Last weekend included but was not limited to the following:

- 1 cartoon villain
- 9 Canadian cyclists moving in a circle
- 1 crowd yelling at 9 Canadian cyclists moving in a circle
- 14 examples of cleavage that went above and beyond the call of duty
- 1 Irish pub with a penchant for Celtic crosses, U2 and cabbage treats
- 2 tubes of Smarties
- 1 bowling pin juggling unicyclist
- 2 German midgets
- 1 creepy castle
- 3.2 miles walked
- 2 pain-in-the-ass canal crossings
- 2 sea-worthy ferries
- 1 bitchy barrista
- 2 immigration officials
- 2 inebriated Washingtonians
- 17 Canadian flags
- 5 examples of rich assholes
- 1 black cat named Felix
- 1 pint of Boddingtons
- 3 smores washed down with beer
- 1 bonfire in a washing machine
- 5 laughing Swedes
- 1 flattened frog
- 1 gazillion crickets
- 1 gakking peacock
- 1 scene from Titanic reenacted
- 3.2 songs sung in the car
- 2 nauseating references to parental sex
- 1 dead coal baron
- 4 plastic deer
- 1 lounge recliner
- 3 erect poles (totem)
- 1.2 mini bags of Doritos
- 2 criminal cases of plumber’s crack
- 6.8 criminal cases of making up song lyrics
- 3 Elks with homing tags frolicking near the freeway
- 5 incidents of overly abundunt sea spray action
- 1 chapped hide

I keep seeing the LAY's potato chip truck on my way home during lunch. Maybe it's because I'm hungry or the fact that I'm a perv, but I think their tagline should be Have a LAY at lunch. Although in a certain light, Bet you can't eat just one is also appropriate.

Let it be known that I am not a cult leader, nor have I taken part in a hostile takeover of a Fortune 500 company. I have never engaged in a military coup d'état, and the only time I used the word Totalitarianism was for some paper I wrote, earning a well-deserved "D". I have not yelled at people in a crowded city square, nor have I passed leaflets that proclaim that Jesus will be making his next appearance on a Rose Parade float. I suppose if push came to shove, I could be labeled as politically slight, middle of the road, or vanilla yogurt. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have my own agenda with a myriad of propaganda to color it. Here is my list (albeit unfinished) of propaganda I can really support:

1. Hammering the crosswalk button like a sugar-hyped ADD kid raises the chances of you being jumped by gang bangers in a deserted alleyway.
Remember that time you clipped that octogenarian at the crosswalk and saw his dentures jettison like some Sci-Fi escape pod? I know you didn't mean it, but it was obviously a cry for help. Why? Because he was knuckling the crosswalk button! Personally I like the little waifs that look harmless, but get them by a crosswalk button and it’s a seal bludgeon festival. And have you ever noticed that no matter how loud your car stereo is, you can always hear the CLANK CLANK CLANK of that damn button? The designers were able to achieve a gnarly mid-tone that cuts through shrieking guitar, monotone public radio shows, upchucking easy listening crooners, and bass-laden Hip Hop beats. Howitzer-repeating Techno, Truck-lovin’ twang mongers and even Wagner himself couldn’t get a damn Valkrie to drone out that button racket.


2. Playing XBOX increases intelligence by 82% and gives one the reflexes of a Cheetah.
While this may be hard to believe, I have witnessed the miracle firsthand. Before being introduced to HALO and subsequently HALO 2, I used to say things like “Hey fuckface! I told you I wanted to throw back a few and hit that titty bar! Are you planning on slathering your stank on that skank you told me about?” But now I prefer to say, “My dear fellow, I vehemently request that we partake in the ingestion of many a spiritus beverage, which in turn will facilitate the function of finding myself ensconced in your scheme to pursue your continuing courtship at the local gentleman’s club.”

And talk about reflexes. Before Xbox, I would trip on the slightest bump that I ever came across and plant my face like the local gardner, “Eduardo” putting in a bunch of annuals. Now I trip, do a double summersault flying jackknife ninja tussle and land - All while I hold a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows (which stays in the mug, ready for consumption).


3. Letting women go topless will dramatically reduce car accidents
This country is so pent up about keeping our ethical construct intact that our sexuality is pressure cooked with the equivalency of an MX missile enshrouded in a giant prophylactic. Case in point: If a guy was driving down the street and saw an attractive woman loose control of her top, there is a 1103% chance the driver will give ”rubbernecking” new definition, and end up as a sushi entrée embedded in a pole. However, if everyone walks around shirtless, it will be as commonplace as discourteous white chicks with jailhouse tats and ass cleavage working the Taco Bell.


4. Cell Phone usage while driving causes fungal growth in the ear canal and rapid ballooning of the nuts.
I know; all of you just love to multi-task while on the road. Between the face plaster, paper work, reading the sports section, picking your nose, cleaning the mustard off your shirt that slopped off your "Whammyburger" and yelling at everyone around you for driving like an ass, you always seem to have a cell phone engaged to the ear like it's waiting for the honeymoon. But let me let you in on a little secret: You already SUCK at driving. Adding a cell phone to the mix makes your driving equivalent to a 82 year-old whose eye level is akin to her knuckles on the “ten” and “two” position on the steering wheel. The blinker has been on for the past mile and a half, and uh-oh; looks as if she’s passing a stone or having a heart attack. Maybe she’s passing a stone while having a heart attack.

Before I got a headset, I tried yapping into a handheld while speed-shifting, changing the radio station, scratching my balls, adjusting the sunroof and lapping an ice cream cone. All at once.

So I can sympathize.

One day I was so entranced in the conversation while challenging the limits of local speed laws, I almost launched myself into a construction zone like a frickin' Dukes of Hazard episode. You know those old "Scared Straight" specials about young punks getting a taste of "pound me in the ass prision"? Well when I was power treading toward the guy with the SLOW/STOP sign and saw the look of unadulterated horror on his face, I almost blew chow after realizing what my Verizon sleek silver chatter-flipping suppository got me into. From that day forward, I quit the whole handheld scene. Sure, I still SUCK at driving, but at least no one on the other end of my phone will hear the inevitable OH FUUUUUUUUCK! AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!-CLICK-.

Seattle, WA – Famed wildlife photographer Lars Frömme was attacked and killed as he attempted to photograph and study a litter of kittens. Frömme was just finishing up a two year study on the similiarities between domestic and wild cats when it seems he was waylayed by the "fuzz factor" and underestimated the danger.

Bob Strokemehchin, Fröme’s assistant of 16 years was the only eyewitness to the slaughter. “I wasn’t worried, because Lars has had so much experience in the wild. I figured photographing kittens would be easy for him. But these kittens… they weren’t normal. You should have seen the devilment in their eyes!” According to Strokemehchin, the kittens had been huddled together, then when they saw Frömme approach, they turned on him. When Strokemehchin attempted to call for help, it was already too late.

Dr. Prochack of the Massachusetts Institute of Kitten Study thinks that there may have been a reason for their highly disturbing behavior. “They were hungry. Babies generally eat a lot due to the rapid growth of their bodies.” In addition, Dr. Prochack believes that the kittens possess a rare renegade Dingo gene that only shows up once in 150 generations. The doctor added: “Don’t let their cute cuddly façade fool you. They are man eaters!”

When authorities arrived, they had the gruesome task of collecting the partially eaten remains of Frömme and tranquilized the kittens for further study. The owner of the kittens whose identity has not yet been released, was distraught at the news. She was on her way back from the store with some Kitten Chow when coming upon the scene.


Mr. Cuddles, Shoshona, Huggy Bear and Ralph, the four kittens that mauled famous wildlife photographer Lars Frömme on Monday, May 9, 2005. This was the only photo that could be developed from the partial remains of the camera.

Someone once said, “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.” The same can be said about the guy I work with. The man casts the same silhouette as a basketball stuck in a straw, and has the laugh of a hyena going through a clothes wringer. He is an intelligent guy, but possesses a flaccid type of intelligence that allows him to tell you about the turbulent history of peanut butter, but incapacitates the part of the mind that allows him to write up a correct work order. I have never met a guy who harbors enough useless knowledge that surpasses the displacement ratio of Roseanne Barr in a hot tub.

Lately he has been handing in orders with incorrect crucial information. I produce the order, he sees that the order is wrong and with crosses out the incorrect crucial information, then puts it up on the board to make it look like I fucked it up. If there is ONE thing that will guarantee the trajectory of my clown shoe up your ass, it’s making yourself look better by making me look bad. However the repeated ruse always ends up a futile gesture due to his slack-jaw sensibilities. He lands himself in shit often and my Ninjapant® wearing, surgeon-like vinyl slinging keeps me in good graces.

And then there’s the flirting. Get this man on the phone with a woman and it’s like some balding peckerwood in a bad suit with a out of control hard-on bumping into the women at his 25th year high school reunion. Luckily the women on the other end of the line don’t see him, but do have to put up sexual innuendos that often involve the words, “horse” and “hung.” Ok it isn’t really that bad, but I did hear him one time compare himself to the great lovers of the world: Don Juan de Shithead? Yep, that’s the one.

Speaking of sex, I hear that in order for the man to achieve liftoff, his wife has to hoist his dong, wait for a good headwind to hit the nutsack and they’re off. Well it’s either that or renting a forklift from the equipment rental down the street. Of course his wife isn’t much better – get a bottle of lube between those two and it’s like trying to jockey a horse named “Satan” bareback after being slathered in vegetable oil.

Another quality he has is the ability to tell stories that have the same effect as 20 Quaaludes with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a sledgehammer chaser. He once told me a story about how he encountered the fifth-ranked master in Badass Fu and that the master wanted to bend him, salt him and stick him on a pretzel rack. I asked him why, and he responded, “I don’t know, I just got that feeling.” Hmmm, I wonder if he received my telepathic image of my steel-toed boots hitting his nads at Mach I?

I feel better. Always keep your sense of humor when you work with the emotional equivalent of a rectal thermometer administered by a Sumo wrestler.

Yesterday I saw a Ministry of God bus broken down on the side of the road. The driver was at the back of the bus shaking his fist in the rain.

I bet he's wishing he had put that "Jesus is my Co-pilot" sticker on the back of his rig now.

You know the scene in the Godfather III where Al Pacino says, “Just when thought that I was out, they pull me back in!” If you take away the hired hit men, the pinstripe suits, the money, the pope, the Sicilian accent, the inherent power of the Mob, the dark looks, the smoking jacket, the wife and the mistress, then I am JUST LIKE Al Pacino in that scene.

I retired Wedgie almost two years ago and while I keep tabs on my friend’s list, I didn’t have any plans on coming back. But like all dinosaur rock bands, true “retirement” only really kicks in after a coke-induced heart attack.

That’s where alfachimp comes in. A week or so ago, I received a note from him asking if I wanted to hang out, which I thought it was a killer idea. Meeting him was great; he struck me as a guy I could trust, minus any of the trappings of overt drama, had the air of a laid back dude, and I haven’t cracked up that much since mooning the girl’s choir from the back of a van on the way to church camp. After a lively episode of sharing personal tidbits and getting over the “Whoa, you really are a live dude!” thing, I told him that we should hang out again, to which he agreed.

Then the word “Inglewood” started showing up in my journal. After two years of being deader than a hammered dong, my journal sprang back to life thanks to the likes of alfachimp (If you participated in the Inglewood thing; many thanks go out to you). I’m not going to explain the “Inglewood” thing; that is a Chimp tale and up to him to unleash. But after our personal exchange (strictly platonic mind you), I had a thought. What if AC and I open a journal together?

The idea is to write our own material, and perhaps collaborate on some stuff as well to sharpen our skillz. You as the reader would be entertained by two madmen instead of one. I mean two is better than one right? Two hundred dollar bills instead of one; Two nights at a luxury hotel instead of one; Two scoops instead of one – it’s all good. In fact the only time when two is not better than one is when you are talking STD’s, root canals and tax audits.

I pitched the idea to alfachimp, who was agreeable, but I didn’t FEEL THE EXCITEMENT. It’s cool that I got a polite reply, but I want him to FEEL THE POTENTIAL. So in my quest to really convince him, I am going to start writing in this journal again until I can get him to see what a killer idea it is.

Of course I may just fall flat on my ass, but I think I’ll give it a shot.

Let the journaling begin. Yet again.

Scientists have found a way to capture sun beams and use them in surgery. Of course you're fucked if a renegade cloud appears from nowhere, but hey, Rome wasn't built in a day.

My bottled sunshine idea is one step closer to reality! Soon people living in dank dark environments (like Seattle in the winter) can crack open a bottle of "Mr. Sunshine" caffeine free / sugar free and get a quick spot of the golden stuff.

Do not expose to sensitive areas or areas not usually prone to natural sunlight.

Don’t quote me on this, but I hear that Lara Croft as the Tomb Raider is going to revive her role once again in Lara Croft, Tomb Raider: In Search of the Bling Bling. The film makers will continue the tradition of bringing the viewer into the midst of exotic locales by starting Lara off in South Central Los Angeles. She will be under the gun (so to speak) to find the clues that will lead her to the mysterious and enchanting Ghetto Fabulous treasure. Hidden within the Watts Towers, the first disturbing clue is unearthed. Shaken but not shook, Lara travels to the heart of Chicago’s South Side, where an elderly chap named Leroy helps her piece together part of the puzzle by using some of the magical properties in his ultra spicy chicken wing soul food barbecue sauce. The climax of the film takes place in The Bronx where Lara teams up with some taggers who help her locate the secret door hidden under a tapestry in a palm reader’s parlor. Behind the tapestry lies something so intoxicating that it is guarded by the fiercest of the fierce, armed with MAC-10’s. Lara takes on the rogues alone, armed only with her innate intelligence, pistols and a really huge rack.

Today I made a woman snort. It was a good solid one too --she had a hearty chuckle followed by a solid, semi-violent, rear nasal inhalation. I think some of the counter displays shook from the vibration.

She is supposed to come back in a few days to finalize her order. I think I will make her snort again.

The farmers tan is coming along quite nicely. I should be hearing from the Save the Zebra Foundation regarding the poster boy position any time now.

Monday Morning: “There will come a day BOY, when you wish you never would have met me.”

Atomic: “Mister, I’m already there.”

Ahhh yes. The weekend. Who knew? Who knew that two days could be wrapped up in a neat little package filled with intrigue, mystery, the intention of hiking and pirates.

Ahh yes. I did indeed say pirates. Arrrr if there ever was a reason to go homo Jim boy, these pirates be the ticket for the ship to the gay frontier. While being a fervent heterosexual, I cannot deny the fact that those blokes have a bit of charm. I have always been a fan of the Deppster, and thought he did a keen job. Orlando, while you also did a good job, you were basically just Legolas with an eye patch.

On to more self-affirming heterosexual activity. I helped my Dad out by hauling about 600 pounds of sand from his driveway though a maze of upward paths to the site where he is laying a newpath. It gave me a chance to get all sweated up and flex my glistening muscles to that vixen, Diana who lives across the street from them. To add to the overature, I took a moment to slightly arch my back, raise an icy Coke to my lips and gulp in slow motion while wiping my brow in the midday sun. Then I lowered my bottle, and threw a wink her way, sending it across the street like a slow ball.

Of course she ignored my overstated gestures of manliness, so I went over and said “what up?”

After a solid Saturday, I decided that a little adventure was in order for Sunday. I struck out, heading east for a hearty hike at a place called Spray Park. You would think that it was probably named after some geysers, or perhaps the lapping of wild white water careening down the rocky slopes, but it was actually named after the stout adventurer Will Panchinko who happened to have a stuttering problem. Anyway I went out ready for any kind of weather, and rightfully so, since it was raining out. I drove east. Then I drove south. Then east again. I hit the town of Buckley. I hit the hamlet of Carbonado. I passed over the Carbon River Gorge. That was a feat, since the bridge over the Carbon River Gorge is a creaky little one lane sonofabitch, straight out of the movie Road Trip. Then I traversed through tight country roads lined with thick pine trees. I saw majestic landscapes with wet rock and wispy clouds that hovered like decoration in nearby valleys. I saw two deer frolic in the mist. As I headed up the last road to my destination, what at first was fine pavement turned bumpy. Then craggy. Then jagged. My poor little dainty Honda was protesting and since I was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere without a cell and only a “Don’t Litter” sign close by (riddled with gunshot) to comfort me, I decided that my threshold for adventure had reached its peak for the day. But I will return in a few months with my bad ass 1996 Ford Bronco fitted with 36” swamp tires to tear it up.

Life is a series of advances and retreats. Run away today - come back to hike another day.

I'm working on marketing a new product geared directly for Preschoolers who are looking for an edge.

( The product in action )

Ahoy.

Seeing two movies as diametrically opposed as these within the span of five hours is reason enough to seek therapy.

28 Days Later

Zombie flicks by their very nature do not give you fluffy bunny feelings. But most of them have an element of fun and in my case makes me feel like I could take on a hoarde of chompers.

This movie was different. These zombies were fast. Really fucking fast. It's as if someone shoved a turbocharger up their ass and pointed them in the direction of the next victim. One minute a normal, uncontaminated character would be standing there, the next minute there's some zombie asshole on him like white on rice. And then there's the ralph factor. The meatheads in this movie just spewed all kinds of nasty stuff. They weren't really the zombies I admire which are of the cannibal variety. The zombies in this flick serve to do two things: spread the virus and to do it in the nastiest, most splashy, chunky way possible.

There were certainly cool things about the movie, but I came out of the theater with a dark cloud over my head. I have no idea if I liked it or not. I think I liked Resident Evil better, if only for the fact that the zombies seemed cooler.

If zombies are like the ones in 28 Days, I’m going to have to rewrite the rulebook for evading zombies.

Legally Blonde II

Through a quirky twist of fate, I was FORCED to see this movie only three hours after seeing 28 Days Later. If I thought my head was fucked up after the first movie, the second one turned my head around to a completely different trajectory making me feel like I was dropped kicked into the Twilight Zone. While the first movie was brutal and dark, the second one was like gorging out on cotton candy while visiting the Main Street Disneyland Gift Shop.

Too girly and foofoo for my taste. But if you like girly and foofoo, hey, be my guest.

Saw a boatload of fireworks

We went over to the folk’s house to catch the display because they have a killer view of Puget Sound. I was able to see every firework display from Des Moines to Redondo. Then there were some militant firework detonation dorks who thought they were shooting surface to air missiles in Baghdad, circa 1991. It was just like watching CNN only without the blazing night vision. At one point the schlong didn't have the correct projectory and one of his suburban rockets went straight into a tree. It popped, the tree shook, expanded and contracted after shedding about 15,000 needles but thankfully it didn't catch fire.

After that display of pyrotechnic wizardry, my Dad called me into service to help him drench the roof with the garden hose.

The cool thing about having the local idiots set off the fireworks is that you are eye-level to the display. It goes off just a couple hundred yards away and all I have to do is put my feet up and sip my Mikes Hard Lemonade.

Hiked to Comet Falls again

More hiking at one of the coolest spots I been to thus far. And this time I took some photos of the falls I want to pattern my future “Love Jacuzzis” after. I did not crop these photos, so if you have a dial-up, click at your own risk.

1) Where's Rainier? Where the fuck did it go? When I was pointing my camera out the window at 50 mph, I SWEAR it was there. I had a clear shot. Now no fucking around; who hid it?

2) The Love Jacuzzi (south)

3) The Love Jacuzzi (north)

4) The Love Jacuzzi (north 02)

5) View from the trail





Giddy Up.