it results Bibles Dusty!
Ha! Ha! Get it?
Anyways, I don't usually do this, but here is a link to some Anagram fun:
Discover the hidden meanings of words and phrases!
-----------------------------Begin Forwarded Message------------------------
It was wonderful to hear from you. Sarah is doing fine as we are headed to Egypt in another week for some seminars. I have your lyrics here with my comments in italics. If necessary, I can do a further exhaustive analysis, but for now I have included my comments next to the original text.
Give my best to Carrie,
Bass! How low can you go? A reference to deep sea fishing for sea bass
Death row what a brother knows A possible reference to “The Brothers Karamazov”
Once again, back is the incredible,
The rhyme animal,
The incredible D. Public Enemy number one Obviously referring to Dillenger, whose poetry was respectable.
Five-O said "Freeze!" and I got numb A reference to the abnormally cold season in Hawaii 1972.
Can't I tell 'em that I really never had a gun? A commentary on public records keeping gun licenses
But it's the wax that the Terminator X spun Quite possibly a reference to rare insect related to the bee
Now they got me in a cell 'cause my records they sell Note the author’s disdain for office cubicles!
'Cause a brother like me said "Well, Farrakhan's a prophet and I think you ought to listen to Most likely meant “Farakanuh”
What he can say to you, what you ought to do" Farakanuh was a Saracen prophet in 3200BC
Follow for now, power to the people say, Farakanuh spoke against the reign of Kadesh-Bullah
Make a miracle. D, pump the lyrical The author really sees a connection with Dillenger’s writings
Black is back, all in, we're gonna win Referring to the amazing comeback of the Tillans-Todd 1965 chess match
Check it out, yeah y'all, c’mon, here we go again
Chorus: Turn it up! Bring the noise! Turning up the volume can help determine the “noise” still being allowed from a misadjusted frequency. Once the noise is identified, it can be eliminated and the volume can be readjusted to a more comfortable level. Obviously, the author is very careful to make sure his reception is clear.
Never badder than bad 'cause the brother is madder than mad Referring to the Roman Emperor Caligula
At the fact that's corrupt as a senator Even after the murder of Caligula, Rome still had problems in the Senate
Soul on a roll, but you treat it like soap on a rope Author’s comment on a soul being free whether clean or not
'Cause the beats in the lines are so dope Referring to the large drug bust on seven Iowa farms in 1975
Listen for lessons I'm saying inside music that the critics are blasting me for The author is stressing the point to listen to these messages
They'll never care for the brothers and sisters now across the country has us up for the war The critics, he claims, show no support for our troops.
We got to demonstrate, come on now, they're gonna have to wait till we get it right The author’s eagerness to perform is tempered by his strive for perfection.
Radio Stations I question their blackness Many pirate radio stations were “blacked-out” by the FCC in the 50’s
They call themselves black, but we'll see if they play this there is strong evidence that some still exist and the author is “calling them out.”
Get from in front of me, the crowd runs to me Referring to working the day after Christmas at a “Returns” line.
My deejay is warm, he's X, I call him Norm, ya know Norm expired, but not too long ago to still be “warm”
He can cut a record from side to side Norm was talented for holding a lawn mowing record
So what, the ride, the glide should be much safer than a suicide Norm apparently committed suicide
Soul control, beat is the father of your rock'n'roll Chuck Barry (father of Rock n’ roll) is named as a cult leader
Music for whatcha, for whichin', you call a band, man
Makin' a music, abuse it, but you can't do it, ya know Chuck Barry should leave well enough alone
You call 'em demos, but we ride limos, too Luxury features are available in more cars than the companies let on
Whatcha gonna do? Rap is not afraid of you A veiled threat
Beat is for Sonny Bono, beat is for Yoko Ono The author is against vegetarianism
Run DMC first said a deejay could be a band Douglas Macarthur made no such claim; there is no need to run
Stand on its feet, get you out your seat The author is directing people to the nearest exit
Beat is for Eric B, and L.L. as well, hell The author wishes a very bad eternity for these two unidentified people
Wax is for Anthrax, still it can rock bells The author claims that wax can treat cattle diseases very effectively
Ever forever, universal, it will sell The author is planning to distribute it with success
Time for me to exit, Terminator X-it
From coast to coast, so you stop being like a comatose No one likes the effect of jetlag, our author agrees
Stand, my man? The beat's the same with a boast dose Boltace is a strong drug to fight against jetlag
Rock with some pizzazz, it will last why you ask? Referring to the Trans-Siberian Orchestra using guitars
Roll with the rock stars, still never get accepted as There still exists a great line between Rock and Country
We got to plead the fifth, we can investigate A controversial judicial tactic to buy time
Don't need to wait, get the record straight The author is very passionate about justice
Hey, posse's in effect, got the Flavor Terminator A promotional Slurpee flavor when Terminator 2 came out
X to sign checks, play to get paid A commentary on the number of illiterate football players
We got to check it out down on the avenue Referring to wanting to research this more at the library downtown
A magazine or two is dissing me and dissing you Apparently many of the library’s periodicals skirt the issue
Yeah, I'm telling you
Grade School Soccer. Kansas in the mid to late 80s did a lot with soccer. It seemed like a lot to me at the time since we had to drive 20 minutes on dirt roads to get to what seemed to be just-above-flood-plain soccer fields. There were several fields, with hundreds of kids I have never seen before nor would ever see again. Complete with shin guards and the blue/red reversible rayon-like shirt, I was placed in a position that was best for a pudgy left-footed slacker like me.
