: good in theory, but not very punchy diesel: lol diesel: ok not karen: Watching back-to-back episodes of Who's the Boss would be pretty horrible in and of itself not karen: and would qualify in my book diesel: yeah, but not quite bad enough not karen: Hmmmm. not karen: gimme another show diesel: how about having to watch every episode of Who's the Boss with a retarded kid who pauses the show every time he doesn't get a joke and makes you explain it to him. diesel: I'm getting a little abstract now diesel: still, you have to admit that would be pretty bad not karen: oooh! not karen: i know not karen: Waiting for Godot diesel: lol not karen: again, to simplify diesel: not watching Waiting for Godot, you mean actually waiting for Godot not karen: i think hanging out with a retarded kid would be a bad time by itself not karen: right. not karen: it works on a number of levels diesel: it's the combination of retarded kid and Who's the Boss that makes it work diesel: or not not karen: please hold diesel: W not karen: DUDE, i was simply typing them up diesel: ok not karen: you're pretty fussy now that you're a man of leisure. diesel: I've always been fussy diesel: leisure just hasn't helped not karen: Diving for dead bodies after a plane crash. diesel: uhhh diesel: how about wool underwear? not karen: i still need a show for "watching back-to-back episodes of ..." not karen: yes. good diesel: or better yet, steel wool underwear diesel: 7th Heaven? not karen: PERFECT! diesel: how many do we have now? diesel: and when can we stop? not karen: We have 10 diesel: are they all good? not karen: i'll send them to your supersecret e-mail address not karen: i think so diesel: ok diesel: cool, I'll post them to my blog when I get braver not karen: i took some editorial license in weeding out your rock, paper, sissors and retard Who's the Boss ideas diesel: man, that Who's the Boss one was genius diesel: you have to picture yourself sitting on the couch next to the retarded kid who won't press Play until he understands why Tony and Angela aren't married not karen: you're letting the blog feedback go to your head not karen: takes too much "thinking". diesel: lol not karen: Dave would never approve. diesel: you're never going to convince me that's not funny not karen: Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go learn myself how to layout a newsletter in Publisher. diesel: it's high-brow humor diesel: not your sort of thing not karen: LOL. not karen: asshole.
*I have changed the name of the company to cover my ass. **Surprisingly, also not his/her real name.
During the 2005-06 crop year, more than $1.3 million worth of almonds were stolen from growers and shippers in the San Joaquin Valley. Truckload after truckload, thieves allegedly trespassed onto properties, cut fences and broke locks to get to the valuable nuts. Sheriff's deputies say thieves hot-wired several tractor-trailers around the Central Valley and were able to flee with almonds that were awaiting shipment overseas.
California almond growers in 2004-05 produced $2.2 billion worth of almonds.
The Thule fog whipped around Santa's sleigh, obscuring his vision of the ground below. "On Donner! On Blitzen! We're going to be late!" Not for the first time he cursed himself for letting Rudolph go. The old boy had been hitting the nog pretty hard lately, but his incandescent schnoz sure would have come in handy on a night like this.
A loud crack and the howls of terrified reindeer broke the calm of the still winter air. "Up! Pull up!" Santa barked. But it was too late. The reindeer flew headlong through a tangled mess of knotty tree branches. Santa gritted his teeth as the branches whipped past, smacking his face and tearing the buttons off his coat. Finally the rig came to a halt, the reindeers' antlers hopelessly entangled in the branches, the sleigh dangling precariously beneath them. The ground could be five feet or fifty feet down. It was impossible to tell in the fog. "Blasted cartographer elves!" Santa spat, as the sleigh rocked nauseatingly. Where his charts showed an empty field he had found an orchard. Reindeer bleated pathetically above him and Santa tried to stand to appraise the situation. He lost his balance and flailed about, finally grasping the end of a branch. It was leafless and dead looking, with only the hint of new buds tucked away under the coarse grayish brown bark. A few tiny blackened bits of fruit dangled from the end. "Not supposed to be an orchard here," Santa muttered. "And it could at least be chestnuts. These look like...."
"Almonds," said a gruff voice below. Except he pronounced it A-munds, so it rhymed with salmon. Judging from the voice, Santa figured he was only about ten feet up.
"Almonds," you mean, said Santa. "Who is that?"
"Name's Jess Van Den Berg," said the man. "I'm an a-mund farmer. And no, I don't mean al-mond. You're in Ripon, California. We're the a-mund capitol of the world. And we call them a-munds."
