My head's been filled with Mr. Yuk

Whatever happened to Mr. Yuk?  I recall him clearly from my childhood and he's apparently still out and about, but keeping a mighty low profile since his glory days in the early 70's.   Not sure why: there's far more poisons to strike fear into the hearts of parents today (or at least we recognize more of them as such now).

I hadn't had a conscious thought of the poster boy for the dangers of poison since his hey day until earlier this week when I inexplicably dropped his name in a discussion on new process adoption ("old way, bad like Mr. Yuk; new way, good like Mr. Pibb").  Never mind that Mr. Pibb doesn't conger up visions of wonderful, I don't have an explanation of why Mr. Yuk slipped from my lips.



Ahh, is there nothing better than 70's TV Commercials?  They just don't make 'em like that anymore.

Though I must admit I'm quite fond of the Halls Refresh Commercial making the rounds, if only for its high octane creep factor taken to a degree I'm sure its makers did not intend.  Or maybe they did.  Either way, it has an effect.  It's certainly nowhere near as creepy as those horrid Charles Schwab commercials (I blame them for the collapse of the financial industry).



This post is obviously going nowhere - at least I'm consistent in that regard.  When I was churning this garbage out daily, it didn't matter as much; however, seeing as though I'm only getting around to it on the weekends, I outta try a bit harder.  I just don't have the energy.

I'm enjoying the umpteenth viewing of Unforgiven, one of my very favorite flicks.  I never liked most of Eastwood's 70's and 80's Dirty Harry-centric action flicks (though they were sort of entertaining in a 'B' movie, guilty pleasure kind of way).  His spaghetti western stuff was classic, though not my cup of tea (and his follow-on cowboy movies through the 70's followed suit, albeit without Leone's style or the cheesy dubbing).  I love the work he's done over the last twenty years, though.  Both in front of but especially behind the camera.

Unforgiven is my top pick of Eastwood's fine 90's/00's litter (fighting neck and neck with Million Dollar Baby and Mystic River).  I'm not a big Western aficionado but Unforgiven turns the genre on its head, mocking all the stereotypes with a jaundiced eye biting on a raw nerve.  And the music's perfect. If you ever shied away because you don't dig Westerns and/or disliked Eastwood's earlier work, do yourself a favor and give it a go.

But now it's over and that means Bedtime for Bonzo, drifting off to a re-run of Kill Bill, Vol. 1 (my favorite of the Bill flicks, though most who like them at all seem to opt for Vol 2).  Not Tarantino's best in my view but entertaining, funny and great tunes all the same.  A glorious mess.  Volume 3 was recently announced for release around 2014.  That's certainly planning ahead (or maybe wishful thinking).

Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.  I won't have to go to work, so that already makes it a step up from every day of the past three weeks.  But I probably shouldn't jump the gun on that (I think I thought the same thing each of the past two Friday nights).

And finally ... I'm looking forward to the season finale of Mad Men on Sunday, as well as the final episode of the "Seinfeld" story arc on Curb Your Enthusiasm.

After all, I dare to dream big.

They mash our booze and grow our smokes, the hicks in the sticks are mighty fine folks

Wise words last night from 30 Rock's Jack Donaghy: “Small towns are where you see kindness and goodness and courage of every day Americans, the folks who teach our kids, run our prisons and grow our cigarettes, people still living by core American values.”

That would make a great bumper sticker.   "Small Town Americans: they teach our kids, run our prisons and grow our cigarettes."

Indeed.  The things that made Johnny Cougar so proud.  It might be added that they mash the grains that make our booze and cook the pseudoephedrine that makes our methamphetamine.  Not a whole lot of big city folks doing that.

I come from a smallish town, a hick from the sticks of the great Northwest.  So I was bursting with pride as I watched 30 Rock's tribute to us salt-of-the-earth types.

Now I'm going to make me a Carp Po' Boy with Extra Chuckle ('that piece of the pig between the tail and the anus') and hit the hay, small-town style.

Santa's Slay

I fell off the workaholic wagon this past week.  And I'd been doing so good!  I'd been keeping to no more than 60 hour weeks, etc. Then I got sucked into emergency production support land on the 18th and suddenly I look up and it's the 29th.

Thank God Walmart decided to start selling caskets online.  I hear they're to die for. Ba Dum.

That news dragged me out of my working bender and back into what's most important in life. And in plenty of time for the holidays. I can start my Christmas shopping early!

