Kill Your Cat

On December 28th in Redmond, OR a one-eyed kitten was born. It lasted for two days before it died. The owner still reportedly has the corpse of this monstrosity in her freezer in case science is interested. Look at it. Does it freak you out? It freaks me out. Bad.


















That is why I'm....no seriously stop looking at it and pay attention. Thank you. That is why I'm now asking you to kill your cat. It is obvious that this is merely a test kitten, a first step if you will, designed by the Cat Leaders. I have known for some time that the Cat Leaders have had it in for us. They have been biding their time, waiting patiently on the hood of my car, for the perfect moment to strike. But they have commited a critical blunder now. It's made the news and the jig is up. Their plans to create an army of cycloptic cats has been uncovered by an unwitting woman in Redmond, Oregon of all places. In her freezer lies all the proof we need that the Cat Leaders are now dabbling in the realm of God by bio-engineering their own breed of one-eyed monsters, viewed as completely expendable by their two-eyed feline overlords who view themselves as superior with their bifocal vision.

One look at this, this abberation gives us a few clues as to what the Cat Overlords are planning. It has one eye which from the picutre obviously shoots some sort of death ray, prehaps even something akin to the sinister abilities of Medusa herself, we cannot be sure until the corpse is studied in detail. Also this cat has been designed for some sort of marine warfare as it has no nose, leading to the obvious conclusion that it has no need for oxygen. I don't think it would be considered overreacting to alert our naval fleets to be on the lookout for any kittens who have been born in secrecy already and raised to maturity and schooled in the dastardly martial arts which only cat know. Perhaps even notifying the cruise lines would be in order. We should also keep a sharp eye to the trees. Cats, already good climbers, would benefit greatly from some cross-breeding with simian stock, and as you can tell from the picture this kitten obviously has some monkey-blood running through its veins. Imagine the stark terror you would feel if a small squad of, say, 15 of these horrors dropped out of a maple tree onto you and set about with their rending teeth and sharp talons. I'm sure I don't have to go into detail about how they would eat you. If you don't believe that they're cross breeding with apes, let me direct you to this video, obtained by spies, where a disgusting chimp give a cat a sensual bath in preparation for their unholy union.

I hope I have driven home the dire urgency of our situation here. Now I implore you, go kill your cat. The Cat Overlords and their agents have been allowed to monitor our activities too long. Their intelligence network is second to none. They know too much! Kill your cat now before it is too late! Kill it! Kill it, I say!

Tim Inspires, Draws Out My Inner Artiste

Tim, self-proclaimed master of the pwns joo system of martial arts, modified his profile picture for the holidays. It made me laugh. In doing so he has inspired me to do the same. So sit back and enjoy the Holiday Berzerker in the upper right. Maybe he'll come down your chimney to spread holiday cheer. Thanks, Tim.

Barndoorisopenophobia

Yeah, so I have this recurring fear whenever I'm in a public place that my fly is open. It is something that crosses my mind nearly every time I step out of my car or enter a building for some reason. I get nervous and try to check it as nonchalantly as possible. Several times a day.

Today I was in one of my favorite eating establishments . I had both my hands in my pockets and I started thinking to myself, "if my fly is open, having both hands in my pockets is only going to increase the amount of tension in the groinal area of my trousers and I'll look like...Mr. Menzel."

As far as I know, right now my brother and sister are the only ones who will understand. So let me fill the rest of you in.

I grew up in the booming metropolis of Turner. Okay, maybe not a booming metropolis. It was more like a dying timber town whose economy revolved around the death throes of Burkland Lumber Mill while I was growning up. For some reason I have very few memories of Turner that don't involve it being very wet to the point of nearly flooding. Moss grew everywhere and the biggest thing that happened in the town was the annual Turner Lamb Festival, where people came to show off their sheep and, um, other stuff I guess.

So from first through sixth grade I attended Turner Elementary School. It was a small school. To give you an idea of how small let me give you an example. Each year (while I was there, at least) there were two classes for each grade. Two first grades, two second grades, two third grades, you get it. My class was different. There were only about twelve to eighteen of us any year so they would only have one class that year. Teachers would say, "oh no, you have the big class this year." The main part of the building was built in the twenties and if you go to the link above you'll see a picture of the main entrance. And also let me just say that the principal while I was there had a lot more in comon visually with a mustachioed Yoda than the woman on the web page.

At Turner was a member of the staff named Mr. Menzel. He would take the dumb kids out of the class in groups of about five per class and give them extra help in a very small room on the third level of the school. In fact, his room encompassed the entirety of the third level of the school and it was about an 8' x 8'. He would also take small groups of smart kids out starting in fifth grade and try to teach them advanced math. I say try because I really don't remember any of us getting it, but I may just be remembering the fact that I didn't get algebra until junior high (yeah, we didn't have middle shcools in our district).

Mr. Menzel looked a little like a supporting character in the Blondie comic strip. He had male pattern baldness, Coke-bottle glasses, a mouth that never completely closed and what seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of ugly sport coats with those stupid elbow pads that always reminded me of the inside of the reinforced knee of my Toughskins jeans.

Mr. Menzel also drove the bus whenever one of the three regular bus drivers was gone. The other bus drivers were Ed, Mr. Woelk, and Louie. Ed and Louie were the janitors and Mr. Woelk was one of the sixth grade teachers who also happened to participate in monster truck tractor pulls. We always knew we were in for a ride when the bus door opened and Mr. Menzel was behind the wheel. I had the opportunity to be on the bus for three accidents and Mr. Menzel was behind the wheel for two of them.

One of my more vivid memories of fourth grade was entering the school through the main entrance one morning and heading up the stairs (fourth through sixth grades were upstairs since apparently they were worried the Turner kids couldn't figure out how to use stairs until well through the third grade). These stairs were, if my memory serves, about fifteen feet wide and the steps were only about two inches high, resulting in approximately 120 fifteen-foot-wide stairs. Each morning the upstairs teachers would stand at the top of the stairs as the kids came into school. There they would stand, make small talk and drink bad coffee out of styrofoam cups to fully charge up their coffee breath attacks which they used to stun us into submission on a daily basis.

On the day in question Mr. Menzel was at the top of the stairs being his charming self and chit-chatting with Mrs. Wolnick, an unfortunately horse-faced woman of moderately bad temperment who had the misfortune of being my fourth grade teacher. She was no beauty queen but when hung up next to the other two female teachers upstairs I guess she was not all that bad. Ms. Woods looked like Roger Ebert and Ms. Scholian looked a little like Harry Dean Stanton.

As we were all plodding up the stairs to our fate for the day it was immediately obvious that Mr. Menzel had forgotten to XYZ. His fly was wide open and the tighty whiteys made a stark contrast to his green plaid pants. What made it worse was that he had both hands in his pockets, causing the aforementioned tension so as to create a large white triangle of what should remain unseen.

The image was so strikingly wrong that to this day it is still burned into my memory and could be the direct cause of my barndoorisopenophobia which has been clinically diagnosed. Amazing the things that are indellibly scrawled across our grey matter during the formative years we spend in elementary school, isn't it?

Rise up, oh mighty Geeks

Some time back Jason sent me a link to The Geek Test. I have taken it twice and for some reason scored differently twice. I think it's due to the fact that I didn't do the Bonus Round last time. The official reading when I took it today was 61.34122%, or Extreme Geek. I truly believe that I was pushed over the top by the fact that I had seen every movie they listed and own more than just a few of them as well as the fact that I once was in a fan club for a certain Real American Hero as a kid. I really feel that if I were more computer literate I would be able to totally dominate this test as those boxes I didn't check were related mostly to computer programming.

Leeeerooooooy Jennnnnnkinnnnnns!

Okay, Eric sent me this link in my e-mail this morning. Apparently this has been around for some time, but I've never seen it. It's been around enough that it was actually a question on a college episode of Jeopardy! sometime last year. This really does hold up to multiple viewings, and in fact that is what I recommend. This will only be funny if the sound is turned up. Click on the green Watch button and enjoy. Be warned, if you have incontinence problems, you may want to sit on a tarp. I was crying by the time this was over.


Leroy Jenkins

New Narnia Trailer

A new trailer for the upcoming Narnia movie is here.

I've Given This A Great Deal Of Thought

So I'm watching TV tonight and it kind of dawns on me that there's something missing in my life. Something that is keeping me from being whole. A thing whose absence is like an electric fence between me and real happiness. Something that would complete me. That thing is a sword.

Yeah, that's right. I need a big, sharp sword.

There's probably some people who will read this and absolutely not get it. These are people who have never known true yearning. They will think, "what in the name of Sam Hill is this guy going to do with a sword?" These people think that a sword is something to hang on a wall like a picture or a singing fish. Well, I can tell you that these people are fools.

A sword is something you would need if there was, say, a zombie outbreak. Sure I've got all kinds of shootin' irons, but I plan on living a long, long time after the initial outbreak which means that ammo availabiltiy might become an issue. A sword never needs more bullets.

What if you awoke one night and there was all of a sudden a magic portal into another world where you're toilet was? Well who's to say that all the laws of physics we use as a crutch in this dimension will still apply in said other world? A sword is affected by only one universal truth: no one wants to be hit with one. And that applies no matter what dimension you hail from.