"Ok, fine," said Santa. "I'm in a bit of a hurry. This is my big night, you know. Lots of presents to deliver. Do you think you could help me out of these trees?"
"Sure," said Jess. "I'll get my chainsaw and a ladder. One thing, though...."
"What is it?" Santa asked, impatiently. The reindeer continued to flail about and make plaintive sounds.
Jess continued, "There was a big a-mund theft out here recently. I lost about half of my crop. It's not going to be much of a Christmas for my family."
"Uh huh," said Santa.
"And well, you're Santa Claus, so you can pretty much give anything to anybody, right?"
"Within reason," Santa said cautiously.
"Ok, well I was hoping you could get me my nuts back."
"Uhh...."
"Or not, whatever. Anyway, I should probably see if there are any sleighs caught in the trees of my walnut orchard across the levee."
"Ok, ok! You can have your nuts back."
"Really? That's fantastic! Ok, wait right here. I'm going to get my chainsaw."
Jess hopped in his pickup and sped back to the barn where he kept his equipment. He was thrilled. This was going to be the best Christmas ever. He couldn't wait to get home and tell the family how he saved Christmas and got his nuts back.
He grabbed his chainsaw, fifty feet of rope and a long extension ladder, threw them in the back of the pickup, and drove back out to where Santa's sleigh still hung pathetically in the trees. It took him nearly an hour, but he managed to work the reindeer loose and lowered the whole rig to the ground without so much as a broken antler. He was sweaty and his muscles twitched with exhaustion, but he had done it. He had saved Christmas.
Standing there next to Santa's sleigh piled high with presents meant for good little boys and girls across the globe, he felt a strange sensation, a combination of pride that he had something to do with the spreading of such joy, and embarrassment that he had put his own nuts ahead of the happiness of all those children. It was a humbling experience.
Santa put his hand on Jess' shoulder. "Jess, I can't tell you how grateful I am for your help. There are going to be a lot of little boys and girls who are going to be very happy tomorrow morning, thanks to you."
Jess smiled sheepishly, thinking back to the joyful Christmas mornings of his youth. Tears began to well up in his eyes.
Santa hopped back into the sleigh, then looked back, with a twinkle in his eye. "I suppose you know now, Jess, that your nuts were in your heart all along."
Jess nodded slowly and smiled as Santa grabbed the reigns. Then a confused look came over his face.
"My what?" Jess said.
"Your nuts," Santa said flatly. "They're in your -- "
Jess spat and shook his head. "Look, maybe that kind of crap flies at the North Pole, but here in Ripon we pay our debts. And you owe me twenty tons of nuts. I can't believe you're trying to screw the guy who saved Christmas out of his nuts."
Santa said, "You see, Jess, I said what I had to say to complete my mission, but I don't make the rules. The fact is, you've been rather naughty this year...."
"Naughty?! I friggin' saved Christmas!"
"Yes," Santa said. "That will factor positively in next year's accounting, I'm sure. However, you used a lot of Malathion for fumigation this year. Do you know how bad that stuff is for the environment? And I believe there were a few instances where you threw construction waste in your burn pile this past summer. Very naughty, Jess."
"Unbelievable," Jess said. He stepped in front of the sleigh. "Ok, I think I know how to settle this," he said.
"Jess, get out of the way. I've got a lot of presents to deliver."
"I didn't want to have to do this, Santa. But here's the deal: I've got a chainsaw. You don't. Give me my nuts or yours are going back up in that tree."
Santa sputtered and cursed, but finally gave in. He reached into his sleigh and hauled out a small bag, no larger than Jess' fist. He tossed it to Jess.
Jess held the bag upside down, thinking Santa was making fun of him. To his surprise, a great cascade of almonds poured out of the bag. And they kept pouring out, until there was a pile up to Jess's waist. Finally he closed up the bag, convinced that Santa had made good on the deal.
"They're all there," Santa said. "Twenty tons."
"Good," Jess said.
"Are all of you almond farmers this stubborn?" Santa asked.
Jess grinned. "Pretty much," he said. "And it's a-munds."
"But there's an L in it," Santa protested. "It's al-monds."
"Sure, there's an L when you spell it, but when you say the word, there's no L."
Santa sighed in resignation, as the reinder took flight. "No L?" He shouted back to Jess.
"No L!" Jess shouted back.
And the words echoed in Santa's head as he flew over the little town of Ripon, reflecting on what he had learned about keeping Christmas promises.
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel, Born is the King of Israel.