Those of you with young ones are likely already worrying about how best to satisfy their toys-from-Santa jones this holiday season as it kicks into gear yet again. Little Suzie and Jimmy are surely even now starting to feast on an increasing diet of self centered materialistic tis-the-season greed, and you'll only watch it grow in ignorant anticipation as the big day approaches. This narcissism reaches its apex as they race out of bed on Christmas morning, scrambling for the living room to see what Santa has left for them under the tree.

Selfish little pricks.

This year, teach them the true meaning of Christmas (and life).  What is that, you say?  Why, suffering and death, of course.  And what says death better than a casket from Walmart, wrapped up in a bow?

Remember, caskets aren't just dynamite gifts for the terminally ill or elderly.  Oh, no, not at all.  Murder, accidents, suicide - everyone can use a stylish casket or urn, because you never know.  Think of it as the last bedroom set they'll ever need and that need can't be met soon or young enough. The topper is that you can do your shopping for these festive cadaver cocoons from the comfort of your home computer now, brought to you by that behemoth brand you know and love.

What are those massive items propped up next to the tree, kids?  Boy, Santa brought you both something pretty big!  Go on now, tear off the Christmas wrap so we can all see what they are!

Oh, gosh!  What are they, you ask?  Caskets!  That's right kids, your own Junior Caskets - go ahead and try 'em out!  Never too early to be prepared for the grim reaper!  I think Santa's helpers must have had some help themselves - from our neighbors at Walmart.com!

What's wrong, children?!!?

Sure, an XBox or Barbie Playhouse might have given you more immediate satisfaction; however, that kind of fun is fleeting. Time to put away that ignorant, obnoxious joy of yours and trade it in for some good old fashioned informed security.  Depressed?  I hope so! That's what the Pharmaceutical Industry is for - they'll fix ya up!  But that's for Christmases to come.  Let's focus on the here and now.  And look: Santa left you each twin bottles of pine and peppermint embalming fluid in your stockings!  Mmm, smells Christmas-y!   And see, Jimmie - your casket makes a super soap box derby racer while you're waiting to kick the bucket!  Maybe "kill" two birds with one stone - eh, son? Wink. Wink.

Now who wants some eggnog while Mom and I help you fill out those wills your older sister got you?!?

Survivin' with Stroud, Ragin' with Rollins

A Survivorman marathon on a rainy Saturday afternoon finds me watching Les Stroud demonstrate his MacGyver like survival skills through the sundry jungle/desert/mountain locations he throws himself into.

For those not clued into this world, Canadian Les Stroud is deposited into various survival situations and left to fend for himself for seven days with just the equipment that any hiker, boater, mountain climber, plane crash victim, etc. might have with them (plus his trusty harmonica). Sometimes he's left with a broken down car or the fuselage of a plane. Once, he floated into the wilderness in a hot air balloon. Les operates all the cameras during these seven days as he devises ways in which to get food/water/shelter and avoid spiders, snakes, tigers, foot rot, diarrhea, heat, cold, snow, rain, etc.

Stroud only filmed three seasons worth of these hour-long shows before tiring of the misery (and I guess there's only so many ways you can make starting a fire interesting). Still, Les is the man - he beats Man Vs. Wild's Bear all to hell in the purity of his work (he's not nearly as showy).

But after having watched every episode countless times, I'd still be a goner were I left in these situations in real life. I just don't pay attention to the important things. Mostly, I watch to see what commercials play during the show. And to count the number of times Les repeats "Here I am, surviving in the [Amazon Jungle|Australian Outback|South Seas Deserted Island|Alaskan Wilderness]."

Today, the Survivorman marathon was showing on the Discovery Channel (it also plays on the National Geographic and Science Channels). No ads for camping gear or other outdoorsy/survival stuff; instead, we got life insurance and food/drink pitches. Frankly, I invariably take Stroud's lessons the wrong way. For instance, when Les contracted diarrhea on the one occasion he couldn't scare up a fire to boil the nasty looking water he was eventually forced to drink, I just got jealous that it made him so regular.

And like that, the Survivor marathon is over.

During Mr. Stroud's adventures, I loaded up my iTunes with a bunch of Henry Rollins Spoken Word releases I discovered I didn't already have (including a reading of his seminal book on the good ol' days with Black Flag, Get in the Van). Now I'm enjoying listening to his world view while Penn State beats up on Michigan.

Rollins is one of my personal heroes and I don't even much care for his music, certainly not for his poetry and his acting makes Ice-T seem like Brando. I liked Black Flag okay, though he was a late comer to that band and didn't contribute to their best music, in my opinion. The stuff he puts out with the Rollins Band is sort of speed metal and the lyrics and tone reflect more on his poetry than on his spoken word stuff and the diaries he's published. And it's the latter two things that I love so much.