Right Full Back.
The Full Back’s job was to defend the goalie which meant for me to kick the ball as hard as I could with my left foot to one of our more athletic teammates, hopefully a forward, but most likely a half-back with thick glasses. I liked my position. It gave me a feeling of defending a castle, but not being too committed because full backs weren’t allowed to cross the mid-field line. This was a comfort to keep my wobbling belly out of the fray where it was thickest. I played two years with two different teams (that I can remember) and my very first team was called, stupidly, “Avalanche.” I protested this, but my rank on the team didn’t allow for any cool and calm discussion. Every other team usually had a name that went “The Hornets” or “The Pirates,” that way one could proudly state “I’m a hornet/pirate.” But with Avalanche, you’re left with this esoteric feeling of it just being. I’m sure that wasn’t what my quick witted teammates intended, but since our forwards were pretty strong, it didn’t matter. It also meant that I didn’t see the ball much, which did matter – in the sense that I didn’t want anything to do with it. Anytime the ball broke through the hapless half-back defense, it was up to Yours Truly to do my duty which was to 1.) panic and 2.) shuffle myself up to the ne’er-to-do-well and time my steps so that my left foot would kick the ball a.) into the kid’s top part of his foot or b.) up the field where no one was located or 3.) chase helplessly the kid with the ball who decided to run diagonally away from me therefore creating a mathematical/geometrical proof that would keep me from catching him.
Math is stupid.
My first soccer experience was done with an average record of something-something which impressed no one in particular, let alone ourselves. Because of my “neither here nor there” experience, I didn’t fight being signed up again for next year with a completely different team. This team, however, was horrible. This team made the coach cry. This team hated practice in unison and expressed it vocally. I was non-vocal, but it was apparent that my sweaty corpulence would much rather be watching Tiny Toons. But don’t let the unity of not wanting to run around orange cones lead you to believe that we were tight. No. These kids were annoying. If they thought I was annoying in return, so be it. But I can’t forgive these kids that officially named our team “The Flowers.” No, I kid you not, we we’re called “The Flowers.” Now if that doesn’t invite a beating from the kids in the other district, I’m not sure what would. Suddenly, Avalanche seemed clever and witty. The brainiacs behind this name stuck by it because they wanted the chance to circle around with hands in the center and go “FLOWER … POWEEER!!” in front of our soon-to-be victors. This is something that the current young internet community would label “teh ghey” or as the opposing team called it “are you serious?”
My cousin played for a very successful team called “The Bulldogs” that had an impressive record. While he could be a Bulldog, I had to be a Flower. Not cool, man. Not cool. I never saw my cousin on the field of combat and it is just as well. In pairing up a Bulldog to a Flower, the odds are hardly matched. Nevertheless, The Bulldogs went on to win trophies while the Flowers were left to reconsider the powerlessness of their unified hands-in-circle shout thing.
I remember enjoying soccer, even outside of eating orange slices between halves. My position didn’t ask too much, nor did it leave me idle, but I never considered playing seriously due to the extreme amount of running they do. Why the field has to span the length of a small town, I’m not too sure. Since I was left with a pair of shin guards that were not going to be used, I donned them on my forearms and pretended to be a robot superhero.
Hey, you can only as so much from a grade schooler.
Oh wait I did that too. Now you know why it’s hard for me to like sports…. kind of…
Football is just as bad. I remember watching a game that was in a place where cartoons should have been. It showed a bunch of guys standing around. When there was action, it didn’t last for long. Some guy knocked the other guy down with the ball. “Don’t do it! He’s just going to knock you down again!” is what I thought. My wife explained football to me. It seems like a lot of effort.
Tennis. A tennis match can last for weeks summed up in grunts, applause and tight shorts. The less said about this, the better…
Hockey seems like fun, but I can’t get past the ice skating thing. It just doesn’t seem like people should move on ice with sharp metal on their feet. But that’s just me.
Basketball is a sport that I like to watch at a minimum. That should say a lot. But don’t watch a game by saying “I think I’ll pay attention to how much the shoes squeak” because it’s hard to get away from it.
Golf. I’m sorry – I almost fell asleep after typing that word. Moving on…
In short, I wasn’t born with the sports brain implant that a lot of guys get at birth. And I’m okay with that. I use to joke that when you are watching the Super Bowl, I’m out with your girlfriend. That was so not the case. Chances are I was asleep somewhere. But don’t feel bad for me, I was probably watching golf.
The miracle of sleep is lost on many. Insomniacs, as they are known, have trouble getting to the blissful state of sounding like a chainsaw cutting through chilled pig fat down a cement well. It must be terrible for them not knowing how easily sound like an elephant caught in giant rubber muzzle while being poked with pontoon boats.