Despite the impending holidays and the recent string of coups at the Mattress Police, the Lamest Contest Ever soldiers on. I have just ticked off two more books on my list, simply by reading them. You wouldn't think it would be so easy to anger books, but they are a surprisingly temperamental lot. Check out my reading log to review my thoughts on Nessa's Happenstance and Mark Teague's Letters from Obedience School. I'm expecting a shipment of new reading material from Santazon tonight.
You post an entry on your blog recommending a book for me to read. You link to my site in your post. You post a comment here letting me know about your post. I add your book to my reading list, with a link back to your blog. I read the book and post my thoughts about it on my reading log. That's it? You say. That's it, I say. That's lame, you say. That's why it's called the lamest contest ever, I say. I then add, Try to keep up.
For those of you who don't believe I'm really building a house, here's some proof. Almost none of the photos have been doctored in any way. Click on the pic for a larger version.
A view of our property from the street. That's the barn to the right and Opa's house to the left. Our house is way back behind Opa's house.
Opa's house, from the driveway.
Further down the driveway. Our house is behind the trampoline and the P.O.S. Ford.
A closer look at our house. Our bedrooms are in the part that looks like a garage. Yes, that's a faux garage door. Convincing, no? That's why our cars are outside.
The addition site.
Front view. The left half is already built.
First floor plan.
2nd floor plan.
Maddie "helping."
Me and the boss.
I included this one because of the UFO in the distance.
Because One Blog Isn't Big Enough to Contain My Head
Now that I've rested a bit from my ordeal and sated myself with rice krispy treats and Dr. Pepper, I can spare a few moments to tell you about some of the changes that have recently occurred here.
First, I've created a new look for my blog. If you haven't noticed, get off your fricking Blackberry for crying out loud. Nobody thinks you're cool any more.
Second, my blog has fractured into two separate blogs:
The Secret Files of the Mattress Police - My main blog. Pretty much what you're used to seeing here, although I probably won't be updating quite as often. I'm thinking Monday, Wednesday and Saturday.
Matress Police Dispatches - This is where I'm going to stick short stuff that is either going to make you laugh hysterically or make you wish you had that 12 seconds of your life back. I confess to blatantly ripping off my mentor and hero Mr. Fabulous' Pointless Drivel/Pointless Directives dichotomy.
Why am I doing this? Because when I post a long essay, I get the impression that half of my audience is thinking, "Holy crap, I didn't do this much reading all through high school." And when I post a short little item that I think is funny, I get the impression that half of my audience is either thinking, "I came here for witty commentary and I get a one-liner about Legos? WTF?" or, more succinctly, "That was stupid." So now each half of my audience has their own blog. And for those of you in the intersection of the Venn diagram, feel free to read both.
I'm also adding another blog, for serious stuff and essays. Probably nothing you'd be interested in. But I do have the occasionaly non-humorous idea (I mean intentionally non-humorous, smartass), and if I don't write them down, who is going to do it? You? I don't think so. Anyway, my serious blog is called Deep Cover.
Oh, you can also keep tabs on my lame contest at Central Booking. Get it? Because... nevermind. Anyway, I've just posted my thoughts on the latest book I've read, so check it out.
Don't worry, I won't be offended if you just stick with my main blog. I just have all this other crap I have to get out of my system somehow.
Third, during the recent string of coups, all of the Mattress Police's personnel records were burned in a fire, then soaked by firehoses, then blown across a field of poppies by gusting winds, collected by dwarves, buried deep in an abandoned mine shaft, dug up, and burned again. The ashes were then placed in small vials which were tied to the feet of pigeons which were released from a hot air ballon over the Atlantic, tracked by satellite, shot down, thrown into a pile, and burned once again. Needless to say, it has been difficult to reconstruct our blogroll under such circumstances. I have decided to implement a more egalitarian system, in which all blogs are listed in order alphabetically, by the name of the animal that your blog reminds me of. So, for example, Wolfe's Musings reminds me of a camel, so he is near the top. If your blog seems to be missing, please let me know.
So I suppose you all know by now that the recent tumult on this site was an elaborate ruse to prepare for the launch of a new design. This isn't to say that there aren't nefarious elements within the Mattress Police plotting my demise. The warring clans are, unfortunately, all too real. It was necessary to allow Troy and his compatriots to become overconfident so that they would overplay their hand. Once Troy had asserted control, I was able to covertly incite his enemies to execute a coup. Having overthrown Troy, this faction immediately devolved into squabbling about who would be the new Chief Inspector, whether they would get to wear a crown, how long the sceptre should be, and whether dental and vision would be included. Reasserting my supremacy as Chief Inspector and rolling out the new design (which has been languishing in the Design Committee for years) was a simple matter under such circumstances.