It's hard to describe the Rollins spoken word shtick - sort of a melding of audio blog/diary, political stand-up comedy, and raging angry everyman rants, with a healthy dollop of self-deprecating humor included in each serving. Henry is an interesting cat. Self educated, he's a voracious reader who delves into the details of every major issue of the day, depressingly well prepared to defend his opinion. We see eye-to-eye on a lot of things, but certainly not everything. Henry's way over-disciplined in pretty much all aspects of his life, but he's never boring. If you're interested, I recommend checking out his catalog on his 2/13/61 web site.

Dino Deity

I think I'll hang up my blogging cleats for a few days as I buckle down to other things this week.  But before I do, I wanted to circle back on something I only hinted at Saturday: Jesus and his Dinosaurs, as depicted in the Beginner's Biblical Coloring Book.

I came across this gem while googling for angry Jesus images. Why look for a pissed off savior? Well, when I posted about my adventures at the pharmacy Saturday, I needed a couple of pictures to illustrate to you the essence of the Jesus-like soul behind me in line.  My pharma Buddy Christ got pretty agitated at one point, thus I was looking for a picture to visualize his wrath.

The picture to the right was apparently part of an actual religious coloring book and it makes me laugh like nothing I've seen in a long while.

It got me to thinking about other Deity / Dinosaur imagery; well, lo and behold, there are plenty of them out there.  None, though, have the chuckle factor of our lord strapped to the saddle of a T-Rex.  He's not nearly as interesting astride a herbivore.

In the money shot up top, he looks to me like a kind of Nazarene Lone Ranger. A cloud of dust and a mighty hi-ho Silver away! If Silver were an angry Tyrannosaurus.

Or perhaps a biblical variant on the Land of the Lost?  The Land of the Lord?  The Lord of the Lost? Replace Rick Marshall, Will and Holly with Father, Son and Holy Ghost.  Ya got "Grumpy" the T-Rex up there in my fav pic and are only missing a few Sleestaks to round things out.

I'm sure that I'll end up roasting in a hell I don't even believe exists as punishment for this blasphemy.  I tend to follow George Costanza's adage that although I don't believe in God (at least not in his traditional biblical incarnation), I nevertheless believe he'll punish me if anything good happens in my life.  Or if I make fun of his kid.  Really, though, I'm only making fun of the sort of folk who would create such a coloring book (unless they meant it as a joke, in which case it wouldn't be as funny).  And I'm not really making fun of them, just of a more naive time (a time that lives on in more than a few minds out there).   It's a gentle fun, so perhaps I'll only be sentenced to purgatory.

If I should be punished for anything, it's for incessantly updating posts I should leave well enough alone.  Like this one.

And besides, I just can't help myself.  This kind of thing just tickles me no end.  And apparently you can get the picture at the top of this post on a T-Shirt! I already ordered mine.  There are several others to choose from as well (I really like the Jurassic Lord - that's it on the left!)

Get them while supplies last!

And may the Lord have mercy on my funny bone.

Goat's Heart Soup for your Soul (where the Wild Things Aren't)

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I'm really looking forward to the Spike Jonze take on Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are. Now that its almost upon us, I'm taken back again to my youth when books really captured my imagination.

To be sure, I still love to read; however, nowhere near as much as I did when I first became aware of seemingly unending world of adventures to be found on the written page. And it was picture books like Where the Wild Things Are that led me to that world.

There's a good write up this morning on the LA Times page, not so much on the movie as on Sendak's groundbreaking work (it's not exactly "family friendly," which was scandalous for a children's book circa 1963).

I certainly dig the visuals I've seen of the flick - they're arresting but still quite faithful to the originals in the book. I'll be lining up to revisit that world come next weekend, for sure.

Speaking of reading, last night I got through a couple chapters of The Men Who Stare at Goats and it's a page turner. Man, have we got some batshit crazy programs - and people - cooking away in the DOD. I guess I knew that, having worked first in the DOD proper as a member of Navy Intelligence and then 14 years thereafter for a company that suckled on its lucrative teet (I know, I know - I'm a hypocrite, but one who's made peace with that now for the most part).

Still, most of the wacky things I was exposed to were generally comprehensible idiocy. The shit in Goats is simply baffling madness, with generals believing people can learn to walk through walls and numerous long running programs training intelligence operatives to be psychic just two of the perhaps more reasonable examples.

I guess none of this is, in the end, all that surprising. But it still shocks the sensibilities and raises my ire when I put the taxpayer hat on. We can invest millions (and indeed over the years, billions) into this sort of thing but public healthcare scares people!?!?!!?

Apparently the "Goat Lab" is still in operation down at Fort Bragg, in a seemingly deserted building filled with de-bleated Billy the Kids (loose lips sink ships or more accurately, 'if a goat bleats word'll leak to the streets'). These goats are then brought into a special room where they are placed in front of men who stare back at them intently, attempting to stop their hearts with the power of thought and the evil eye.

Goats! Huh! What are they good for!?! Absolutely nothing. Good God, y'all!

If successful, these brave operatives will be humanity's only hope come the inevitable war with our goat overlords. We wouldn't want Moses cursing our lack of foresight in some distant future: "You maniacs! You blew it up! Damn you all to hell! Baaaahhhh!"

I'd much prefer: "Get your stinking hooves off me, you damn dirty goat! Or I'll stop your heart with my stink eye!"

You think this merely fantasy?

Google has this year introduced upwards of one hundred goats to its 'payroll.' They're now grazing the property of their Mountain View corporate headquarters, officially as a greener alternative to lawnmowers.

Yeah, right.

Google controls access to the world's information and now is itself controlled by these crafty four-legged devils. They chew and Sergey, Larry and Eric jump. The kids are calling the shots these days and I don't mean the younger generation. Bleating will overtake Tweeting as the Social Media craze with the Google name behind it.

Perhaps the "Goat Lab" budget is money well spent after all. You just need to look at things from the (far) right angle.

Maybe the boys at the Pentagon should form a task force to befriend the Wild Things. Bring them into the fold as part of the 'coalition of the imaginary' against this growing petting zoo axis of evil. A couple hundred million to research the idea ought to start things off on the right foot.

No? Baaahhh!

Of Norse Gods and Giants and Amercian Goats and Shit

My Norwegian compadres on the Nobel committee did nether the US or Obama any favors by awarding the Peace Prize to our neophyte President, however noble their intentions (bad pun unfortunately intended).

True, he's made the world more amenable toward peace simply by not being George W. Bush and he's pretty good at it. I personally think he's mostly making the right moves, though at a much more leisurely pace than I would have liked.  Oh sure, there are a bunch of little things that bother me about what Obama's done or not done on one issue or another. There always will be until someone elects me president.  Even then, I'd find a way to find fault with some of my decisions immediately upon making them (perhaps especially then).   All in all, though, Obama's doing okay.

But the Nobel Peace Prize?

At the end of the day, Obama's the commander in chief responsible for two wars of our own making and it doesn't really matter that he inherited them. He's clearly accelerating the Afghan campaign and to my eyes not made nearly enough progress in getting us out of the muck that is Iraq.   And nothing else he's accomplished besides not being Bush has had time to bear fruit yet.  Perhaps they need a Nobel Not-Bush Prize.  Barack totally deserves that one.

And of course there are the downsides to winning a Nobel Prize for nebulous reasons: The right wing fear mongers now have more fodder for monging ("it's a vast worldwide leftist conspiracy!").  These are the people that cheered the news that we didn't get the 2016 Olympics because Obama lobbied to get it.  I imagine they'd cheer firebombing of orphanages if Obama came out against the idea.

But enough of this political claptrap - let's talk about important things, like Marge Simpson at long last making the cover of Playboy Magazine.  Alas, no Jessica Rabbit style centerfold to go along with it, but it shows that cartoon cougars can be bad too (well, not bad; just drawn that way).

I'm sitting here watching Discovery Health (naturally; what's an old fogy going to do on a Friday night?) and on comes yet another commercial by a company whose advertisements seem isolated to this channel: Home Delivery Incontinent Supplies (HDIS).   I've never seen so much as a reference to them anywhere else.  Know thy demographic.  And so they do, but I hope I won't need their services for a good long time.

I've mentioned HDIS in a prior posting, but it bears repeating for those who missed it: this company caters solely to those whose bladders and bowels are so out of control that they can't make it through the checkout line at the supermarket without leaving a trail of piss and shit in their wake.  Or maybe to those who are simply embarrassed to roll up to the "15 items or less" aisle and get yelled at by the gum popping teenager working the register for having 15 packs of Depends and a large block of cheese ("that's 16 items shit-for-brains!").   Who wants that?  Let HDIS ship your bowel and bladder control needs right to the front door!  Another bushel of butt plugs for the Petersons!

On that bright note I catch a glance at the clock: 11:20pm, time for bed.  Gotta get caught up on my reading: The Men who Stare at Goats has been teed up on my nightstand for a while and I've only gotten a few pages into it.

Goats, Shit, Piss and the Nobel Peace Prize.  Who could ask for anything more?