It's important to always get the right amount of hours of rest. Some require 8, some 10, others 6 - but if you require 12, I suggest you start on caffiene. The amount of sleep I need depends, not on the quantity, but on when I start or stop. If I go to sleep at 11, I can get up at 4am and be fine (though I don't want to try that, let's keep that in theory)
As for snoring, there is a simple cure - go to sleep before your mate. Do you what you can to beat the person that sounds like a yak giving birth to bagpipes in a sheet metal factory.
You'll be glad you did.
This update is to tell ya'll that there is no update this week. Again? Yes. The fact is, I'm doing a little thing called Ichthus in Wilmore, KY workin' a booth makin' overtime.
So, my rambling bamblings are on hold as I sweat in the dusty heat.
I'll be back soon enough...
Meanwhile, drop a line here and let me know what you are up to!
I’m talking about Breezeways. If you have never heard of the term, you are now enlightened to know that the Breezeway is the area that is almost inside a building. I mean, it is inside the building but it really isn’t your final destination. It’s a limbo of glass and tile and though may look pleasant, people try to get in and out of there as fast as possible except for the poor dope that’s waiting for a ride – he’s stuck in limbo. He’s done with the building yet has no where to go outside and yet waits for his savior in a Ford Taurus who will announce boldly, “dude, sorry I’m late - I got caught up in traffic.”
The Breezeway serves a funnction of being a barrier between the delicate store architecture, design and merchandise and the harsh reality of uncontrollable weather that, when colliding pressure systems send forth wind, a unwelcomed leaf or gala of rain drops come oh so near to the pile of striped sweaters on display. The Breezeway is a corporate “mudroom” that apparently some houses have. I’m in an apartment so what do I know?
Despite the advantages of Breezeways, including sounding like a race horse name, there came a social change that creeped in without us being aware of it - and that is doors. Breezeways contain many doors. Like the locks in the Panama Cannel, you go through door after door until you reach into the inner sanctum of your Macy’s or Wendy’s. This poses a problem for those of us who still want to be chivalrous and open the door for our wives, girlfriends, interests and stalk-ees. Which frickin’ door do you open?
Common Sense would say the first door and when you succeed, the beautiful creature is accosted by another door in her path.
This calls for wisdom.
a.) Let her get the door herself?
If you do, you pretty much are hoping that your effort wasn’t cancelled out. Maybe females understand this and credit your initial door opening anyway. It’s risky to ask.
b.) Open every door?
Here you open the door, let her walk in and then quickly squeeze around her and then go and prop open the next door. Repeat until she is fully inside the building. One can use furniture and items not bolted down to aid in clearing a straight path for her to enter. However, this will create a wind tunnel effect and, unless she hurries, a tornado will ensue devistating her, her hair and the patrons inside including any merchandise.
c.) Never open a door for someone
Very common nowadays, but this solves nothing for chivalry-minded males
d.) Never go out again.
This is the most reasonable course of action. Avoiding all female contact removes the issue entirely. I suggest moving North and into less populated areas – maybe the Northwest Territory. Chivalry is becoming too dangerous.
If it’s a flat panel, I’m assuming its in rebellion to seeing those large mirrors you saw hanging on the wall at Grandma’s house. The fact that mirrors exist in that size outside of a bathroom still gets the same question from me. Whatever for?
If you say “It makes the room look larger” then I’m afraid for our country in thinking that we can easily be duped by such an ancient technology much like a bird to a patio door.
“Look! There’s a portal to another room! It looks so familiar yet … Hey! That guy looks like me!”
But I digress. Plasma TVs can be hung on a wall like a picture, so instead of a tasteful painting of a lighthouse, you can have William Shatner in a wetsuit or Paris Hilton’s head smirk at a painting of a lighthouse. What I don’t get is why you want such a high resolution to witness such things. Grainy black and white added more to the imagination and if you really want to argue the point of “it’s just like being there” let me remind you of the William Shatner image up above.
Sometimes it’s best to leave things the way they are. And if you don’t believe me, just ask your clone you saw in Grandma’s Magic Portal.
The Xbox 360 is a something that I’ll never own. And that’s fine. Primarily, I hardly have time to do responsible things let alone stare at a TV for hours on end doing something that really matters little in the grand scheme of things – or to my wife.
Technology is heavy. I had a ColecoVision with an Atari adapter and realized that the combined weight of those with an NES is only a fraction to what the Xbox 360 weighs.
The thing is a frickin’ piece of lead.
It comes in a box about as big as a box of laser checks and costs about as much as my first car did. I can’t fathom buying this for a kid younger than 14. If you do, the kid better treat it like a shrine because kids shouldn’t be entrusted to heavy technical things. Let me change that. “Kids shouldn’t be entrusted with anything over $100.”
You could also say, if you can carry this Xbox home you can play it. But then you run the risk of the kid dropping it and your $400 machine becomes a very heavy blinking box.
To sum up: Learn to fly kites. They’re light, cheap and gets you into the fresh air. Goodness knows kids can learn that the bright irritating sphere in the sky is called “The Sun.”
So, to sum up. No update at all. Nada.
Stay away from bagged salad for the next few weeks just to be safe.