Things did get a little dicey for a while there. When Troy took over I was exiled to a cattle barge that had been transported by a World War I era Belgian dirigible to the roof of a Super Wal-Mart just outside Kalamazoo, Michigan, under constant guard by albino wolverines (the Mattress Police are nothing if not predictable).
I had prepared for the wolverines by painting my entire body with a cocktail of tabasco, poison sumac oil and wheat germ, completely forgetting in my haste about my dermatological gluten intolerance. Fortunately, my skin swelled to such an extent that I resembled an overripe tomato -- and I don't have to tell you how albino wolverines feel about overripe tomatoes. Having made my way past the sentries, escape was only a matter of crocheting a rope ladder out of dental floss, clambering down to the parking lot, rendering a few cart-collecting septuagenarians unconscious, and purchasing a 24-pack of paper towels. The last was not strictly part of my plan, but they were on sale, so what the heck, you know? They call that a "loss leader," but if you can get in and out and just buy that one item, you're totally sticking it to those rich Arkansas bastards. Oh, I also bought an end table and a copy of WarCraft.
After making a few anoymous phone calls provoking the anti-Troy faction to revolt, I took a leisurely greyhound trip back to Mattress Police HQ, stopping only occasionally to allow the dogs to hunt wild game. Once on the Mattress Police campus, I walked right through Bill Gates, made my way down Diane Lane, strolled past Monty Hall, and entered Gregory House. After making some loud noises with my boom-stick to let everybody know what was what, I grabbed the reigns of the Mattress Police site and am now sitting in the metaphorical cockpit, holding those very literal reigns.
You've probably noticed some changes on the site. I'd like to explain them, but I haven't eaten anything but tabasco, wheat germ and my own musk for three days, so let me get back to you.
Troy Van Dellen back again with more blogarific goodies! I know how tired you all must be of all the sarcasm and whining that used to be all over this site, so I'm just going to post nice stuff. Like this little number! Its a dog whose said because the kitty is in his bed!!!
Sorry about that last post and the recent technical difficulties. We're doing a little house-cleaning, and you know what they say, you can't clean a house without breaking a few eggs!
You'll be happy to hear that Diesel has been reassigned to another location. He wanted me to relay this message to you:
Hello my blogging readers. I have decided of my own free will to stop being the Chief Inspector of the Mattress Police, because I have other dreams that I want to pursue, such as building a house and reading many interesting children's fantasy books in an undisclosed location. Please do not feel badly for me because I am not suffering very much pain at all. I have done lot's of "soul-searcing" recently and I think that I made a mistake when I decided to post many uninteresting stories about "pop music" and other things not furthering the goals of the Mattress Police. For that reason I am retiring to an undisclosed (painless) location and I want you to "put your hand's together" for the new Chief Inspector, Troy J. Van Dellen. Troy is a great guy who has the undie-ing support of everbody here at the Mattress Police! I think we all will enjoy his new "blogging style". CONGRADULATIONS TROY!!!
Well in case you havent guessed Im Troy Van Dellen! Welcome the Mattress Police web site!!! Our site is here to inform you of the "goings-on" at the Mattress Police and even have some FUN from time to time!!
What do we have in store for you, well a lot more of this kind of stuff!!! So I'll see you tomorrow with lot's more cool stuff
(Non-Mattress Police personell can stop reading here!)
Grey Fox - Mission "Burn down the chicken coop" is a success! Red herring is in the sausage factory. Tagus Intactus, Civitate Intactus!
I understand Mattress Inspectors have a very short life expectancy
You may have noticed the quantity and quality of my posts slipping recently. I know, we all go through dry patches, but this is more serious. Why? Because it's the Mattress Police, that's why. The Mattress Police don't have "dry patches." They don't have down time. The Mattress Police are all-seeing, all-knowing, and always on.
Why is this important? Because although you may not realize it, intact mattress tags are the lynchpin of society. A citizenry that feels free to remove its mattress tags soon moves on to torching Taco Bells, punching baby otters, and deciding to buy Fergie's CD before they've even seen the album cover. There is a reason that our motto is tagus intactus, civitate intactus. And it's not because I just made it up.