And can you just tell me what you would do if you were cruising along in your red '85 Firebird and down a filthy alley you spy two guys swordfighting? Jump out and try to fill the big one with lead out of your MAC? No, that's a bad idea. But if you had a sword you could just chop his head off while his trying to enjoy The Quickening.

Now I'm not talking about some wimpy, girly-man rapier or even the annoyingly ubiquitous samurai sword. No, I'm going on about a real man's sword. A blood and guts sword. I'm thinking a post-migration era Viking sword.

If I had one of these, I could really impress my wife. I'd go out and do something really cool with it like kill the Nidhogg, or chop down the Yggdrasil tree, or slay the Midgard Serpent and free the Rainbow Bridge or even chop the head off the Fenris Wolf and end the age of Ragnarok. Yeah, that'd really impress her. She'd be all, "show me again how you ended Ragnarok" but we all know what she really means.

But back to what really drove me to thinking I need a sword. I saw one of those creepy freaking Burger King ads. This dude is out in the forest and he chops down a tree. The tree falls over and guess who's standing there with his I'll-Swallow-Your-Soul smile? That's right. The unreasonably disturbing King guy. I still think the worst one is the one where the dude (not to be confused with The Dude) wakes up and that thing is just laying there in bed with him.

I'm sure that The King is somehow impervious to gunshot wounds or he'd be dead by now. So what's the next best thing? Hit that freaky bastard with a sharp piece of steel.

Here's a few images to sway those who are still numbered among the unbelievers.







If the sword happened to be magical (don't laugh, it could happen) I'd use it to transport myself into the TV and slay everyone in the next picture. I can't really decide if the King is more disturbing than what happened to Hootie and the Blowfish or not. What self-respecting black guy wears an outfit like this? Does he look like he's on the verge of suicide to anyone else? I swear that ad was like some really extra creepy H. R. Puffnstuff episode.

Ask Yourself A Question

Okay, read this and then ask yourself just how real it is if they use writers.

The Do's and Don'ts of the American Dream

If you have the basic skills necessary to read and a naturally inquisitive nature, you will probably have read my profile. In there I tell you what I do for a living. If you haven't read it, too bad because I'm going to ruin the surprise and tell you that I'm a real estate appraiser. For the uninitiated, when someone want's to know the value of their house they hire someone like me. That someone like me (only in the vaguest sense) then rubs magic valuation dust on themselves and goes to your house. Some notes are scribbled down, some pictures are taken, some non-commital statements regarding the value are made and I leave. The rest is done in the office. That's what I do, day in and day out. Oh, the tedium (hey, that kind of looks like Ted-ium, like some new element or something).

Actually it can be a fairly interesting job. Most peope, aside from repairmen and burglars, have no idea what it really is like to go in and out of other people's homes all day long. This summer I was busier than I've ever been, which was the main factor in the, um, slight slowdown in postings. All members can expect a full refund for the months of no posting.

While I was working it occured to me that many of my readers fall into the current demographic of home buyers, i.e. people ambulatory enough to walk into a loan officer's cubicle. So here's a post giving you a few bits of advice gained over the past thirteen years.

* I have to call you on the phone to set up an appointment to inspect your home. I have never met you so if you have some goofball name, don't get all huffy if I screw it up. If your name has more than three letters in a row which are not vowels, calm down and just tell me how it's pronounced. If your name does not match your genitals, sorry, I didn't name you. How am I supposed to know that there are women named Jeff and Jon and men named Kim? Don't act like I'm the first person to make this mistake, it gets us off to a bad start.

* Tie up your stupid dog. Dogs have a set of very specific rules that all dogs adhere to and me coming into your home violates at least three of those. I don't care how cuddly you think your Rottweiler is, he has teeth and God made sure he knows how to use them. Also, don't say his bark is worse than his bite. Everyone says that and you can be more creative than that. I know you can.

*Tie up your cat. This is not because I think he'll try to attack me, though it has happened (in thirteen years I've had only one dog get serious about eating me as opposed to three cats). This is becuase I don't like cats and I'll try to kick him when you're not looking.

*Go ahead and take some initiative and BE AWAKE! Loser.

*I don't want to see your porn, so hide it. I am constantly amazed at how many people leave out their dirty movies and magazines. One guy even had several years worth of Hustler in binders with the volume and date listed on the spine out on a shelf below which were well over 100 VHS tapes (this was before the DVD was even heard of). Some of the titles I've seen are amusing, however. Two of my favorites are "Pull My Hair And Call Me Stupid" and "...But Can She Type?" I don't look in drawers and under beds, but I do look in the closets, so there's a couple of ideas for you.

*Ladies, and even you guys, don't shower while I'm there. It's just weird.

*I very rarely make an appointment less than five hours from the time I call you. This gives you ample time to take care of the calls of nature so the pipes are clean before I show up as well as while I'm there. There is nothing worse than walking into a bathroom that has just had the bejeezus used out of it. What's worse is when the user acts like nothing is up.

*If you must use the bathroom, please flush.

*Get rid of your birds. This really has no impact on the value of your home, but I think birds are noisy, annoying, and they stink like hell. You don't notice it because you live with it, but I've got news for you - everyone else smells it and it sticks to your hair and clothes when you go out. Plus, and this may come as a shock, one sign of wierdo-ness is ownership of either a.) more than three of any type of bird, or b.) ownership of at least one bird you payed more than thirty bucks for.

*Don't try to scare the appraiser. One time I was at a house and the owner said he had to leave. I asked him if he was sure he was comfortable with me being in his home alone. He said he would be where he could keep an eye on me. I thought that was weird. Then as I doing the inspection I noticed several pictures of this man (who had a very, very Hebrew name) in some sort of desert environment. In every picture he had a scoped bolt-action rifle of some sort. In two of the pictures he was wearing a t-shirt that said Isreali Sniper Team. After I finished my inspection in a serpentine fashion I began to wonder why the Israeli Sniper Team had their t-shirts printed in English, but it still freaked me out.

*If you have brain damage, say so. It is a lot nicer than you standing in my personal area and staring at me for an uncomfortable length of time then asking if I want to join you in doing the maze on the back of the Corn Pops box you're finishing off at three in the afternoon.

*Don't lie to the appraiser, especially if you a bad liar. Once I was at a mobile home in a rural area. A little ways off from the house was a large rectangle of excavated soil. I asked the homeowner what it was and he just said he was trying out a new piece of farm equipment that had a bucket on it. I'm thinking, yeah, right. I walked over to it a little later and saw that he had dug down to his septic tank. This time I asked him (back inside the house) if he had any septic problems. He said, no. I go through the interior of the home and in all three of the bathrooms the bowl was filled to the rim with nothing good.

*I don't want a copy of The Watchtower. Neither does anyone else for that matter.

*Go ahead and clean the place up a little. If I step in dog crap inside the house, it is a reflection of your housekeeping skills and I'm going to tell everyone who will listen.

*While we're on the subject of things pets do to ruin your home, if you have fleas, get rid of them. I don't want them on me or in my car, office or house. Scumbag.

*This may seem like something you shouldn't have to tell people, but don't let your kid play frisbee in the front yard with the dog using a hubcap while I'm trying to get pictures of the front of the house. It just looks tacky.

*Alert the appraiser to any wierd pets. Pirhana, monkeys, iguanas that aren't kept in cages, indoor goats, whatever. It is a little unnerving to open a bedroom door and have a pot-bellied pig charge. There's actually a pretty good story about a house we were in when a monkey started trying to have sex with its teddy bear that deserves its own post.

*If you notice that old familiar twinkle in your significant other's eye, hold off until the appraiser leaves. I don't need to see anyone laying in bed with less clothes than it takes to get into a restaurant smoking a cigarrette.

*Pick up your freaking nasty, dirty underwear!

*Make your adult son get a job.

*Don't tell the appraiser your problems. We have our own problems that don't involve your husband's inability to do housework or the extra weight your wife has put on since she had kids.

*If someone has taken weird pictures of you, take them down while I'm there. I don't want to see your lingerie glamor shots. For those of you out there wondering, but what if she's hot? She never is. One time I was out with dad and there was a framed series of the lady of the house in various tasteless outfits. Dad and I are laughing at them and then he goes to look in a closet. The door is stuck a little so he puts more oomph behind it and the door pops open. The force of opening the door causes all the outfits depicted in the photos which were hanging on the inside of the door to swing out and hit him in the face with their various straps and buckles.

*Don't take offense if the appraiser doesn't care about your collection. I will never understand why people collect plates. I have seen just about everything on collectible plates. Star Trek, NASCAR, professional wrestling, John Wayne, Elvis, Wizard of Oz, you name it. If you have a collection that takes up an entire room of your home, you do not have a collection, you have a problem that can likely be treated with medication.

*Make sure your Scarface shrine is looking good. For those of you who don't know, one in five men under the age of thrity have some level of shirne to the movie Scarface. This usually includes a still print from the movie at least 3' x 5' depicting Tony Montana either firing off his little friend or sitting down with his wounded arm in a sling and pointing that silenced pistol at the dirty cop and his boss. If it's been a while, feel free to iron your Scarface tapestry or adjust the thumbtacks holding it in the wall. You want it to look nice and crisp. Dust your Scarface shot glasses. If you have directional lighting for any of your Scarface memrobilia, make sure it's properly adjusted.

*Don't cook fish within 24 hours of the appraiser's arrival.

I could probably think of a lot more if I took a little more time, but that's all I feel like writing for now.