I guess that's America. We stand behind the FDA and the USDA to take care of us to the point that if we attempt to leave the country, we need a series of injections in order to stay healthy. The main goal of any foreign travel is: Try to stay out of a foreign hospital.
Why? Sanitation? No, because your PPO won't cover it.
It's best to avoid any sickness. Just say no. Sure, you may be tempted with a strain of flu, but trust me, you don't want it. I use to say "If you can't pronounce it, don't eat it" - and that's why I don't eat General Tso's chicken. Tsoa? Tusao?
Teremonotryglutenate may make a creamer Twinkie filling, but is it really worth it? Tetradexohymate may make my windows shine, but should I put it on a ham sandwich? Probably not. But if I was to find out that Tuna sashimi takes oil out of silk, would I still hesitate to eat it?
Probably not. But I wouldn't do it overseas.
Anyways, I wanted to bring an event to mind that will serve the general public:
“Read the directions.”
When you buy Rain-X or some other windshield film polish-type-stuff, apply it to your windshield. Do not pour it into your washer fluid container.
Did this actually happen? Probably to someone out there. Did it happen to the man who did boneheaded things? Maybe, but the exchange went like this:
Setting: Two men traveling to a trade show in a van. It’s raining. It is roughly 2 hours before the younger man realizes he is going to watch the older man buy socks.
Older Man: Man, it’s really coming down. You can hardly see
Younger Man: Yeah, I keep thinking about getting some Rain-X for my car
Older Man: Ugh! That stuff is terrible. It gummed up my hoses and I had to get the unit replaced
Younger Man: (Silently processes this statement for years to come)
The lesson here is:
Read the directions and keep sock buying a private matter – otherwise your future decisions will be considered boneheaded.
A standard credit card offer comes with a lot of paper. One could probably fuel a wood-burning stove well into the dead of winter with enough of these babies. They either come with additional offers, fake looking checks, some sort of gift idea that you really want to give anyone even yourself, or some promise of a reward point for being an idiot. In any case, what you have is a letter that means one thing and says another.
In every letter, they have text that tries to make you feel good like you did something right just because you exist. “And you deserve it!” Well, hey thanks! That’s awfully nice! There’s a lot of nice people in Wilmington, DE. Or is there?
Of course there is a lot of info about credit cards, how bad they are, how they suck you in and you can’t get out … blah blah blah. You don’t even really have to get into that. Just look at the letter. If you take out all the inserts and the additional pamphlet of words in a font the size of a grain of salt, you are left with a strange letter that seems ominous.
One letter stated that I should really get a new deck for my home to entertain people during the summer. Of course, they don’t really know me because it says plainly on the address that I live in an apartment. If I set out to build a deck on the second floor, it wouldn’t take long to see that the endeavor would be fraught with peril. Along with their suggestions of illegal modification to my apartment, they offer rates and dates and great other things all accompanied by strange little symbols. The symbols refer to footnotes at the end of the letter in the similar grain small font that negate everything promised in the letter. To illustrate, I will write a letter using similar tactics. Behold a letter to a long lost imaginary friend:
It’s been a long time and I just wanted to catch up.† I’ve been doing well at my job at the financial company. Yeah, I’m still there! It’s a good job.†† I’ve moved out of the apartment and am now a homeowner. Never thought it would happen!§ Last I heard you were still up doing some freelance with that ad agency. Still doing that?1 We should keep in touch more often. My email address is firstname.lastname@example.org ‡ Don’t be a stranger!†
† - I feel guilty about not keeping in touch, so I’m doing this out of purely selfish reasons
†† - My 500lb coworker constantly reeks of bad fish
§ - I’m in over my head
1 – You squeaked by in college and you make more than me doncha? Can you spare some?
‡ – I’m not giving you my main email address
As you can see, there’s a lot hidden in the fine print. Rather than a quick letter of an attempt to rekindle an old friendship, you have the pathetic cry of a broken man wondering how he can escape. Credit Card letters are the same except that the person sending it to you is the 500lb fish-eater with the interesting rash.
To be talented at something doesn’t always mean it is something that you enjoy. Just because you can belch pi to the 34th decimal place doesn’t mean you should do it nor try to build a career out of it. If you did, someone would be able to belch out the golden ratio and you’d be looking for work at local church chili feeds.
All that I’m saying is that you should never give up looking for that one special thing. Sure, it might be disappointing, but at least you know the Truth.
Me? Well, I’m not too aware of my special talent, but something bizarre has been happening the past couple years. At the local Japanese Restaurant I’ve noticed that I can catch things in my mouth. Whenever the chef throws zucchini or shrimp bits, I seem to land them perfectly.
This is a surprise to me since I’m an very uncoordinated and bump into things a lot, but it is nonetheless interesting to me. The last thing I want to do is test it further for if I am really good at it, I’ll be harnessed by NASA to help with dangerous meteorites entering Earth or something. Rather than weave a special techno-space net, some guy name “Chad” will suggest: “Hey, I saw this guy on Leno last night that can catch things with his mouth, let’s use him!” And so they would shoot me off into orbit without a facemask and as I would careen with a meteor, the last words I hear over my headset would be “Okay, open wide!”
On second thought, keep your special talents to yourself. You might live longer.
I remember seeing my first chocolate Easter bunny. It was in its own box which meant that it was super secret special and not to be associated with the other festive candy such as pastel jelly beans, chocolate coins or those weird goopy yolk egg things.
My little 5-year-old brain proceeded to deduce that the box was there to protect the enormous quantity of chocolate hidden within its bunny structure. It smiled through the plastic film in a “boy, you can’t wait can you!” but I did. I waited until the last moment. It would be the grand finale of Easter munching.
Unlike Halloween, you are given a predetermined amount of candy in various sizes and forms. If one takes an accurate accounting of the spoil, the ratio of good candy to bad is directly proportional to the number of houses you visit. Halloween is quantity over quality essentially whereas Easter could possibly win out on quality, but there is one hindering factor to Easter candy.
3rd Party Chocolate Vendors
Who are these guys? They seem to show up around this time with the cheapest chocolate around. It’s as if the guys from Hershey and Mars said – “Hey, let the B squad go after this holiday” and sure enough you wind up with odd tasting chocolate from Mexico or Uganda wrapped in lead foil depicting a bunny in short pants carrying a basket of eggs from unknown origins. The outcry was enormous to the point that Big Chocolate re-entered the ring and are clawing their way back by changing their colors to a more pastel-y rendition.
That’s fine, but that doesn’t explain the chocolate bunny. As mentioned before, this was a preciously protected crescendo of chocolate. One removed from the container I went forcefully for the ears with a carefully calculated force to bite through a full inch of chocolate only to have my teeth meet together in head jarring smash as bits of exploded bunny ear shrapnel ricocheted off of my face, basket, TV and probably my brother’s head. The darn thing was hollow!
Just like the tomb on the third day, my bunny’s body was empty. Melted down, the chocolate bunny was no bigger than a heresy fun size bar so why the secrecy? Why the hype? Well, I took the lesson that cocoa commodities could not support a filled chocolate bunny at the desired size and still be affordable or nutritious for a kiddie.
And that’s probably for the better – just remember to brush afterward.
"Red Bull. In stock or it's FREE!"
At first, I thought this was very bold and very generous offer. They seemed to be very confident in their Red Bull stock. Then it hit me - If they were out of stock, what would happen? I know that they said "It's Free!" but what would be free? I'm left to only conclude that they are meaning that I can stock my little car with as much as I can of great quantities of Red Bull that they do not have.
I would probably have to make several trips to carry the load of non-red bulls. Maybe I could finish off a couple thousand in the car to lighten the load.
So keep an eye on those Red Bull shelves. Be ready to pounce on the promise of unlimited non-red bulls - it's the best deal in town!
The mind of a four year old is very complex. You’d think it would, by most standards, be optimized for games and snacks, but there are inner workings in that smallish head that defies explanation.
For example, now that the days are getting longer and the early evenings are warmer, we send them outside to the playground during “Game Time.” This is a wonderful mechanism to wear them down so that they will do the mundane tasks later we have for them later. After a winter of playing “Red Light Green Light” with very slack rules, the kids were jittery with excitement on the promise of “outside.”
Upon marching out to the play ground in single file line, the tension to burst forth in squeals of glee was mounting. The girls tend to run and yalp into the playground as an announcement of all the fun that is before them. The boys, however, look to conquer the fun with fists-a-flying – pummeling it with dirt and wood chips. One boy who is one of our more sedate/space cadet kids, I’ll call him “Trevor,” came out, raised his fists in determination and grunted in a restrained fervor “SHAWN ROBERTS!”
I have no idea who Shawn Roberts is so I did an internet search. I don’t know why “Trevor” seems to need to express himself by stating the name of the acting legal director at the center for justice & accountability (according to google). Again, the four-year-old mind is complex. He could have simply meant “Strong Robbers!” or “Song Rugburns,” but – on second thought - neither of those clarifies the issue.
All in all, as long as they keep the dirt and woodchips out of their nose, eyes, mouth and ears, he can state whatever acting legal director of his choice…
…as long as they can help referee “Red Light Green Light”
News of this breakup has made me rethink a lot of things. Well, Petra-related things. My feelings about it are akin to that one kid in school who seemed kind of okay and then you heard him crack a few jokes and thought he was cool and then you find out that his dad got a job transfer to Izekistan (or some country ending in –stan). I know I had over 20 years to listen to Petra but I guess I really didn’t want to based on the fact that I thought they’d always be around. Just like chicken noodle soup, you don’t want to have it all the time, but when you might need it, you know it’s there and never going away.
Do I have enough analogies for you?
Petra to me was the James Bond character of Christian music. If a band member or two wanted to move on, that’s okay, they’d find a replacement – they always did. I’m sure they had Sean Connery albums as well as their Timothy Daltons.
Complete overhauls in music do not work, but if you replace a band member every odd year, the blow isn’t as bad. I viewed Petra as an institution like “Saturday Night Live” except more entertaining and more respectable. Petra would not and could not go away, even if a record exec wanted it to. Buried in long legal contracts first penned in the 70’s, an unbreakable clause was unearthed that spelled the immortality of Petra.
“Oh no!” cried the record exec as he tried to push an off-color semi-Christian band under Petra’s budget – and Petra came out with another album that week and the record exec was punished for his ignorance.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t like that, but it should have been.
Even though I was not even a casual listener, I have been known to travel down the highway and spurt out “BEYOND BELIEF! BEYOND BELIEF!” where my wife would join in on the repeat after getting over the jolt of my first outburst. She’s cool like that.
Well, here’s to the rock that was Petra and all you have done and meant to countless people over the decades. More power to ya.
That’s a mighty presupposition considering my attractibility of females is roughly “0”
– and that’s rounding up.
I would rather submit that this prohibition to dance is more of a protection to not embarrass oneself. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the plea to not dance is more of a “You don’t know how to - so stop it.” If I were to let it all hang out I would most likely start dancing like this:
I call this dance: “Aigh! Getemoffahme”
True. It’s not as shrewd or sophisticated as two musical artists as depicted below:
But, as you can see, if you were to try any of these moves, you would simply just draw attention to yourself – not a good attention either. I realize I can’t dance, nor do I enter environments that, when certain conditions are met, give me no choice but to dance. However, should that occasion occur, where I would have to “eat meat sacrificed to idols” so-to-speak, I have my dance move picked out that can be safely performed with minimal disturbance off in the corner without breaking local social customs:
Whoo! I’ll be impressin’ the lady-types!
Maybe I’ll just stick to sliding on linoleum in socks.
The banana gospel is simple. “Peel it from the other end.” Yet the profound truth of this is deeper than what you first realize. “Peel it from the other end??” you may say. “That’s ludicrous! Everyone knows that the stubby end of the banana is one of the most hardest materials nature has ever devised! … Right?” For illustrative purposes, I took the following pictures in my cubicle with a free camera that came with an Office Depot order. Pictures will help and it's too bad I didn't have a camera during my orange episode.
Nature’s pull tab? Or convenient handle? The Truth may shock you!
As tempting as it is to pull that stem, it is wrong. How many times have you peeled a banana that wasn’t cooperating and you wound up mashing up the top? Granted, this doesn’t happen all the time, but it’s enough to make you say “I’d like a banana but why go to the trouble?” There is hope.
Behold the stubby end, largely ignored by Western CivilizationI don’t know about you, but I’ve always regarded this part of the banana as inaccessible. Why? Because I assumed it was due to being raised to open bananas from the stem. I never once thought “out of the box” to see that maybe … just maybe … there was another way. It took someone from the other side of the planet to show me the way.
“Just what do you do now?” I’m glad you asked. The stubby end can be peeled by your own fingers, like an orange but without any squirting juice. “HUH??” is what I usually get as a reply after I say this – like I largely shook a vital truth. It’s okay, I had the same reaction.
“Aigh what are you doing?? You’re messing with my head!”
Now since, I’m taking my own pictures in secret, I have to do this one handed. I recommend two hands for more efficiency. As you can see, the stubby end is giving away easily. “Stop! Isn’t this against the law??”
You will quickly see that this is working out really want to share the idea with another Perhaps you’ll want to buy a banana of your own to try it out. You can name it whatever you want.
Chuckles the Banana in mid-peel
Observe: No floppy stem to deal with…
…and Looky! A nice little handle for easy cleanup!
I know there are some of you who probably are saying “So what? I’ve done it that way forever!” Good! But, you are rare – at least in my experience. Everyone I’ve come in contact with has peeled it the by the stem. Some even have gone to say “yeah, right! Whatever…” as if I was trying to deceive them.
I’m pretty sure that cartoons from the 30s and 40s depict the “banana peel slip” gag with a banana peel like above, but I don’t have that research with me. However, pictures of bananas in video games such as Super Mario Kart have a banana as such:
and in others...
And we never question it.
I showed my grandmothers, parents, in-laws and friends this technique and they all looked like they never saw a banana before. A new world was open before them. Some refused this new teaching, some accepted it but have no real use for it since they hated bananas, but to some it has forever changed their banana peeling habits.
That’s the power of Truth.
I did not write this joke. I’m not that funny. I’m sorta funny. (See logo at top) Is the joke funny? Well, when first heard, yes – but if you’re my wife who has to endure countless retellings – then no. She knows I only have one joke, so whenever I tell someone, “hey, I have a joke for you.” She hangs her head in a “not again” stance. She does confess that she does find the joke funny, but only once – at that “once” was 7 years ago. Why she doesn’t tell this joke to others herself is beyond me.
I also submitted this joke to Reader’s Digest. I didn’t expect too much since they keep reprinting old jokes and pay people for them or disregard them all-together. The joke appeared in a couple issues later, reworded and slimmed down. There was no point to argue, it wasn’t my joke and it wasn’t in my wording. I didn’t think it was as funny – not even sorta funny, but more like “could’ve-been-more-funny-if-they-used-my-version.” I’m not bitter; because it’s still a good joke to toss too someone who never heard before, especially a golfer but one does not need to be a golfer to appreciate this joke. It’s also has a better reaction when told aloud rather than print. Try it. It works.
What’s the joke? Ask my wife, she can tell it without laughing.
“Holidays” as they are known here, are celebrated the evening before so you can sleep in unless you are “active” and prefer doing odd jobs and chores until it’s time to start the charcoal grill/Oven/George Foreman Grill.
Over in England, also known as land of the Engs, and in other British-type colonies this term refers to the American word, “Vacation.” In sweet sing-songy voices they say “I’m going on Holiday” and they go across the planet to some remote exotic location like the Amazon or Toledo and suck the marrow out of it. Here, in the states, we take vacations. The very nature of its name proves that we do not know how to relax as a nation. Just look at it:
Obviously, it takes it name from the root “Vacate.” That said, the word pretty much states that it doesn’t matter where you go as long as you vacate your current surroundings.
“Where are you going for your vacation?”
“Does it matter? I just won’t be here.”
“True! Hanging out at home, eh?”
“Pretty much, I’ll probably check my email half-hourly.”
“Riley! Your on Vacation, you must vacate … NOW!”
So, basically, we Americans are left to watch commercials for cruise lines that contain “hints” on how to have fun. I believe after a couple more generations, we’ll be so job/career focused, that the simple pleasures will be viewed as antiquated head-scratching customs such as “beating-the-bounds”*
“You mean, I can go into the water”
Baby steps America, take baby steps …
*It’s not worth it to describe
You won’t see the following posts anywhere on forums after someone rebuttals a long discourse of opinion…
“You’re right. My bad…”
“Oh, I understand, I was wrong”
“No kidding? Huh, I had it all backward”
Want opinions on military intelligence? Creationism vs Evolution? Looking for an excellent programmer, but confused whether he should be fluent in Ajax or should he just be C++? Did that grilled cheese sandwich with Mary’s image really have any significance? Are Republicans too fat and Liberals too wonky? Was asbestos flavored asbestos really needed for asbestosly designed products or was it just a fad?
Sure, there’s a lot of questions, but I want you to understand that while there are myriads of opinion-toting personages out there, you can be rest assured that this site … in some fashion, updated once a week … will try to sift through heady arguments, by completely ignoring them.
This site will make every effort support phrases along the lines of “I once carbonated a peanut” or “I have detailed plans for creating ninja stars out of cotton swabs, I’m pretty sure they will bounce off my wife's head with no ill effect.”*
Sillybear Inc. is here for your comfort, your enjoyment and your weekly “what the heck was that?” 100% original, clean and almost funny.
*Hey! I love my wife. It's a cottonswab ninja star! I would never throw anything sharp at her. Ever. You people are weird.
Wow. So many curves and jagged edges all over. It looks like the further West they went, the wiser they got, but were afraid of redoing the earlier work. Now don’t give me all that about rivers and mountains and population, if Americans have a right to speak their mind, they have a right to live in adequately spaced and proportional states (and commonwealths.)
Now, let’s begin:
First, let’s just combined that whole Northeastern section into one state. Do we really need Rhode Island by itself? It's smaller than my morning commute! Can’t Vermont and New Hampshire get along? Of course they can! So, here is our new state of … New England. The postal code can be NE and we’ll change Nebraska’s to NA. That shouldn’t confuse many.
Let’s move on…
Allright, this is an easy one.
The Problem: Panhandles.
The Solution: Oklahoma has gotten away with this for too long. We’ll give Texas the extra bit (because you don’t mess with Texas, that’s what I hear on the street anyway) and will cut off Florida’s and divvy it up between neighbors. This is looking promising. On to the next!
Okay, here we straighten out the lines set up earlier to be a little neater. The proposed “purple” state will be economical since only 100 people live in this area anyway. Although, I’m starting to think that even the Purple state (PS for the postal code) isn’t very shapely. Even Texas is starting to look really unflattering.
I can see where this is going. Even if I do organize the borders into respectable squares, we have the natural boundaries of the continent that throw the whole scheme off. Stupid oceans!
Allright, the best way to deal with this is to organize a large scale landfill into the Atlantic, Pacific and Gulf of Mexico to fill out the rough boundaries until a result as such is achieved:
There! Perfectly edged and everyone can literally have, “their own corner” of the world.Here is a proposed satellite shot of the New USA:
The unevenness is a result of the oceanic erosion and the curvature of the earth, but do not fear, there are plans underway to fix that issue as well:
We’ll just find more dirt somewhere else.
But that’s okay.
I’m sure their was tons of credible research done on the long term effects of these ingredients. Right? So, with all this in mind, is it my desire to eat natural and only purely organic material? Heavens no! Keep the colors coming! Keep the polymer-cupcakes flowing! Any culture that has learned to create the entity known as “The Twinkie” can eat whatever they dang well please … as long as you have your estate in order.
1. It’s cheap or free
2. I have a higher probability to understand it and not mash buttons in frustration
It’s true that if I was presented with an amber screen mainframe computer with tape reels along side an ultra thin laptop computer with a huge-faced screen, I’d poke around Mr. UNIVAC over there first before seeing how many Terabytes of RAM the iSnazzy-Mac had. This could be considered a weakness, but it’s just an overgrown curiosity.
Even my music is antiquated. Not many can stand it or will stand for it. Currently in my CD-Player I have “Electric Avenue” playing which always makes me want to program Atari games or write in BASIC. 1982 through 1984 seemed like a magical time though my parents would wonder just what the heck I thought was so thrilling about a time that looked like this:
“There are two kinds of fools: One says, ‘This is old therefore it is good.’ The other one says, ‘This is new therefore it is better.’”
I thought this was a quote from the Bible, but it turns out it’s just from some guy who was broke, like me, and couldn’t invest in either timeframe. Still, it says a lot. It’s much better to live in the NOW and be ever-present. (By living in the NOW, I don’t mean living in the storage basement of the National Organization of Women – that would be a little creepy and darn near an episode of CSI).
For the most part, I like the Future. It’s a bit expensive and aloof, but it looks nice. The Past, though friendly and warm, can get on your nerves if entertained too long. The Answer? Buy the Present a soda and get to know it real well, make it a grilled cheese sandwich and surf the Information Superhighway together. You’ll be glad you did.
The best way to visualize my disorder is to think of us all as having internal clocks that govern our bodies. These clocks can naturally tell us when to get up and when to go to bed. The problem is that my internal clock can sometimes react as if a gigantic electromagnet the size of Houston is right beside my head. All normality is gone and pandemonium is put there instead.
Let me give you specific encounters to further illustrate this problem. The first time this happened to me and my wife was one sleepy night where my wife was sleeping peacefully like an angel and I was wadded up in some sort of cannonball posture involving a pillow, pillow sham and at least one corner of a blanket that is trying desperately to leave my straining clutches. It was during this night that I jolted awake, my internal clock askew.
You see, my internal clock told me – in harsh tones – that it was 6:30. The usual time I get up, but for unexplainable reasons to me at the time, the alarm clock said 1:03am.
Because my internal clock insisted in being right, the external clock that only had unreliable electricity powering it had to be wrong. Fearing some sort of freakish power outage happened; I decided to wake my wife to chime in on the issue. She wasn’t very forthcoming with useful theories. Mostly she was mad. The conversation went something like this:
Me: wife’s name!
Me: WIFE’S NAME MORE EMPHATIC
Wife: zzzhu… what?
Me: Why does the clock say 1am??
At this point there was a moment of stunned silence which I didn’t understand. Her unwillingness to jump in and solve this caper proved that I was on top of things more than anyone else. This was an error in judgment, however because she quickly diffused the situation by saying:
Wife: Maybe … because it IS?
(another pause of stunned silence)
The rest of the night was spent with me making sounds like a cappuccino machine and my wife wondering what just happened and why she was punished by a man who insisted on imitating industrial-grade appliances. We eventually laughed it off just in time (well, only me) for this next incident happened the following year:
While nestled and all snug in our bed, a familiar panic ensued. Around 2am my internal clock sounded an alarm akin to the terror alert being raised from green to deep deep maroon. There was no time to wake the wife this time, haste was immediate! I threw off the blanket, comforter, pillows and (I think) a largish stuffed animal and dashed to the bathroom in a tizzy. Somewhere along the way, for reasons unexplained, this woke my wife up. Just as I reached the door she called out “What’s wrong?” In a panic-induced voice tempered by annoyance at such a nonsensical question I answered back “It’s 2 instead of 1!”
Again the silent pause. My wife used her groundbreaking analytical testing question of “what??” for which I didn’t have an answer for. “oh…” I said with a laugh that wasn’t shared, “I did it again.” Trying to let this one slide by proved harder as my wife started wondering just exactly what was wrong with me and why she has to be brought into this debacle of “me.” Marriage joins a lot of things together. Let this be a warning to others considering such a move too lightly.
Now that I had opened the almost healed wounds from the first experience and inflicted even more pain with a ridiculous statement, I thought I had reached the bottom and put this all behind me.
One year later I had a dream. I dreamt that my wife and her mother were helping me debug a complex computer program. It was a humdinger of a problem too. As we three studied and sweated over the code, I decided to go use the restroom and come back to tackle it anew. While I was in the bathroom, I noticed that the wall clock said it was 3am. I was only able to process this by staring at the clock for a good 5 minutes. Why I was working on a computer problem with my wife and mother-in-law at 3am was a puzzler. And then it dawned on me. “Hmmm, I bet I was dreaming! Aha!” Then it dawned on me another time “I just woke my wife up again.” I then tried to reason that maybe I didn’t. No such luck.
I returned to a very awake wife wondering if I was sick or hurt. I wished it was true. The answer of “nothing” did not appease her. Sadly, the full explanation of my behavior didn’t work either. It was a lose-lose situation, mainly me losing some brownie points and her losing sleep. Since that time, my inner alarm clock has been restrained to me staying in bed and staring intently at my little clock for several minutes, convincing myself that I’m not late for work, church or to cook and eat breakfast sausage. If I was to retain any peace, if I do turn out to be late for something, I can still calmly remove myself from bed and carefully walk to the shower to proceed to get ready without knocking everything gravity prone to the ground. I’ve come a long way. Now to handle this cappuccino machine snore …