When tags are removed, society becomes a mockery of its former self. And a poor mockery at that, like Joe Piscopo doing an impression of Bill Cosby doing one of his crazy rants against poor black people. It's so far removed from an actual liveable society that you might as well just roast marshmallows over the flaming wreckage of civilization, because all the buildings are made out of graham crackers anyway, and if you could just find some chocolate, you'd be all set. But all the while, the ghost story of the old order echoes in the woods around you, barely audible over the rushing wind of the apocalypse.
But you're going to have to enjoy it without me, because there are forces at work within the Mattress Police who have noticed my recent slippage. Yes, I have tried to insulate you, my loyal pigeons of justice, from the political vagaries and tumultuous intrigue playing out within the organization, but I'm afraid I cannot maintain the facade. In my weakened state, I can no longer prevent the warring clans within the Mattress Police from trying to assert their will over the organization and employing its vast machinery for their own nefarious purposes. Well, to be honest, only two of the clans are truly nefarious; the others are mostly just kind of clingy. Still, none of them have the strength of will to declare "Mission Accomplished" in anticipation of a nearly inconceivable victory several decades away, or to state with conviction that "You are either with us or against us," and then walk like an injured duck for six blocks just to see who their real friends are.
I do have some allies within the organization. Donald Rumsfeld, for one, has recently signed up, as has Alan Thicke -- both of them foregoing cushy sitcom deals to do so, by the way. If I can rally a number of like-minded individuals within the organization to my cause, I may be able to put together a decent volleyball team for once. And from there, it's only a bump, set and spike away from reasserting my supremacy over the Mattress Police. Now if I can just avoid falling into the clutches of....wait, what's that? Someone at the door! I must wefwe gpoijwghr[=qrhj fdawolwlnkkvsdanedejqo3
Sorry about that. I think I just killed a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses with a pencil. Now, to take a drink from my coffee which inexplicably smells vaguely of almonds and click Publish....
I could never be an alcoholic. I say this not to brag about my willpower, as I have little. My problem, in fact, is the opposite. I lack the discipline to force myself to drink all day.
I used to be pretty good at getting drunk. In college I would go to a party and down six or seven beers in a couple of hours, and then pass out on a couch or small shrub. It helped that at the time I weighed about as much as Kate Moss at the nadir of the binge/purge cycle, but I attribute my ready inebriation primarily to youthful enthusiasm. In college, I had a single goal in mind: get wasted in as little time as possible. As I got older, I lost focus. It was no longer about just getting wasted; I became seduced by the allure of sleeping in my own bed and not vomiting into a strange man's dresser. When I finally gave in to the desire to avoid making an ass of myself, I could no longer maintain the drive I needed to drink three beers during an episode of Alf. By the time I started to actually drink beer for the taste, it was all over.
Sometimes I can still get pretty toasty by having several rum-and-Cokes or Seven-and-Sevens in a row, but I have to psych myself up first so that I can keep my focus. I can't be distracted by other activities, like "socializing", "eating", or "driving". I need to be head down with a drink in both fists. And don't be slowing me down with pretzels or peanuts -- I need to focus, people! Only when I've got a healthy supply of alcohol on its way to interfere with the proper functioning of my synapses can I allow my vigilance to waver even slightly.
Even when I was in college, I couldn't drink when I was hung over. I needed a good three days before I could stomache alcohol again. I never got the whole "hair of the dog" thing. I never even understood it as a metaphor. "Sorry about that rabid dog tearing into your quadracep, but hey, have a clump of its hair!" The only thing I would want from a dog that bit me was its head on a plaque. The saying should be "Have the head of the dog that bit you on a plaque." But come to think of it, I can't see how a line of bottle caps mounted on my wall would make me feel any better about vomiting up my pancreas either.
It's a losing battle. The older I get, the harder it is to get drunk and stay that way. I might as well accept it:
The Saturday Quiz has been pre-empted by something better this week.
One of the happy side effects of having family from all over the civilized world and Canada out for John's funeral is that I got to meet several very cool members of my wife's extended family. Since the funeral I have been conversing by email with one of Julia's cousins, a guy named Andrew. I mentioned to him that I was something of a writer, and sent him a link to my blog. He mentioned that he was something of a musician, and sent me a link to a song that he wrote and performed.
I think he wins.
He swears to me that this really is him, but honestly if he had told me that "Man of Clay" was a Temple of the Dog bootleg, I would have had an easier time believing it. "Invitation" reminds me a little of Third Day or maybe Neil Young. The production quality isn't fantastic, but the songs themselves are amazing. Anyway, take a listen yourself and tell me what you think.
Yeah, but I've got nothing else to post and I thought I could get some more mileage out of it. Now that we all know this is a joke, let's have some fun with it. If you're a blogger and you don't have anything better to post this weekend, go ahead and take my "quiz" by clicking on the graphic above and post the results on your blog. You can tell people it's a joke if you want, or just play it straight and say something like, "Wow, this quiz is uncanny."
I've noticed a few people have posted it already, and I'm not completely sure they realize that there's only one possible result to the quiz. Or maybe they do, and they're just playing along. Either way, it's all good fun.
Come on, it's not like you have anything better to do.
Today's post is dedicated to an individual whose dreams are even more bizarre than mine, Jess of Apropos of Something. I have a love-hate relationship with people who might be funnier than me -- I love them right up to the point that they disappear in a mysterious boating accident. I hate it when that happens. Anyway, Jess' blog is definitely worth checking out.
Frequent visitors to this blog will know that I have a tendency to dream about 70s sitcom characters. A recent post on his Jess' blog reminded me of a dream I had several years ago. At the time I was attending a church in Michigan which had the distinction of being the most liberal church in an extremely conservative denomination. It was pretty traditional really, except for the occasional weird thing like somebody doing an interpretive dance on Paul's Second Epistle to the Corinthians or something. Other than stuff like that, it was your typical white people sitting quietly and singing songs kind of church. In this dream our regular pastor was absent, so the sermon was being delivered by Jimmy Walker of Good Times fame. He was whipping the crowd into a frenzy, waving his Bible and doing the animated black preacher thing. But instead of greeting his proclamations with a loud "Amen!", the crowd were yelling in unison (say it with me now):
The Lark Never Expected to Become Famous Just for Being a Silly Bird Either
I started this blog as a lark, sort of making fun of myself and bloggers and the whole idea of blogging. Now here I am, a real live blogger with a small following of devoted readers who actually take time out of their busy schedules of mowing lawns and removing monkey appendices to read this blog. I was reflecting on this the other day, and it made me wonder what other great accomplishments throughout history were the result of someone just saying, "What the hell, I've got some free time." I did some research on the Interweb and was surprised at what I discovered:
Claude Monet: Was forced to paint water lillies without his glasses on because he lost a bet
Michelangelo: Wanted to cover some water stains on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with pictures of "cool Bible dudes"
Leonardo daVinci: Painted himself and fraternity buddies as Jesus and disciples at the Last Supper as a college prank
James Joyce: Wrote Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man to mess with his 7th grade English teacher
Vincent Van Gogh: Too drunk to draw convincing clouds so he filled the sky with "swirly stars"
Francis Ford Copolla: Wanted to make a movie in the Phillipines because he felt like he "really needed a vacation" after The Godfather
Pablo Picasso: Was trying to get back at a demanding client who asked for portraits "from three different angles"
Ludwig von Beethoven: Intentionally wrote four crappy symphonies so that by the fifth one people would say he was "really making progress."
George Lucas: Spent 20 years working on The Phantom Menace (Whoops, how did that one get in here?)
Stumble it!
Digg it!
You may have noticed the quantity and quality of my posts slipping recently. I know, we all go through dry patches, but this is more serious. Why? Because it's the Mattress Police, that's why. The Mattress Police don't have "dry patches." They don't have down time. The Mattress Police are all-seeing, all-knowing, and always 
I used to be pretty good at getting drunk. In college I would go to a party and down six or seven beers in a couple of hours, and then pass out on a couch or small shrub. It helped that at the time I weighed about as much as Kate Moss at the nadir of the binge/purge cycle, but I attribute my ready inebriation primarily to youthful enthusiasm. In college, I had a single goal in mind: get wasted in as little time as possible. As I got older, I lost focus. It was no longer about just getting wasted; I became seduced by the allure of sleeping in my own bed and not vomiting into a strange man's dresser. When I finally gave in to the desire to avoid making an ass of myself, I could no longer maintain the drive I needed to drink three beers during an episode of 
Today's post is dedicated to an individual whose dreams are even more bizarre than mine, 
I started this blog as a lark, sort of making fun of myself and bloggers and the whole idea of blogging. Now here I am, a real live blogger with a small following of devoted readers who actually take time out of their busy schedules of mowing lawns and removing monkey appendices to read this blog. I was reflecting on this the other day, and it made me wonder what other great accomplishments throughout history were the result of someone just saying, "What the hell, I've got some free time." I did some research on the Interweb and was surprised at what I discovered: