Cheeky Monkey

The Pope's Pecker Problem

2011-07-06T14:34:00.001-07:00

Pope Tweets Pecker Pic to Parishioner?

The Pope's recently opened Twitter account is already raising concerns

The money shot:

Is this the Pope's staff?

COULD I GET MY ORDER OF MCNUGGETS WITH EXTRA SLAUGHTER, PLEASE?

2011-06-24T19:22:00.000-07:00

Chicken McNuggets:

Now with 83% more anthropomorphism!

I found this putrid piece of poultry propaganda on the back of a comic book. It annoyed me so much that I went into an alliterative state. Seriously, PETA, you go too far! Granted, childhood obesity is epidemic, but is it necessary to horrify our children into anorexia? "Mommy, no!" I can imagine the Happy Meal addicted waifs wailing, "I can't eat those any more. The evil clown abused those poor chickens to death and left their obviously adopted, duck-like daughter an orphan! They also subjected her to maniacal laughter and a clichéd tag-line, while peddling semantically twisted "facts" to make an idiotic point designed to frighten hungry children, who are not capable of detecting the inherent manipulative nature of the shoddily worded ad, into eating more beets!" Or, you know, something along those lines...
The headline alone is a prime example of editorial skulduggery; it claims that the soon to be nuggetized birds are scalded to death by the millions. The implication, if taken at face value, is that all those poor little cluckers are just sitting around--minding their own chicken-like business--and the insane clown posse shows up and tosses them into huge vats of boiling liquid or, perhaps, throws said liquid, by the pot full, directly into their unassuming little beaks. For the fun of it! (As every discerning carnivore knows, tortured critters are the best tasting. This is why lions tend to water-board the occasional gazelle.) Oh, the humanity!
The illustrated portion of the ad is even worse. (When did the Hamburglar become a chicken molesting ninja? Can DC comics sue PETA for having Batman's arch enemy, the Joker, dress up as Ronald McDonald? Why does that little, talking duck-thing live with chickens and why does it have hair?) Forgetting that there is no water--scalding or otherwise--evident in the scene to support the headline's bizarre claim, it is a blatant attempt to emotionally manipulate the reader. Oldest trick in the book. By forcing us to feel sorry for the poor, orphaned duck-thing who comes home from gawd knows where to find her innocent and loving chicken family brutally assassinated by the McDonald's characters, PETA hopes that we will overlook the silliness of their complaint. As anyone who has spent time on a farm knows, chickens are the most family-oriented of creatures. As anyone who has spent time on a working farm also knows, killing the animals is ALWAYS a laugh riot; especially when the tragedy can be used to terrify the offspring of the now deceased critters. The look of abject horror on the duck-things beak was almost enough to convince me to not eat meat (or meat by-products) for at least the next week. Fortunately, the ad also indicates that the fast food chain, and its Freddy Krueger-esque minions, only prey on anthropomorphic poultry. Given the rarity of such beasts, I feel that I can safely consume as many regular cluckers as I wish, and not have to worry about the emotional impact on their children.
The most egregious manipulation and semantic mumbo-jumbo, however, occurs in the fine print beneath the cartoon. The defenseless chickens, it seems, have "their throats cut while still conscious"! The horror! Are you suggesting, PETA, that the chickens should be liquored up until they pass out first? That they should be whacked just above the beak with a tiny hammer in order to stupefy them before administering the coup de grace? Perhaps, they should be forced to watch an hour or so of vapid reality TV which will render them brain dead before the knife is used? Here's a little known chicken fact: when they are excited, or just plain bored, chickens like to pass the time by pecking each other to death. They tend to aim for the eyes as a starting point, and then continue the fun until one or more of them is rendered defunct. All of this jiggery-peckery happens, by the way, while the victim is still conscious. To chickens, it is a blast. (Of course, the weepy, bleeding heart reader is saying: "But we are Humans! We are a higher life-form! We have to aspire to be better than the average chicken!" Obviously those readers have never participated in a Black Friday sale at the local WalMart.) And what, pray tell, is a "less cruel slaughter"? The word "slaughter" kind of implies a bit of nastiness, does it not? Maybe the critters should be tickled to death. Then they would just be laughtered into nuggethood. (It is that initial "s" that makes it so cruel.) Creatures are killed to be eaten by other creatures every day. This is Nature's way. It is the freaking Circle of Life, for gosh sake. Snag a grip and pass the dipping sauce, please.
Curiously, in this same fine print, PETA expresses a desire only to stop the "worst abuses" of chickens. The lesser abuses, it seems, are beneath their concern. Of course, this leaves the reader to wonder what the implied lesser abuses might actually be. Stealing their lunch money? Making them wear silly hats? Prank phone calls in the wee hours of the morning? An individual with only the slightest degree of imagination could invent hundreds of ways to torment these poor, defenseless (though unquestionably delicious when battered and deep fried) birds. And PETA, self proclaimed protector of animal welfare, DOES NOT CARE! Sanctimonious bastards. Bully the poultry as much as you want, call them by insulting nicknames. make them watch The Matrix: just don't kill them in any fashion that would render them...um...killed. The only viable alternative I can come up with would be to eat them alive. Somehow, though, that seems to be a tad on the sadistic side. But, if that's what it takes to shut you up, PETA, I am game to give it a shot. Just don't make me have to do it in front of the duck-thing. I am not that cruel.

NEXT UP----VEGANS: THE OTHER WHITE MEAT

BY WAY OF EXPLANATION...

2011-06-20T16:50:00.000-07:00

I have not been here in quite some time, and I feel that I owe you--the loyal Cheeky Monkey reader--an explanation for my absence. This is NOT it...

Contrary to rumor, I did not return to school two years ago in order to obtain my teaching degree (which was not a BA in Secondary Education with a focus on English Literature), nor did I spend the vast majority of my time during the aforementioned two years doing little else but school work. I have no idea how rumors of this nature get started. As I said, I did no such thing.

During this fictional return to the realm of higher education, I did not discover that the learning part was much easier than the first time around, but that the management of the whole school/homework/job/life paradigm was much more difficult. I did not learn that I am an excellent student, and my professors did not lavish praise (and high marks) upon me for my written work or my contributions to classroom discussions. My Shakespeare professor, for example, did not frequently use my dozen or so essays on the Bard's work as examples for the class and she most definitely did not find my work to be insightful, well written and witty. My essay on The Taming of the Shrew did not place second in a university essay competition.

The rest of the educators involved in this imaginary "return to school" scenario did not respond to my work in a fashion quite similar to that of my pretend Shakespeare professor. I did not receive an A+ (the first grade of that high degree he'd given in seven years) on my final project in education , a fourteen week, thematic unit plan which used fables and fairy tales as a means to teach the elements of storytelling (plot, character, theme, symbolism, metaphor, etc.), but had the underlying objective of encouraging students to form a personal relationship with what they were reading, nor did the professor's wife, who writes high school curriculum for a living, "borrow" my unit plan to incorporate into her own work. I most assuredly did not graduate with a 3.75 GPA.

I also did not write a thesis paper entitled "From Book to Film: The Loss of Language" (the gist of which, had it actually been written, would have been that a picture is not worth a thousand words if you do not know a thousand words to begin with!), and this completely mythical thesis was not selected to be presented at a national education conference last November. Had this been the case, said presentation would have been quite the success but, as I have mentioned, it did not happen. The very idea is preposterous.

I did not spend fifteen weeks student teaching under an utterly insane and tyrannical cooperating teacher (the fictional details of which appear in the extremely loooong essay posted directly beneath this exercise in poppycock-- a bit of reading I strongly encourage you to avoid at all cost. You will recognize it by the clever title: "My Student Teaching Nightmare", and should just skip over it to the next post unless you are very bored. Trust me on this ).

Rest assured, none of these things actually happened, and I will not be teaching in a school near you at any time in the foreseeable future. If I had gone through such a return trip to the hallowed halls of higher learning, it would have left me totally drained--mentally and physically--and rendered me quite incapable of even contemplating spending time on Monkey posting. Besides, as has been made abundantly clear be the people in charge of making such things abundantly clear: teachers are a lazy, greedy and worthless lot who contribute nothing of value to society. Why would anyone with half a brain even wish to join their putrid ranks? As the loyal Cheeky Monkey reader will be aware by now, I do, in fact, have half a brain. That alone should be proof that the horrid rumor is untrue.

There is also the nasty rumor being spread that I actually did all of the above mentioned educational work in the role of "ghost writer" for a very good friend. Trust me, I am not that devoted to any of my friends.

So, there you have it--a non-explanation for my long absence from all things Cheeky Monkey-ish. I missed you.

Oh, I was also not abducted by aliens. Just so that we are clear...

MY STUDENT TEACHING NIGHTMARE

2011-06-20T16:48:00.000-07:00

As you had expressed an interest in hearing about the horrifying events surrounding my student teaching, I have attempted to share the tale with you in writing. Please forgive the length of this letter, but I felt it was important, and somewhat cathartic, to go into a bit of detail. I hope that I am not imposing unfairly upon your time, and I thank you in advance for your kindness and patience. I assure you that I have made every attempt to keep sarcasm and hyperbole to a minimum

I was not permitted to actually “teach” a class for the first three weeks of my student teaching nightmare. My co-op explained to me that this was because these students had been entrusted to her tender care, and that she did not want to run the risk of an unskilled individual, such as myself, doing irreparable damage to the intellectual development of the children. She took her responsibility as an educator very seriously, and I believe that she felt that every one of her students was a dangling participle away from having to spend the remainder of his/her life with the IQ of a bowl of stewed cabbage. By closely observing a skilled professional at work, I would be better equipped to avoid breaking the students with all of the clumsy and dangerous “ideas” I might have picked up in my college training. (I should point out that I had just spent eight weeks, as required by said college training, observing this same teacher in her natural classroom environment. It seems that eleven weeks is the optimal observation period required to avoid brain damage by student teacher in the average 9^th or 10^th grader.) Since I had no desire to begin my career as a teacher by destroying the minds of innocent students, I settled in for a long period of observing while taking notes.

By the middle of week two, I must confess, I occasionally found myself reversing the order and taking notes while observing…just to break the monotony. Also, at this point, the students had begun to wonder who the quiet guy sitting in the corner and scribbling in the note pad was. My co-op introduced me to the class, explained that I was a student teacher, and decided that it might help me to get to know the students if attendance-taking was added to my small list of assigned tasks. Calling out a student’s name, and putting a checkmark on the attendance sheet if that student was present in the classroom, I learned, is an activity which runs only a slight risk of turning a child’s brain to pudding. I was feeling like a real educator already! During this time, I also took the foolish liberty of reading ahead in the textbook, and planning new and creative ways to teach the short stories the class would be covering in the weeks to come. I would soon learn that this was what wise people call a “bad” idea.

This extended observation period did allow me to learn a number of valuable things about life in a real classroom. I learned that the students should never be given the opportunity to discuss the stories they had read, or to share opinions, insights or personal responses to the texts with the rest of the class. This is because there is only one true point of view on any given story, and my co-op, through years of experience and, I must assume, divine guidance, was the sole bearer of such knowledge. Allowing the children to express themselves or to believe that their input might be of any value would only confuse and frighten them. The resulting hysteria could, potentially, lead to the fall of civilization as we know it. At least a complete day must be spent on the vocabulary words for each story read…regardless of the number of words connected to a given text. Not only should the students search diligently for the definitions (which were located in a neat row on the textbook page preceding each story), they should also draw a sketch representing said words. This, I believe, was to give them something to do with their pencils other than poking them at each other. Reading must never be assigned as homework, nor should the students be asked to complete the questions in the textbook during their off time. (All reading was to be done out loud and in class.) Homework is mandatory, however, and should consist of more sketching of vocabulary words whenever possible. It was also at this time that I was introduced to the most important tool in a quality educator’s arsenal: the GRAPHIC ORGANIZER.

At first glance, a graphic organizer might appear to be nothing more than busy work intended to keep the students too occupied to form thoughts of their own during a class period. In thinking such an ignorant thing, you would be wrong. You would also be proving how incredibly unsuitable you were to hold a position in the teaching profession. In fact, such thoughts should mandate that you were legally banned from even setting foot on school property. The graphic organizer is the perfect educational tool, and every lesson should require that the students complete one designed for a specific purpose only the quality educator is privy to. (I use the word “complete” because “fill out” is not PSSA terminology). It is also the only reasonable way to keep the students engaged with the work in the classroom. Because of this fact, every lesson must be graphically organized to within an inch of its miserable, thankless life. Through use of the organizer, a teacher can have the students write down exactly what he/she has determined the students should know/think/feel/believe about the content of a lesson. This eliminates all of that bothersome thinking and the development of troublesome skills such as insight and creativity. If the students were asked to think on their own, Heaven only knows what strange notions might enter their heads! By proper use of the all powerful graphic organizer, an educator can ensure that all of the students think exactly the same thing, at the same time, about any given subject. I would soon learn that I did not possess the genetic make-up required to design a sound graphic organizer.

Toward the end of my third week of observation, my co-op informed me that she now felt safe enough to entrust one 10^th grade class period to my dubious and, quite possibly, destructive care. (I believe that this class was made up of the students she liked the least, so it is possible that she was secretly hoping that I would, through inept instruction, cause all of their heads to implode.) At this time, I learned the first great lesson of student teaching: a successful student teacher must have telepathic powers. The quality educator, it seems, requires that a student teacher formulate lesson plans which are identical to the plans he/she has locked away in the File Cabinet of Certain Doom. The student teacher must never, under any circumstances, be permitted to view these near-sacred lesson plans. At no time may the student teacher attempt to do something “new” or “creative” with the lessons. There is only one way to teach a given subject and, once again, my co-op had discovered it. I was required to write plans, design organizers and teach lessons in precisely the manner, order and style that she would teach them, but…I was never to be informed exactly what those plans, lessons and organizers were to look like. Often, I was not told what material I was to be teaching until the day after I had turned in my lesson plans. My lack of psychic powers was further evidence of my unsuitability to become a teacher. If I had been blessed with telepathy, I might not have developed this nervous twitch.

As the weeks progressed, and because none of the students subjected to my primitive teaching skills burst into flame, my co-op, grudgingly, began to turn the rest of the classes over to me. Thus began my true teaching experience. Fortunately, my co-op was there to guide me along the way. This guidance took the form of frequent, and enthusiastic, interruptions of my lessons in order to point out to me and the students each moronic mistake I made. For example, I once forgot to point to the agenda, written on the board, at the beginning of class. With a screech of glee, my co-op swooped to the front of the class and demonstrated for us the appropriate method of agenda-pointology. (Picture Vanna White crossed with a velociraptor.) She then returned to her perch on the edge of her seat in preparation for my next, inevitable blunder. These frequent “helpful pointers” served the dual purpose of molding my teaching style into a more effective, though gun-shy, form and causing me to second guess my every move. A student teacher should never feel comfortable or confident in the classroom. I am not sure why this is true, but my co-op seemed to think that it was for the best. At any rate, I now had the privilege of teaching all of the classes-both 9^th and 10^th grade-and, despite the nervous twitch I had developed, I was pleased to be doing what I had trained so long to do. This is when I learned the second great lesson of student teaching: the lesson plan is more important than the actual lesson.

Any addle-pated bumpkin off the street, it seems, is capable of teaching. A true master of the craft, however, is incapable of functioning without a highly tuned, state of the art, exact replica of the un-seen lesson plans hidden in the File Cabinet of Certain Doom. These plans had to be at least three pages long, follow an unspecified, arcane and ever changing format, and be a complete script of every possible question the student teacher might ask, answer he might give and, just to be on the safe side, any question the students or a passing nomadic shepherd might have about the material being covered. A quality educator must be able to plan a lesson into squealing submission…just to teach it who is boss. In this fashion, no room for improvisation or creativity (evil concepts, both) is allowed for. A graphic organizer must be provided, as well as any supplemental materials, for approval by the co-op. To make this even more fun, the student teacher would be informed, a generous twenty-four hours before the plans were due, what the lesson must be. This extra time was provided so that the student teacher would be able to stay up all night to do the re-writes of the lesson plans, which would contain many co-op inscribed notes as to why they were simply the most wretched examples of their species she had ever encountered. All of these notes would be taken into account during the rewriting process. More often than not, however, the rewrites would be returned with even more notes (frequently, notes which contradicted the original notes), so rewrites of the rewrites became the norm.

The most heinous error that could be committed in the formulation of these plans would be the inclusion of anything remotely creative or inspired. For example, the class had been studying the elements of a story (plot, character, setting, conflict, etc), and I designed a lesson/exercise which I thought would allow the students to creatively demonstrate their comprehension of the material. We would spend a short amount of class time discussing “genre” , then the students would each select a genre which they found interesting and write a skeleton outline of a story in that style. The exercise would include a one paragraph plot summary, character sketches, a description of the setting and an explanation of one or more of the major conflicts in the tale. The exercise would end with each student presenting their story ideas to the class. Relevant, creative, fun and a unique way to have the students utilize the information they had learned, right? Not so much. Luckily, my co-op was there to stop me before I unleashed this horrible mockery of a lesson upon the unsuspecting students and brought about, through my immeasurable ignorance, the Apocalypse. “Genre”, I was informed, is a British concept, and had no right to show its deformed and terrifying face in an English Lit class. The students should not, under any circumstance, actually enjoy a lesson. Learning was work, and giving the children the false impression that they might find education to be fun would only lead them astray. Foremost, this was NOT a Public Speaking class; the students must never be expected to present anything to their classmates in a spoken form. Ever. (Oddly, though, I was instructed that my next set of plans—which required the students to re-write the ending of a Ray Bradbury story—should culminate with the children reading their new endings aloud in class. This, my co-op told me, is what she had done for the past three years. I assume that this was a mutant form of non-public, public speaking which my time at college had not prepared me for.) So, more rewrites of rewrites.

Fortunately, the co-op would often decide, shortly after the third revision of the lesson plans, that she wanted the student teacher to cover a totally different story or subject, which provided a thrilling chance to begin the process all over again. It is here where I learned that I was completely incapable of meeting a deadline. Eventually, I would also have to create lesson calendars to go along with the plans. These calendars were, essentially, summaries of the plans themselves, but I believe that they were necessary to give me something else to rewrite once or twice when I had finished the third re-do of the plans. I can think of no other purpose which they might have served.

I should probably add that, during my highly enjoyable time with this co-op, I was not permitted to interact or socialize with any of the other faculty members at the school. Contact with fellow educators might further damage what feeble skills I possessed. Plus, I might get “ideas”, which we had already established were a very bad thing. All free periods and lunch were spent sequestered with the co-op in our classroom. There, we passed the time discussing why I was a hopelessly inept educator, what I had done wrong that day, why, when writing about the Cold War, the name of the era should never be capitalized (it seems that the Cold War was neither a real war, nor was it exceptionally cold), my failure to memorize the Standards and my lack of dexterity when it came to the semantic juggling required to write with acceptable PSSA terminology, and how my co-op was simply the greatest gift to the teaching profession since Socrates. Her peers, I learned, misjudged and under-valued her skills. It was during one of these pleasant conversations that she offered me a small measure of consolation for my lack of teaching ability. My poor showing as an educator was not entirely due to genetic abnormalities but was, in part, caused by the fact that I had chosen the wrong college to train me for my future career. I had selected a horrible school. If I had attended a superior college, such as the blessed academy which had nurtured my co-op, I would be able to create masterful lesson plans in my sleep, compose graphic organizers to make fellow educators weep, leap tall buildings in a single bound and feed large groups of people with nothing more than a handful of sardines and a stale bran muffin. At least I can share the blame for my incompetence.

There were a number of points during my student teaching nightmare where, faced with the truth of my overwhelming inadequacy as an educator, I thought it would be to the benefit of the universe if I simply admitted that the whole teaching thing had been a bad idea from the start and threw in the towel. Most of these moments occurred in the wee hours of the morning, in the middle of rewriting a rewritten lesson plan, when frustration and exhaustion would cause me to fantasize about possible careers in dirt farming or piracy, but I was really on the verge of calling it quits. Because I am blessed with a small but strong support group (who were always there to remind me that, in spite of my idiocy, I would make a fine teacher), I continued on the path I had chosen. The other thing that kept me going was the fact that I was really enjoying working with the students. I found this aspect of the student teaching to be extremely rewarding. As we had gotten to know each other, and become more comfortable in the classroom, the students had begun to respond positively to the work we were doing in class. Students who had put little effort into lessons at the beginning of my fifteen weeks with them were making an effort to do well on assignments, participating in discussions and asking questions. Many of them seemed enthusiastic about being in class and their grades and the quality of their work was showing improvement. Despite my unsuitability as an educator and lack of teacherly skills, the students were learning and…perish the very thought…enjoying the process. This is the main reason I refused to admit the truth and soldiered on. Apparently, however, this inexplicable advent of scholarly enthusiasm from the students was in abject violation of great lesson number three: if the students are happy, they can not possibly be learning. Though she never mentioned this point to me, I could tell that my co-op was not at all pleased with this cataclysmic turn of events. Her displeasure was evidenced through the demand for more rewrites, frequent notes on my lack-luster performance, and blatant looks of pity cast in my general direction. Each passing grade, every enthusiastic response, the occasional smile; all were proof that I should have become a fry-cook rather than sully the halls of academia with my sub-par excuse for teaching. The fact that the students were responding to my feeble efforts was clear evidence that I was doing irreparable damage to their brains, and condemning future generations to lives of illiteracy and employment in the “do you want fries with that?” industry. I was, however, too stupid to quit.

As the end of my time as a student teacher approached, my advisor, who had stopped in to observe the mockery which was my attempt at teaching on several occasions, suggested to my co-op that I be given the chance to have the students participate in a creative writing project of my own design. (Though I will sing my advisor’s praises for the rest of my days, I must admit that she obviously had no idea what a horrible teacher I was. She consistently gave me high marks in all areas of my classroom performance, and offered many supportive comments and compliments. This insane behavior convinced my co-op that my advisor was a total fool, who surpassed even me in the drooling idiot department.) With great reluctance, my co-op agreed to our request, and I turned in an outline of the project I had in mind. She then did me the great favor of revising my concept so that it had virtually no resemblance to what I had submitted in my proposal. The project was to begin upon my return from a four day conference on education in Orlando, Florida, where I was scheduled to present a research paper I had written during my previous term. While I was away, I could tell that my co-op’s enthusiasm for the class project was growing by leaps and bounds because, every day during my trip, I received at least seven e-mails from her demanding details, rewrites, graphic organizers, explanations, calendars and more rewrites. This helped to make my time at the conference much more rewarding.

Upon my return, the students and I began work on this foolhardy and academically worthless endeavor. Unfortunately, they seemed to enjoy the project way more than was expected of them. My co-op grew ever more frustrated as students turned in creative, touching, insightful and personal pieces of writing. (Honestly, I have never experienced the thrill that reading some of their work gave me. They made me laugh and they made me cry. Over all, I was quite proud of them and the degree of creativity, and the bits of themselves, they put into our project.) Students actually came to class and jumped right to work. Some of them struggled with parts of the project, but they all put a great deal of effort into the work. A number of students asked to spend their free periods working on their writing, and they shared ideas and suggestions with each other. They actively requested my input and, even when I had to push them to continue, they did so with a positive attitude. Though my co-op constantly reminded me that this was simply not the way things were done in her classroom, the students really had a fun, and educational, time. In spite of my insurmountable dearth of skill as an educator, the project was a success! (And, I must add, not a single student spontaneously combusted.)

On my last day in her classroom, my co-op, during our regular lunch time of solitude, gave me my final review. As I expected (and, most likely deserved—incompetent buffoon that I am), my marks were quite low. While she acknowledged that I had done very well with the aspects of student teaching which involved dealing with the students (motivation, interaction, encouragement, inspiration, redirection, educating, etc), it was important to remember that they were the least important parts of teaching. A true teacher knows the value of a lesson plan, and I was woefully deficient in that area. I would never be a real and effective teacher. She bemoaned the fact that my final grade was not something that she could control, and reminded me that it was not too late to pursue a career outside of the field of education…as a baker, perhaps. As a thank you for enduring the time she had been forced to spend with me and my bumbling attempts to damage the brains of her students, I gave my co-op a pair of tickets to a hockey game. She, kindly, gave me a peptic ulcer.

Now that my student teaching nightmare is over (though I still wake up in the middle of the night, screaming from dreams of carnivorous graphic organizers), and I am actively searching for a position as a full-time educator, I am trying to put the whole experience into perspective. I hope that my lack of skill as a teacher, which my co-op so frequently and happily pointed out to me, does not prevent me from finding work in my chosen field. I pray that, when I do become a real teacher, I damage as few student’s brains as is possible. Though I believe that I may someday overcome my obvious educational handicap, I often find myself wanting to shout…

Please, someone…stop me before I teach again!

THINGS HAVE BEEN PRETTY QUIET AROUND HERE...

2011-06-17T14:48:00.000-07:00

More often than not, it feels very much like screaming down a well...

Psychic Cat Channels Socks

2011-04-30T08:35:00.000-07:00

Can a lurid tell all book deal be far behind?

Former First Cat Has Lots to Say

Sophie, a lively calico cat currently living in the suburbs of Philadelphia, is claiming a psychic connection with Clinton era favorite first cat Socks.
“We never knew Sophie had psychic abilities,” claim her caretakers, “I mean, other than the usual cat stuff like hovering over someone when they are about to die or knowing when you’ve bought new treats.”
Sophie has been channeling former White House cat Socks, the happy go lucky symbol of the Clinton White House, for more than a year, offering a totally new glimpse into the inner workings of the Clinton administration.
Socks, who died tragically in 2008 after running into a burning building to save a secreted stash of catnip, has returned through Sophie to dish about life with the Clintons.
Some racy tidbits:

Buddy (the Clinton’s dog) was a depraved poop eater who directed most policy decisions. He was also responsible for ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,’ but thought the policy was actually about who crapped in the Lincoln Bedroom.
President Clinton did not in fact have sexual relations with that woman. He did, however, frequently sit naked in the Oval Office while watching Cinemax.
Hillary Clinton was insufferable and not worth Sock’s time, except perhaps when Socks was hungry, when she seemed like the greatest person who ever lived.
The Clintons were behind the forged Obama birth certificate. President Obama is actually the love child of Thomas Sowell and Loretta Swit of M*A*S*H fame and was born in Newport News, Va. This is clearly more embarrassing than any conspiracy theory yet devised.
Socks left a toy mouse behind a couch in the Oval Office and would like the Obama administration to return it, preferably soon.

I've been studying my family tree

2011-04-25T14:10:00.001-07:00

figu7es is descended from a long line of difference makers, heroes and vital members of society. No, we're not sure what happened either.

Rrrooowwwwrrrr! Just back from a whirlwind tour of Europe that I most certainly didn't have to cut short because of some unfortunate police misunderstanding in France but returned voluntarily from (French bastards).

I give you Nathan figu7es Emolument, my great-great grandpillow. A Union General, he met an untimely end at the hands of treasonous, drooling Southerners at the Fort Pillow Massacre in 1864 when a Confederate bayonet eviscerated him, leaving what witnesses said was a trail of feathers nearly 100 feet long (this was before the invention of polyfill).

Valiant Union seamstresses spent twenty hours attempting to put him back together, but alas, all was for naught and he expired on the sewing table.

The contribution of pillows to the Union war effort has long been understated. Most know that Confederate troops eschewed pillows in favor of lumps of dung or well chewed tobacco (it helped to minimize the stench of the Confederate soldiers, many of whom hadn't bathed since birth), but few are aware that Lincoln commissioned pillows to serve nearly from the start of the conflict. Many served with distinction, but Confederates, given their staggering genetic deficiencies and bitterness over their lot in life (nothing but WalMart and Cracker Barrel mostly) often took their anger out on the Union pillows and many were bayoneted, shot or improperly fluffed at their hands.

Delicious, Tasty Hot Dogs in a tube! SqueezDawgs™ truly are the food of the future.*

2011-04-12T15:08:00.000-07:00

The Latest Innovation from the Laboratories at Figu7esco Industries!

Who wants 400° of FUN?!!

Everyone loves hot dogs, but sometimes they are just too inconvenient, right? Hot Dogs require buns and messy condiments and they can take up to a minute to cook. These limitations have till now prevented Hot Dogs from keeping up with today’s fast paced lifestyles.

Clearly a solution was needed so people could enjoy Hot Dogs wherever and whenever they want.

Well, Figu7esco Industries, makers of the Hot Dog Taser™, the ever popular Hot Dog Juicer™ and the Hot Dog Powered Car (powered by Frankenol™ Fuel Links™) has just made the humble Hot Dog a real food on the go!

Introducing SqueezDawgs™, the go anywhere hot dog in a tube.

Microwave and squeeze--why that’s the delicious taste of Hot Dogs, without all the muss and bother of conventional ‘bun’ Hot Dogs.

Don’t you need a Hot Dog that caters to your busy schedule?

*Warning: Actual use of SqueezDawg will result in 400 degree grease and fat being propelled directly into your mouth and throat. Serious burns may result. Caution is advised.

Franklin Freed from Prison After Serving 12 Years for Crime He Did Not Commit

2011-03-05T11:50:00.001-08:00

Abdul Haleem at the time of his incarceration.

The Peanuts lovable token, Franklin, has been freed from a Minnesota State Prison after DNA evidence showed he did not commit the murder he’d been convicted of twelve years earlier. Franklin, who converted to Islam while in prison, noted through a spokesperson he would prefer to be referred to as Abdul Haleem.
Haleem, who had been a bit player in the famed Peanuts strip for nearly forty years, was convicted of First Degree Murder in the death of Rerun Van Pelt, younger brother of Linus and Nancy. Prosecutors sought to paint the murder as a drug deal gone wrong when large quantities of methamphetamine were found near the body. Franklin had a history of drug abuse and addiction, reportedly fueled by bitterness over not having had a single story line or ever speaking once in his years with the Peanuts strip. An all white jury convicted him in less than 17 minutes.
DNA evidence not available at the time of the trial was used to exonerate Haleem and after a judge ordered a new trial, Minneapolis District Attorney Marcie Howe-Johnson indicated the state would not attempt a fresh prosecution.
Prison officials state that while Haleem has never been reported to have actually spoken, he was a model prisoner and a positive influence on fellow prisoners. Haleem got clean and sober in prison and started a literacy program aimed at teaching fellow prisoners to read through the use of comics and graphic novels. His spokesperson said he wishes to continue this work now that he has been freed.
The irony of his lack of a single spoken line in forty years of working in comics was reportedly not lost on him.
As for retrying the case, police at this time are seeking a mysterious red-haired girl who has been named as a ‘person of interest’ in the case. They would not state whether she was a suspect in the murder.

Dog Stares at Nothing

2011-03-05T11:03:00.000-08:00

Or maybe he just smells some poop.

Horses Actually Full of Good Advice, Notes Horse

2011-03-05T11:00:00.000-08:00

by Cheeky Monkey Guest Columnist, a Horse

This horse actually has an advice column syndicated in more than 1,000 local newspapers.

I’ve seen it time and again, people just seem to disregard what horses have to say.
They seem to think we spend our days mindlessly grazing in the field, but the truth is something wildly different, that’s for sure.
Horses have all kinds of good advice---I’ve even got some for you today, if you’ve an open mind and are willing to listen.
What advice could some horse have for me, I hear all you naysayers scoffing. Well, plenty, I say.
How about this advice to blow your mind?
You should try eating an apple today or maybe even feeding an apple to me.
What, you say, a horse with an apple? That’s crazy talk. What would a horse do with an apple?
Well, I’d eat that apple. And I bet it would be delicious, too. You can even find out for yourself how delicious apples are, provided you save one or two for me.
And how about maybe some oats too? Oats are great for lowering cholesterol and they sure are delicious. You could feed me some oats and even have some yourself if there were enough to go around.
Sure, I hear you. What could a horse possibly know about cholesterol? Well, nothing really, but when’s the last time you saw a horse die from an artery blockage or a heart attack? That’s right, never.
I sure could go for some oats right now. Oats would be nearly as delicious as an apple.
Oh, one last piece of advice.
Whatever you do today, don’t break your leg.
Breaking your leg must be like the worst thing you can do, maybe worse than murder.
All I know is I saw this one horse break his leg and they shot him for it.
So step carefully.

No, You Really Are Going to Hell

2011-01-30T13:08:00.000-08:00

We think he means it.

by Guest Columnist, God

You---yes, I’m looking at you. Stand up straight over there. Me, you are one sad excuse for a human being. My image, my ass.
I just thought I’d let you know, that you, my friend, really are going to go to hell. No takebacks either.
You can whine all you want (and I know you will, believe me), but you will be consumed by flames for all eternity while demons sodomize you with white hot pitchforks and all the rest.
Why?
Look at yourself, for crying out loud.
I know I have. And it pisses me off, royal. Everything about you screams failure, you waste of space.
It’s important for me that you know nothing is going to save you. Fear death’s embrace, for within seconds of feeling its icy grip you’ll be cozying up in your sulphurous new home. Satan himself might even pay a visit to be the first to welcome you.
Big secret---I made hell for you. That’s right, you. No one else.I foresaw just how annoying and disappointing you would be and created a darkened pit to punish you for all eternity.
And don’t believe those fools who tout salvation. There’s none available for you, bud. I’ve already made up my mind about you. Anyone else, hey, I’m a fair minded kind of guy. People make mistakes. But you, you just rub me the wrong way.
There’s just something about you that pushes my buttons.
I think I’ll actually be happy when you’re twisting in agony in the lake of fire, thousands of festering sores that will never heal burning your skin like flaming maggots chewing on your soul.
In fact I know I will.
Shit, I could probably sell tickets and let everyone who’s ever known you in on the fun too. No doubt your parents would enjoy seeing it and I’m sure your ‘friends’ have wished it on you after you shared another of those pointless stories of yours. I know your wife wants it to happen.
By the way, she’s banging your carpool. Yes, all of them, even the chick. And she’s still not going to hell for it.
I don’t blame her one bit. I might even reward her for it since she’s had to put up with you and your constant stench, you bursting sack of crap.
Man, I can't wait. Be careful, dickweed. I think I might move this thing up a bit and send a bus your way.
This is going to be good.

PANCAKES AND THE BIRTH OF A NATION

2011-01-30T12:37:00.000-08:00

We hadn't heard from her in so long we thought she was dead too. Turns out she was just stuck behind the couch.

By ~~Banana Slug~~ Cheeky Monkey Resident historian and cashier, sslugger

Much has been made on these pages in the past (no links, I’m too busy sorting figu7es meds---use your google) concerning the perfect tastiness and deliciousness of the noble pancake, but it’s been some time since we explored the role these circular expressions of perfection played in history.
Today I’d like to discuss the manner in which pancakes influenced abolitionists, resulting in an eventual end to slavery and the rise of the cinema.
Ronald Reagan’s presidency is remembered for many things: the abject failure of sleight of hand economic policies, corruption on a mammoth scale, the beginning of the end for America’s middle class, chief among them.
More fondly, many note the significant role Reagan played in the downfall and collapse of the Soviet Union (as did every President from Truman on through, by the by). Certainly this is Reagan’s signature achievement, unless you count the time he accidentally sold Al Haig to a white slaver from Thailand while at a summit in the Far East.
Little known is the fact that pancakes proved far more instrumental in the eventual end of the Soviets than any political or military maneuver ever could.
Soviets were one of the few peoples of the world who had failed to embrace the simple and delicious pancake as a staple of their diet.
Certainly they had their own version of the pancake, or bliny, made as it was with dirt and sweat and filled with either rotting fish eggs or cream soured by the tears of collective farmers, as well as the many turnip and beet flavored variants that had arisen in the immediate aftermath of WWII, when the only things around to eat were Lend-Lease instruction manuals and drawings of food sold on the black market by enterprising artists formerly employed by the Orthodox church to paint icons. But Russians (and their captor nations, especially Fiji and certain parts of Ohio) were starved for real pancakes after the government embargoed them as decadent and Western influenced. Apparatchik thought them a tool of the bourgeoisie and redolent of capitalist influence.
The cause for pancakes wasn’t helped when a mistranslation of Marx’s Manifesto included a 13 page rant seemingly dismissing pancakes as a tool of the oppressor class (when Marx was actually discussing Us magazine and those little mints they leave out at restaurant counters). Soon, simply being seen with a flapjack in public could result in expulsion from the party while possession of maple syrup often resulted in a late night trip to the Gulag.
The International House of Pancakes, a precursor to the United Nations and at the time an important force for world peace, had to shutter its Soviet locations when the Soviets nationalized them and turned them into a Russian version of Cracker Barrel (basically hopeless, darkened cellars serving highly salted scraps--actually one of the few areas where the Soviets copied the American model nearly exactly).
All of this eventually led to President Kennedy’s heroic Berlin Pancake Airlift, when American planes dropped millions of pancakes on West Berlin after the Russians (in a snit over an episode of Green Acres that portrayed Joseph Stalin as a bungling carpenter intent on bedding Eva Gabor’s sister Magda) shut down all rail shipments of buckwheat flour and maple syrup to the beleaguered city. The airlift buoyed the spirits of the dour Germans, who had been making due with schnitzel and beer until the city’s sewage system simply packed it in.
These events set the stage for the eventual collapse of the Soviets.
By the early 1980’s, the Soviet Union was failing beneath the weight of excessive defense spending and bad investments in Japanese baseball, resulting in huge budget deficits. An angry populace, for once removed from the effects of continual invasion and confused by propaganda and a sudden influx of Western goods, rebelled at the strictures of the authoritarian Soviets. Uprisings in Soviet controlled Eastern European satellite nations exacerbated the unrest.
Enter President Reagan and the pancake.
Reagan, in his earlier years, had been by all accounts a jovial idiot, loved by TV and movie audiences for his portrayals of Mafia killers, chimpanzees and cross dressing army officers. As his Presidency unfolded public opinion split between those who noticed his rapidly advancing senility and those who worshipped him blindly as the second coming of Barry Goldwater.
All that being said, Reagan pursued the Soviets with a pit bull like tenacity normally reserved for welfare recipients or labor unions. His famous speech in Berlin, imploring Mikhail Gorbachev to “tear down this wall (actually an entreaty for a more open floor plan at the Icelandic Summit scheduled later that year and not as frequently reported a request to remove the Berlin Wall)” galvanized Soviet opposition at a crucial moment.
Pancakes stepped into the breach to do the rest.
Back even to Trotsky and Lenin, Soviet leaders were inveterate waffle eaters--preferring the disgusting, leaden waffles to light, fluffy, delicious pancakes. Stalin was known to consume as many as eighteen waffles at a sitting, once daring to do so in front of Roosevelt and Churchill, resulting in Churchill swatting him sternly with a newspaper and Roosevelt, ever the more passive-aggressive, ‘accidentally’ running over Stalin’s foot at a photo op later that day.
Gorbachev, despite his promises of glasnost and change, had continued this decadent and disgusting tradition, knowing no other way.
A White House chef, on direct orders from a young Donald Rumsfeld (who misunderstood the President’s request for his slippers), served delightful, perfect pancakes at a state dinner attended by Raisa and Mikhail, as well as the entire Soviet contingent. Normally considered a breach in etiquette, the pancakes were so well received Gorbachev sought to import some for the government run GUM department stores, which until that time had sold little but air and used kleenex obtained from the few tourists not shipped to slave labor camps.
At the advice of Reagan, Gorbachev immediately allowed Czechoslovakia to reopen its 17 IHOP locations around Prague, which had been closed since at least 1967. The Czechs responded by electing a poet as president and kicking the Slovaks out of the country, thus setting the stage for Poland, Romania, Germany and the rest. When East Germans, starved for pancakes themselves, tore down the Berlin Wall to reach West Berlin’s largest IHOP location (built next to the wall as part of the back and forth between the US and the Soviets after Jimmy Carter ordered the 1980 Olympic boycott), the tide had turned and the Soviet Union failed.
Eastern Europeans and citizens of former Soviet states were then free to enjoy pancakes without threat of reprisal until the rise of the various ethnic mafias introduced new levels of horror and authoritarian rule.
Reagan finished his second term and retreated to California and the tragic cushion of dementia.
Stay tuned as next time we’ll be discussing pancakes and Reconstruction following the Civil War.

A Thanksgiving Story They Didn't Teach You in School

2010-11-25T08:00:00.000-08:00

True Thanksgiving story:
Only 53 Pilgrims had survived the trip to the New World. (Contrary to popular belief, they had not left Europe "fleeing religious persecution". They had been kicked out of England for being religious radicals who attempted to force other people to follow their own, extremist Christian beliefs. The Pilgrims, it seems, were the persecutors.)
Massasoit, Chief of Wampanoag Indians, was the leader who directed his people to help the Pilgrims live through their first, brutal winter at Plymouth. The Pilgrims and the Natives joined together to celebrate a successful harvest in the autumn of 1621. The feasting lasted for three days.
55 years later, the Pilgrims celebrated the holiday by mounting the head of Metacom (also called King Philip), the son of Massasoit and Chief of the Wampanoags after his father's death, on a stake and parading it through the town square. His head was displayed there, as a trophy, for several decades. Metacom's son was sold into slavery.
Enjoy your turkey and stuffing...

Do not attempt to adjust your internets

2010-11-20T14:09:00.000-08:00

COMING SOON TO THIS SPACE: DOGGIES!

A chill may have just gone down figu7es spine. Either that or he has to pee.

Well, at least the basement is finally finished....

2010-11-20T13:32:00.000-08:00

Oh, RRRRRRRRROOOOWWWWWWRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!

2010-11-13T11:02:00.000-08:00

Just click on this. There will be no regrets.

Hmmmm, I've got to go.

Rrrrrowwwrrr.

and just what the hell did I do to piss off the almighty?

2010-09-15T12:12:00.000-07:00

"Thus saith the Lord God, Woe to the women that sew pillows.... Behold, I am against your pillows."

Ezekiel 13:18-20

Sometimes a pillow can't catch a break.

Horror in Hooterville...Part II

2010-09-02T10:25:00.000-07:00

I left off with dead chickens, a broken TV and how they contribute to my new-found belief in the afterlife. (I could look down at the previous post, just to make sure that I am accurate on this point, but I don’t enjoy reading this crap any more than you do. Let’s just say that was my ending point and leave it at that. Thanks).

Confronted with the carnage in the coop that Wednesday morning, brutal evidence of the horrific hen massacre which had occurred the previous night, a chill ran up my spine (actually, the chill sort of trudged up my spine. So early in the morning, even my reactions to terrifying sights are slow to wake up) and I flashed-back to the events of 11:17 the night before. I had been watching an enjoyable (though quite loud) episode of The Daily Show when the TV began to suffer the electronic equivalent of a grand mal seizure. For no discernible reason, the MENU screen popped up and the idiot box began to rapidly access every possible function (sharpness, volume, picture-in-picture, etc.) the device had to offer; randomly flashing bars and changing settings Channels began to flicker by, the volume slid from sub to ultra-sonic and back again, the picture became sharp as a poke in the eye and colors were contrasted in ways the human mind was never intended to witness. I got closed captioning…in Yiddish. No button I pressed had any effect on these convulsions and, for fifteen minutes, I was forced to endure the most hideous emotional break down of a machine that I had ever seen. Just as I had decided to throw a coffee table through the screen, to end the poor television’s suffering, it all stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

And… the picture was perfect. In fact, I do not think that I have ever seen a television image so crisp, so crystal clear, in my entire life. The volume was set at the optimal level for listening pleasure. It was nothing short of miraculous, and, coffee table still raised over my head, I mumbled a reverent “Wow.” At that point, the VOLUME bar reappeared, slowly navigated its way back to MAX, and the picture went all craptacular once more. The moment had passed.

At the time, I attributed the whole experience to another bit of wacky courtesy of the GBTH but, confronted with the bloody carcasses the following morning, I realized how wrong I had been and that I should have run screaming from the place the very moment that ominous bar returned. That Panasonic was possessed by poultry poltergeists!

At exactly 11:17 PM, while I was watching the TV do electronic calisthenics, I know now that those chickens were being murdered. Their traumatized bird-souls, seeking rescue from agonizing death, had tried to contact me in a desperate call for help... and they used the TV as their method of contact. Given that chickens are exceptionally stupid creatures, they had no idea what buttons to peck to signal their distress and simply poked at random in order to gain my attention. Just as they passed into the great Beyond, the poor critters understood that I had no freaking idea what they wanted to tell me (mostly because I never dreamed that poultry in its death-throws could use a remote) and went to their eternal rest unavenged. As a parting “cluck you, human!” they took the time to re-set the volume at MAX because chickens are not known for their capacity for forgiveness. Bitches.

Laugh if you want, jeer if you must, but I know what I know. I am now a convert. There is life after death, and tormented spirits can contact the living—if only to screw up an otherwise pleasant evening of TV viewing.

Also, if my sister brings in that creepy "This house is clean" midget-lady to exorcise the chicken ghosts, I ain't ever going back...

Horror in Hooterville...Part I

2010-08-07T13:08:00.000-07:00

The TV was broken when I got there.

That is the first thing you need to know. It wasn’t broken in any “normal” (no picture, bad picture, won’t turn on, etc.) way. No-siree-Bob, that sorta thing doesn’t happen here in Hooterville. The problem with the television was that the volume was set on MAX and would not allow itself to be lowered to a level which did not cause bleeding of the ears. The bar, which appears on-screen to show the viewer exactly where the noise level was set, stayed firmly in place to remind you of that, while annoyingly obscuring the middle of the picture.

The “there” to which I had gotten, only to discover a malfunctioning television set, is my sister's house. I not so fondly refer to the place as the Gawdamn Booby-Trapped House. This is because, from the day my sister and her family moved in, the house has hated me. Items fall from cabinets onto my head and objects mysteriously trip me as I walk from room to room. Rarely do I visit the GBTH without sustaining an injury. When I ask perfectly reasonable questions like “Why were these canned goods shoved into the cabinet at random?” or “Is this laundry basket full of socks supposed to be in the freezer?” or even “Who left a damn jet ski in the middle of the living room?”, the folks who live there give me a confused look and deny any knowledge of how such odd things could possibly occur. The house is a nexus of the weird and unexplained. It is my “privilege” every year to spend several weeks house sitting while the evil dwelling’s owners vacation at the beach. This would be “thing you should know” number two.

Finally, you need to know that they used to have chickens. At least, they did when I moved in. My duties as house sitter required that I tend to the care and feeding of the numerous critters which lived at the GBTH, and these four particular birds were thriving members of that menagerie. Through no fault of mine, that did not last long. On the fifth morning of my tenure as caretaker of the GBTH, I went out to feed the hens only to discover that they had been brutally murdered during the night. Something—a fox, a weasel, a very tiny bear—had burrowed its way into the coop and slaughtered the quartet of egg-layers. It was an obvious case of poultricide. Two of the four had been partially devoured. All of the heads were missing; whether they had been eaten on the scene or carted of to be used in some type of evil weasel voodoo ceremony, I am not certain. Given that I am not a CSI expert, I was unable to determine motive or method for the slaughter, nor was I able to ascertain exactly what type of sick (or hungry) individual had committed the crime. I do know, however, at exactly what time the crime happened—11:17 PM. I know this because it is at that precise time I experienced an encounter with the uncanny; a brush with the paranormal which sends shivers down my spine even as I recall the incident to report it here. At the time of the occurrence, I did not realize that I was caught up in a supernatural visitation from beyond the grave, an experience which has made me a believer in all things ghostly, but, upon viewing the carnage in the coop that morning, I understood that my life had been touched by…visitors from the other side.

Which brings us back to the broken TV.

Unfortunately, I now have myself so spooked, that I am unable to continue my tale of true terror at the moment. Once I have stopped shaking, I will post the remainder of the story and explain what the damn TV has to do with the dead chickens, and help you to understand why I have joined the ranks of those spiritualist nut-jobs.

Thank you for your patience…

Well, He'll Have to Get in Line Behind Me!

2010-07-17T12:22:00.000-07:00

Burn in Hell, Nerds!
Burn...In...HELL!!!!

“Are you kidding?! If these people would spend even some of the energy that they spend on these comic books, reading the Bible, well no high hopes here. They have turned comic book characters into idols, and worship them they do! Isaiah 2:8 Their land also is full of idols; they worship the work of their own hands, that which their own fingers have made: 9 And the mean man boweth down, and the great man humbleth himself: therefore forgive them not. It is time to put away the silly vanities and turn to God like you mean it. The destruction of this nation is imminent – so start calling on Batman and Superman now, see if they can pull you from the mess that you have created with all your silly idolatry.” –from the Westboro Baptist Church website,home of lots of gawd-loving and hate filled fun!

Yep, the Jesus-people are protesting the San Diego Comic Con! They may be complete Nut-jobs, but I have to agree with them on the Nerd issue...

It's All Fun and Games, Until Some One Loses a Thumb. (Please?)

2010-07-04T11:47:00.000-07:00

Out here in Hillbillyville, where the Wolf-person insists that we must live, the dim-witted Yahoo's who call this forsaken spot of geography home begin celebrating the Independence Day thing on June 30th. These slack-jawed, dunder-headed, mouth-breathing primates seem to believe that the best way to honor the rights bestowed upon them by their Founding Fathers is to get all "lickered-up", and prove how easy it is to infringe upon the rights of others by shooting firearms, exploding fireworks and screaming like in-bred banshees until the extremely wee hours of the morning. For six nights straight. Thank you, Mr. Thomas Jefferson, for making it all possible.

As is true with an sensible creature, I find all of the loud and random exploding sounds, as well as the drunken screams of joy which follow every gun shot, to be a bit disturbing to my nerves. How am I to be certain that one of these knuckle-brained Barnies and Goobers is not actually aiming for me, but constantly missing the shot because they are too incompetent a shootist (or too inebriated) to be trusted with a weapon? For that matter, I believe that they are all too...Human...to be permitted to handle firearms and explosives. That is an accident just waiting to happen. Granted, this scenario has the potential to thin the herd a bit, but there is always the possibility that I might be taken out as collateral damage. In addition, they simply continue to breed and make more of their ilk, so casualties are too easily replaced. (There really is no up-side in this for me.)

So, I am forced to spend this interminable holiday searching for a sofa under which to hide. The world, unfortunately, does not contain enough sofas. It does, however, contain an over abundance of drunken, "patriotic" hillbillies. More's the pity...

And now, as is my habit, I leave you with this little piece of fluff in the hope of brightening your dreary existence. Gaze upon it until you faint with joy....

This little kitty is so very patriotic, that he has his own little flag!

How nauseatingly cute!

When all of the shooting starts, perhaps he will have the good sense to jam it into the nearest hillbilly's eye!

(A canine can dream, can't he?)

Look...It's My JOB, okay?

2010-06-28T14:28:00.000-07:00

As Spokesperson for Society, I am required to attend regular meetings in order to report back to loyal Cheeky Monkey readers on what has gotten Society's proverbial panties in a wad. This is because Society, for the most part, finds any sort of contact with the teeming masses to be down right...icky...and, thus, I am kept busy shuttling back and forth as a go-between. It's my job. I did not ASK to be employed in this fashion...it was just kinda thrust upon me. Honestly, Society can be a bit of a bitch at the best of times. Feel fortunate that you do not have to deal with it as directly as I do, and quit blaming ME for the reports I have to make here at the Monkey. It ain't my fault. And whining does not become you.

That being said, it is my duty to inform you that summer is here and Society takes issue with the amount of skin that some people choose to display in public places at this time of year. For the most part, Society believes that, at any time of year and in any given climate, It should be exposed to the viewing of as little of your skin as is possible. Society does not find you attractive in the slightest. Some people, Society is quick to note, have been blessed with way more than their fair share of flesh and, with the heat and humidity of the summer months, they insist upon forcing an already dyspeptic Public to witness all of the pasty jiggling that goes with ill-fitting halter-tops and short-shorts. Society is repulsed by this. (Please take note that Society has no problem whatsoever with straining halter-tops--that is merely ample flesh yearning for freedom, and Society can very much appreciate the idea of that type of quest for liberty. Yes indeed. Society likes the concept of skin, not the actual sagging and flopping of it.) Granted, there are some folk who look extremely spiffy in a tube-top and micro-shorts. Society has asked me to inform you that, sadly, you are not one of them. (Society is quite sure, though, that you have a very nice personality.)

I have also been asked to inform you that, as a public service, Society has contacted local tattoo shops and suggested that they offer a summertime special on the etching of bushes, shrubbery and lawn ornaments upon the excess side-skin of those who choose to ignore Its request for greater coverage of fleshy areas. In this fashion, those not suitable for public display may still feel some degree of personal freedom, while appearing to be less...ample...folk simply standing in the park. Society is offering coupons, and urges you to make use of them.

Again, let me point out that this is not ME saying this. I am actually a very accepting guy. Society, on the other hand, can be very judgemental. Do us all a favor, and wear a sweater. Just to keep Society from nagging me. Thanks.

Oh...ditch the flip-flops, too. Society thinks your feet look terrible.

The tears of some clowns

2010-06-22T21:19:00.000-07:00

The fine folks at world-o-crap are all over this delightful story about ~~a bunch of douches~~ one group's attempt to rebrand the abortion argument as ruining America by making men cry. They even came out with their own ~~zygote interrupted day~~ father's day cards, which you can see at the link.
The good folks at Pandagon got into the act too, which prompted us to make a greeting card for the aggrieved would be daddies.

The worst part is everyone knows bitches hate video games as much as they hate fetuses.

figu7es: No Means No

2010-06-20T14:21:00.000-07:00

No, we can't tell them apart either.

You know, whether it’s working up the latest ad campaign for the hot dog taser or writing a 1,330 page appeal to a pesky manslaughter conviction, figu7es keeps us pretty busy. And we like it that way. After all, it’s a dog’s life and we are nothing if not dogs.
We revel in the drudgery and live for those delicious moments spent filing, cleaning the gutters, repainting all those parked cars or even just bribing an elected official.
But this is one bridge too far, even for figu7es. This cannot stand.
We have agreed in the past to serve as guinea dogs for figu7es various experiments and we understand that the fine print in the personal services contracts we both naively signed without reading bind us to figu7es as little more than chattle, but there are certain things you just don’t ask from people (or dogs for that matter).
And this is one of them.
It was one thing when figu7es tested cosmetics on us or made us eat that dog food laced with radioactive strontium or even the time he ran us over with a truck to test his design for a hot dog based tyre (which did not work out at all by the way), but really? Is this how little he thinks of us? After we swallowed chicken bones over and over so he could learn the Heimlich maneuver in an ill fated attempt to win the affection of that Red Cross instructor or when he plugged us into the Christmas tree ‘just because?’
We didn’t even complain about that month of community service we had to do for him---or the subsequent jail time after he mouthed off to the judge and got us thrown into County when we were all found out. We happily went along, assuming that somewhere in that darkened heart of his he had our best interests in sight or that everything was for some larger purpose.
But, no, here is where we draw the line in the sand. This is figu7es’ last gasp, as it were.
We understand that he rescued us from near certain death when he liberated us from the pound (along with an emu and 7 chickens), but there comes a time when the debt has been paid.
Just this once, we will stand up for ourselves and tell figu7es no, not us. No, not now.
Right after we get these wetsuits on.

Painter of Light (and Schlock) Arrested for DUI

2010-06-18T16:36:00.000-07:00

Via the Onion AV Club

figu7es held at undisclosed government location

2010-06-06T10:25:00.001-07:00

As this grainy surveillance photo shows, things are looking bleak for our favorite pillow.

Reporting is scarce, but it appears that figu7es, much loved pillow and infomercial maven (who doesn’t lovingly remember The Hot Dog Juicer!) has become a victim of government rendition.
Spirited away in the dead of night with a sack over his, well, body, figu7es has been taken to an undisclosed location for questioning.
Long a critic of the U.S. government (especially as related to areas surrounding kosher pickle production and hand waving statisticians), figu7es became a liability after his scathing reportorial series "Why Dogs Eat Poop: I Mean, Who the Hell Would do That?" exposed a sinister plot in the bowels of the Federal Government to declare 'Real America' as consisting of only parts of Staten Island and a single toll booth on Route 80 in Indiana. This would allow forces bent on destroying the American Way of Life (which consists mostly of starchy foods and long periods of torpor) to continue their takeover of our most precious institutions (football stadiums and bus station bathrooms).
More soon.

Arizona Nightmare?

2010-05-22T18:43:00.001-07:00

USAF's MARK HUNTER--It's Up to Each of Us to Save Don't Ask Don't Tell

2010-05-22T12:13:00.000-07:00

MARK HUNTER wants you to understand that he has NO vested interest in maintaining the DADT policy.

My name is MARK HUNTER. I’m sure you feel as I do that the imminent loss of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is a great potential loss for the Air Force. DADT has done a lot for the Air Force and for this Airman in its years of service.
When the Editor asked me to run a column here I had mixed emotions. I was honored and at the same time uptight about being in the limelight. Nevertheless, I accepted the challenge and was given free rein to pick my subject matter. I think this assignment will be a great opportunity for me. Hopefully, I can educate someone else while I’m educating myself.
In the past there have been some real pilgrims in the DADT business. They thought DADT consisted of scare scenes posted on safety bulletin boards. They said “Don’t say this!” so many times they acquired a reputation for it and turned off the troops. I say, “Do it, but do it with the least chance of busting it up.” The key to DADT is foresight, being alert to what can happen and taking steps beforehand to make sure no one has to tell. It is easy to blame supervisors. Granted, they are responsible and should take preventative action, but they can’t be everywhere. Nor are they blessed with any special magical powers of insight. So, it really depends on us, doesn’t it? If we insist on not asking and not telling everyone can play ‘Mission Accomplished’ and not CYA (which might be a problem under DADT anyway).
How does DADT fit into the picture? It’s going to sound like I’m trying to get off the hook, but it has neither the authority nor the responsibility to prevent asking and telling. Instead, it is an advisor, one that is impartial and objective. It “calls ‘em as it sees ‘em,” and works with all staff members. It then has the job of suggesting preventive measures. If you’ve ever been in outfit that asked or told, you will recall how easily the deficiencies were identified and how quickly preventive measures were adopted. It is our job to prevent this, by preventing the asking and the telling.
I’ll be visiting bases over the next couple of months, not only to check on the health of DADT, but to talk to people about what’s NOT happening, if you get my drift. If you’ve got a problem, let’s not rap about it. Keep it to yourself, don’t share it. If you feel compelled to ask or tell, I’d like to know why you want to screw up a perfectly good thing. Look, I know there’s a wealth of stories out there, I just don’t want to hear them.

Cheeky Monkey Not So Proudly Presents:

2010-05-19T12:08:00.000-07:00

our newest irregular feature---

***IAN'S ADAGES***
proverbs and assorted (un)wisdom to live your life by!!!!

Today's little chunk of sagely sayitude....

"If you LOVE something...
whack it really hard in the head with the biggest rock you can find and run away from it as fast as you can before it destroys you."

That's all for today, kiddies...
Check back here at CHEEKY MONKEY as often as you can!
(We probably won't ever publish more of THIS crap, but we do promise that whatever else we post will be equally craptacular!!!!)

At CHEEKY MONKEY, we don't just fling our poo...we let you read it!!!!!!
(Hooray, US!!!!!!)

Costumed Sex Disappointing, Man Finds

2010-05-18T18:54:00.000-07:00

A planned sexual romp involving a gladiator outfit failed to reignite passion between a local man and his longtime wife and sexual partner last night.
Ronald Waxman reported this morning that the costumed sex actually did little to enhance his performance or interest in the activity, which otherwise followed the normal pattern he and his wife Enid have evolved over the course of their 21 year marriage.
“I actually felt a bit silly, especially when I couldn’t get the little metal hat off,” reported Waxman.
“And I thought Enid would look really hot all dressed up in a toga, but she poked me in the eye when she did that thumbs up thingie and it really hurt.
“We ended up just watching Jay Leno and eating potato chips.”
Waxman expressed gratitude for the late night return of Leno, who has singlehandedly allowed the couple to avoid sexual congress on hundreds of occasions using nothing more than banal jokes, recycled newspaper advertisements and a thoroughly underwhelming celebrity guest lineup.

Al Roker Declares Himself President for Life at NBC

2010-05-12T15:54:00.000-07:00

President Roker has promised swift justice for the fool who canceled Life.

In a stunning and unexpected coup d’etat, Al Roker has fended off Comcast Corporation and installed himself as President of NBC.
Comcast Cable, based in Philadelphia, had negotiated a purchase of 51% of the ailing network from GE, a move which is now apparently moot.
Roker, genial Today Show weatherman and sometime despot, took over 30 Rockefeller Center shortly into prime time last night. He preempted whatever reality crap was being aired at the time to make the announcement.
Although scattered fighting was still reported throughout the Corporate headquarters as well as the ground floor Gift Shop, Roker announced that he had assumed the post of President and would guide NBC from now on.
Although no fatalities were cited, it has been reported that several dozen low level employees and a number of Midwestern tourists were injured during the scramble to assume power.
Roker announced several bold gambits designed to reinvigorate his new empire, among them a return of the Michael Landon vehicle Highway to Heaven, a new sitcom about teenagers lost in the desert and a reality series of show trials highlighting charges of sedition and treason against former NBC stalwarts Brian Williams, Kathy Lee Gifford and Matt Lauer, all of whom apparently resisted Roker’s takeover.
“Roker has certainly taken the steam out of the Comcast proposal,” notes New School Television Critic and AV Chair Kenneth Tucker.
“By the time Comcast mobilized its main battle groups in Philadelphia, Roker had already seized control at 30 Rock. It’s unlikely that Comcast will be able to fight a lengthy war against Roker, especially with a good portion of their troops engaged in cable installations. It looks like President Roker will be a force to reckon with at least through the November sweeps.”

State of California to begin ‘Backs for ‘Bos Initiative

2010-05-10T11:04:00.000-07:00

The passing of Arizona’s new immigration law has already met with some degree of success. State officials report that the new law, which is not based on racial profiling due to the fact that law enforcement officers in Arizona are highly trained in the art of determining who is white (and, therefore, obviously a citizen) and who is not, has caused a large percentage of the latter type of people to pull up stakes and leave the State. Legislators attribute fear of police officers detaining any individual who they believe looks “illegallish” or “immigranty” and demanding that they provide documentation proving US citizenship as the major factor in this exodus. These people have not left the country, however, but merely moved to neighboring States such as California. Thus, the law has not solved the illegal immigrant problem, only passed it on to some one else.

In response to the hordes of up-rooted brown people who speak in accents pouring across their borders, and in the spirit of fair play started by their Arizona neighbors, officials in California, a State long plagued by a huge homeless population, have begun a new program which they have called “The ‘Backs for ‘Bos Initiative”. Under this new plan, the State will begin sending bus loads of homeless people, who are all citizens of the US and, therefore, not in violation of Arizona State residency law, to Phoenix. To keep things fair, the exchange will be on a one hobo per wetback basis, and all bus tickets will be one-way. Given the fact that a high percentage of the homeless people involved have moderate to serious mental health issues, they should blend right in with the indigenous population of Arizona.

'BACKS

'BOS

2010-05-04T19:18:00.000-07:00

HEY, ROUND GUY!

COME OUT AND PLAY!

From His Cold, Dead Hands...

2010-05-04T13:08:00.000-07:00

My neighbor was robbed at knife-point a few months back. (No, not by me.) I know this because he took some time out of his busy day to whine to me about it. It seems that he had decided to spend an evening wandering through an area of town known to have a very high crime rate with several hundred dollars worth of gold chain strung around his neck. Now, to me, this seems about as brilliant an idea as a turkey waving an “EAT ME” sign around on the day before Thanksgiving, but frequent readers of the Cheeky Monkey bloggy-thing are well aware that I am not in the habit of passing judgment, so I allowed him to prattle on without mentioning what a moron he was. (See? I am capable of observing the social niceties.) While on this little jaunt, he chanced upon a gentleman of questionable moral character and a fondness for sharp, pointy objects who took it upon himself to suggest that my neighbor might prefer handing over his jewelry to being poked several times, in a not so polite fashion, about the meaty areas of his body. Though he did agree that the non-stabby option would be much more to his liking and handed over the gold, he has been pretty cranky about the whole episode since parting ways with his new friend.

“If I only had my gun,” he grumbled, simpered or declared several times during our discourse, “Things would have gone different.”

“You mean then he would have gotten your gold and your gun?” I ventured during a brief pause in his mewling. “I am sure that he would have appreciated that. A gun would make his job a lot easier.”

He gave me that look that he sends in my general direction almost every time we have one of these little discussions…the one that asks, “Why do I get the feeling that I am not the only idiot taking part in this conversation?” and explained that, if he had been carrying, he could have just shot the guy.

“Um…before or after the whole…you know…stabbing part? Would you have shot him on sight or waited until after the knifing in the gizzards point of the story?” It seemed a fair question, but was dismissed with much scorn.

“The minute he flashed the knife, I’da drew and plugged ‘im,” he demonstrated his quick draw technique, a la Billy the Kid. “Blammo! Right in the chest.” This last bit was declared with a grin of such feral glee that it made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. (I have long suspected that my neighbor, who is a Bible thumping, “Pro-lifer”, was actively looking for an excuse to make with some “Anti-lifing”, and this confirmed my fear. Isn’t it odd that the majority of the folk who believe that every embryo is sacred are also the ones who want Wild West-style gun laws? I guess it is just a matter of letting them grow up so that they make bigger targets.)

Just as is the case with the ill-fated feline of fable, curiosity will also play a major role in my inevitable demise, and it forced me to continue our conversation against my better judgment. (I do have better judgment. I am just not in the habit of trotting it out willy-nilly like the average Joe does. So there.) My neighbor spoke in favor of Tombstonian gun-toting regulations and I, because it is kind of a hobby of mine, used logic and reason to counter each of his arguments.

“I have a right to feel safe,” he offered.

I agreed that that was the case, but asked “Why, then, don’t you just avoid going to places where you will not feel safe?”

“This is America! I can go any damned place I want to!” Patriotic fervor lit his face.

“I am not suggesting the curtailing of your Constitutional right to…um…take a constitutional. What I mean is that staying away from places where you do not feel safe would make more sense than going to those places in the first place…with or with out a side arm.”

He countered with, “Having a gun makes me feel safe wherever I am.”

“I, on the other hand, tend to feel safer in places where I am not surrounded by people carrying guns. I guess I just have an un-natural fear of projectiles which, aided by explosive force, can make chunks of my insides become outsides. I am kind of a neat-freak when it comes to keeping all of my internal organs packed snuggly away.”

This last statement earned me a scathing look of contempt. Only a commie sissy, it seems, would waste so much concern on the location of his inside parts. (A real, American man, I presume, would gladly wear his liver as a hat if it meant standing up for what he believed in. Sadly, I do not look good in a hat.)

Toward the end of our talk, my neighbor tossed out that idiotic NRA slogan “If they outlaw guns, only outlaws will have guns.” This particular piece of convoluted rhetoric has always made my brain itch.

“That goes without saying. If any given thing is made illegal then, logically, anyone who is in possession of that thing is in violation of the law. If they outlawed…say…cheese, then any person who had cheese would be an outlaw. Because they would be breaking the no cheese law. See? If you look at it from a semantic angle, it is a pretty silly statement. ”

I believe that, with that comment, I broke his over-worked brain.

“Why in Hell would they outlaw cheese?” He was genuinely puzzled over this and, I think, mentally reviewing where his stockpile of Kraft American slices might be safely hidden on the off chance that I knew something that he did not. “And what do the Jews have to do with it? They got some rule against cheese?”

Fortunately, before I could explain, he stomped away, mumbling something about how they would have to “take my cheese from my cold, dead hands!”

I fear that the next time he decides to take an evening stroll through the bad part of the city he will do so armed with a wedge of Cheddar.

Muggers, beware!

Um...Hi there!

2010-05-03T20:46:00.000-07:00

Okay-

Just want to share with you that I have discovered the wonder which is Ocean Spray blueberry juice. This stuff kicks ass in about eleven different directions. If there is a God, this would be his nectar. Seriously.

(This has been an unpaid product endorsement. Of course, if the lovely people at Ocean Spray would like to kick a farthing or two in my direction, I would not…you know…object or anything.)

All right, the truth is that I just missed you something awful. It has been sooooo long since we talked and Wolf wouldn’t let me out to play (bastard!) because he was too busy and you are really my only friend and it is terribly lonely all cooped up in his think-locker and the other voices are no fun and I just need to talk!

See…now I am doing run-ons. How sad is that?

So…um…try that blueberry juice. It rocks!

Wow...look at all the pretty colors!

What is with that Wolf-person and the damned lists?

2010-05-03T15:45:00.000-07:00

Just asking...

He falls off the face of the Earth for months and then comes back with the list making.

Did he take some sort of seminar?

I should know better than to wonder about the doings of humans, I know, but I am baffled by his behaviour.

And, I am partly responsible for his training. I can see how effective that was.

Do not blame me! I am just in it for the Beggin' Strips.

By the way, here is a little photo I discovered during our down time...gaze upon it until the screaming stops.

My, what a cute little kitty!

I would like mine with a dash of cinnamon and extra foam.

Yummy!

On Writing Your Manifesto...

2010-05-03T15:35:00.000-07:00

So, you woke up this morning and decided that it was time to listen to the nagging voice(s) in your head and take the next step on your insane trip to Looneyville by writing your manifesto. Good for you! I applaud this decision not only because I find the lunatic rantings of the certifiably cuckoo to be highly entertaining, but also because while you are engaged in scribbling your inane epistle, I do not have to worry about tripping over your bat-shit crazy ass in public. If you are going to invest the time in a literary undertaking of this sort, though, it is important that you do it right. After all, even a deranged and imbecilic person’s opus should follow some set format. Wouldn’t want people to think you were stupid as well as crazy, would you? So, here are some pointers on how to make your public airing of your personal (and, quite likely, imaginary) demons more enjoyable for your readers.

You must understand from the outset, however, that there will only ever be four kinds of people who even take time to read your deluded scrawling: psychiatric professionals (who study your whacky ilk for a living), reporters of the various media (who will be looking for a quote from your writings-- after the inevitable hostage taking at the I-Hop goes horribly awry-- in order to turn the spotlight on themselves), the random crazy-ass who is looking for another crazy-ass to give their idiotic life some semblance of meaning, and folk like me (who find amusement in the babbling of the mad). For the purpose of this essay, we will ignore the medicos and the media buzzards because, frankly, I do not give a gibbering monkey’s fanny about what they think. We will also disregard the third group-- the slack-jawed, addle-pated, dim-witted, funny-farming fringe element-- since, let’s face it, they are clearly idiots by dint of giving your whacko ideas any degree of credence and, therefore, not worthy of the time wasted on them. They are, you know, lunatics who are only going to actually read and remember the parts which are in synch with their own derangements. Our focus here will be on your most important reader: me. In the end, it is all about me.

This is, of course, the way it should be.

That being said, I offer these few modest tips to the would-be manifesto writer in the hope that they my guide you to craft a manuscript worthy of my time.

Pick a psychosis and stick with it. We have already established that, by virtue of the act of sharing your misguided, crack-pot ideas in writing that you are a loony, so don’t over do it with the crazy shit. It can be very off-putting. Hopping from a display of one set of nut-job symptoms to another muddles up the text unnecessarily. Be consistent in your lunacy. I understand that paranoid schizophrenia is quite popular with the kids these days. Why not try that?
Be creative in your choice of who the “enemy” is. Your work will not be a true manifesto if it does not single out some group, individual or entity as the party guilty of ruining your life, keeping you down, attempting to take over the country/world/I-Hop, conducting bizarre organ swapping experiments on penguins and evangelicals, transmitting mind-control beams at your foil covered noggin, taking your job, etc., but try to be a bit inventive. You are nuts, so this should not be hard. The government and space aliens have been done to death. The Jews and the Blacks have also been fairly played out. Satan, Jesus or any other religious figure are over used, too. Keep it fresh and pick some one/thing unexpected. I suggest the Amish. Those people have got to be up to something. Sneaky, funny hat wearing folk, the Amish.
We don’t really care about how you plan to “solve” the problem. Though this part of the rant can be as amusing as the rest, it is only important for use during the inevitable sanity hearing. Stop giving other lunatics ideas for crying out loud!
Don’t worry about spelling, grammar, proper narrative form or any of the conventions and expectations of real writing. Your target audience are barely literate numb-skulls and mental defectives who do not particularly care for nor understand the niceties of the English language. They will be more impressed by your gibberish if it feels like something they could write. As for me, I prefer the challenge of deciphering crazy-code. The less literate your ramblings, the more fun for me.
Keep logic and reason out of it. That does not mean that you can’t attempt, in your own psychotic way, to explain and justify your derangement, only that you will ruin things if those explanations and justifications make even the slightest sense. Bring on the crazy! Leave logic for those of us who are laughing at you. And, we are laughing. At least, until the bomb goes off.
Include plenty of doodles in the margins (the less connected to the text, the better). Because I just like doodles.
Do not edit your work. Ever. Takes all the fun out of it.
Make sure that, half way through your manifesto, you completely lose track of whatever whack-a-do point you began with and branch off into weird and unexpected territory. Nothing should ever prove anything, nor should one point lead directly to another. The more babbly branches you wander off on, the more entertaining. Try for the WTF? Factor. No one is expecting the thing to make sense due to the fact that it is being written by a certifiable head-case. You have a reputation to uphold—don’t let us down.
Keep it short. I enjoy small doses of crazy but, after a while, you people make my ass tired.
Sign your work. That way, we know who to come looking for when it comes time to put you in the booby-hatchery where you belong. We might be amused, but we ain’t crazy. That is your job, and you do it so well.

By following these few helpful hints, you are sure to make the writing of your manifesto an enjoyable process for yourself and your readers. Why waste all that crazy? Put it all down on paper so that the rest of us (me) can get a little peek into the inner workings of what passes for your mind, you crazy bastard. Now, get the hell off of the streets and start your scribbling! (Brown crayon optional).

The Moron Ya Know

2010-05-01T19:06:00.000-07:00

I may have said this elsewhere on Cheeky Monkey but even if I have I believe that it is something well worth repeating: the thing to keep in mind when dealing with stupid people is that they are not bright enough to realize how stupid they actually are. (This is a statement of fact. As proof, I offer this insight: If the intellectually challenged who dwell along side us were smart enough to know how stupid they are, it would only be logical for them to stop being stupid. That is, after all, what a smart person would do. But… they aren’t stopping. I rest my case.) Remembering this little bit of info is something which will help to keep not-stupid-people from going bat crap crazy when having to deal with the inevitable batch of morons they will encounter on a daily basis.

Obviously, when I refer to stupid people, I am not talking about YOU. You are one of the brightest people on the planet, and the world is a much better place by dint of your mere existence therein. (So, please, don’t waste our time posting a pissy little response because your feelings are hurt.) Nor am I sitting atop my intellectual snobby-horse and looking down my lupine snout at those I believe to be my mental inferiors. For all I know, I could be one of the oblivious, stupid people this post is about! (I am not, but this is the first thing that the random idiot reading this post would accuse me of being…so I cut them off at the knees in advance.) No, when I speak of stupid people, I am talking about all those other folk out there. You know…the stupid ones. Face it, on any given day you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a doofus or two. (What, by the way, is with all of the proverbial dead cat swinging? Why must it be a cat which is swung? For that matter, why must said feline be deceased? Why don’t people swing live marmots? That would seem to be much more fun… and a tad more hygienic. Questions like this keep me up at night.) We are armpit-deep in dumb-asses, and the future ain’t looking so good on the IQ front.

As a public service, I humbly offer these few tips for you to share with your dumb-ass friends and relatives, in the hope that you may guide them from the oppressive and all-consuming darkness of moronitude:

Just because you read it on-line (or…I admit that this is stretching a bit…in a book) or heard it on TV, it does not mean that it is a fact. The truth is that people lie all the time; on the Internet, on television and in print. They make stuff up out of thin air and toss it out there for gullible idiots to embrace as truth. Some times, they do this because they are morons who do not know better. Other times, they are just playing you for the insipid fool that you are. Check your facts before opening your pie hole. (The one exception to this rule, by the way, is that everything you read here at Cheeky Monkey is 100% true. We would never lie to you!)
Repeating it over and over does not make it true. Repetition of a statement does not magically transform a lie into truth or fiction into fact. There were no WMDs, George Lucas is not a genius and, no matter how many times you hear claims to the contrary, The Matrix will always be a cinematic turd.
Saying it LOUDER than everyone else does not make it fact either. (nor does saying it with "feeling") Yes, I am looking at you, Glenn Beck!
The fact that a large number of people are all saying the same thing does not make what they are saying correct. After all, they may all be idiots, too.
Wanting a thing to be true does not make it so… Thus I am not a gazillionaire and I am still surrounded by nit-wits.
…nor does believing it to be true. Ask yourself this: If gawd really loved you, why would he have made you such a moron?
An idea is NOT a fact simply because it supports whatever whacko ideology you happen to embrace. Too easy. Let’s move on.
Contrary to popular belief, there are not two sides to EVERY issue. Go ahead, smart-ass, argue against the wetness of water. See?
Even when there are two sides, this does not mean that both sides are equally valid nor do they deserve equal weight. For example, I could make a pretty strong pro-cannibal argument as a method of getting the national debt under control (Thanks J. Swift!), but that does not mean that the argument is worth considering. Much…
That celebrity you like or that sexy babe in the bikini might very well be stupid, too. Just because they said it, it does not magically become fact. Bite me, Sean Penn!
Just because I am bigger or stronger than you are, that does not mean that I am right. The fact that I am smarter than you (not that I am saying that I am), however, goes a long way to making me righter.
Even experts can lie in order to back their own agenda. A PhD does not mean there’s no BS!

I am sure that there are a number of points which I have not covered, but these are enough to get you started. Please, for the love of all that is holy, get out there and spread the word. Let us make 2010 the year we began, as a nation, to stamp out stupid!

Thank you, as always, for your time. Now, piss off

A Note to the Paranoid

2010-05-01T17:26:00.000-07:00

Get over yourself. We didn’t even know you existed until you started behaving like such a weirdo. Now, we are so creeped out by your bizarre antics that we have to keep an eye on you. Knock it off, and we will stop watching you.

Sincerely,

Big Brother

P.S. Of course, that may just be what we want you to think.

Futility redux

2010-03-23T05:57:00.000-07:00

Rather than post twice, I will just point you here to give you a peek at what I've been up to of late.

Linky thing for the internet challenged
http://wellhanged.blogspot.com/2010/03/futility.html

Moe update: Our boy is doing much better and is back to eating and laying in the window all day (but in a good way). I hope to get back to work here next week while I'm off work and not laying down the new floor in my office.

At least I have a good reason this time

2010-02-27T19:39:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the lack of activity.
Our beloved, kitty cat Moe has been rather seriously ill and he's been in and out of the hospital for the past week. That, coupled with some other, um, life, has kept me off the funny for a bit.
Moe is feeling a tad better and has finally been eating again the last 2 days (after they gave him an appetite stimulant at the hospital) so we are hopeful he's on the mend.
It's the same sort of thing that got him in October, but no one has been able to figure out what's wrong with him (even Dr. figu7es took a crack at it, but we decided against his recommendation of radical amputation).

We hope Moe is back in the pink soon and perhaps after that, life will seem amusing again.

Of course, the saddest part is that they shave Moe's belly again (for the ultrasounds) after he just grew back in from the shaving in October.

Moe declined to participate in any Dada moe blogging for this post.

What Part of "Mysterious Ways" Don't You Get?

2010-02-11T11:04:00.000-08:00

Over the past several weeks, I have heard quite a lot of whining and complaining from you Godless heathens about the weather.

"All of this snow is killing business", you mewl.

"We haven't had power all week and I am freezing", you whimper.

"I hurt my back shoveling all that snow", you moan.

"A gas-tanker slid out of control, crashed into a day-care center and blew up in a horrifying inferno", you complain.

My response is as follows:

WHO ARE YOU TO QUESTION THE WORKINGS OF THE LORD? (And, I actually say it in all capital letters, too!)

He sent floods to New Orleans to cleans the world of sinners. He sent earthquakes to Haiti to wipe out the voodoo scum. AIDS is his way of punishing the Gays for their unnatural ways. Global warming will rid us of the abomination called polar bear. Sean Hannity is the Almighty's way of punishing the intelligent. In short, every natural disaster that has ever occurred is because God has used it as His method of smiting some insidious and loathsome evil.

These snow storms are no exception; they, too, are part of His Divine Plan (I could quote scripture here in order to back my point but, let's face it, that would just confuse you. Besides, it is way too much trouble to twist and misinterpret the Bible in order to make it sound like I have textual proof for my claims. Just trust that I, as always, know more than you do and leave it at that. It is for the best, after all).

Jehovah, in his infinite wisdom, has buried us under three or more feet of snow in order to rid the eastern United States of a heinous pox on humanity, a malevolent scourge so vile and infernal that I weep to even think its name, an abomination that taints the very souls of all who come in contact with it!

I am, of course, speaking of...midgets.

What the general, Jesus-loving public does not know is that many years ago the so-called "LittlePeople" banded together and forged a diabolical pact with the Prince of Darkness himself. In exchange for their immortal souls, Satan gave them all the cushy circus sideshow jobs. For years they have dwelled among us, living lives of luxury and flaunting their ill-gotten success in the faces of us God-fearing, honest, normal folk. But, no more...

A day of reckoning has come, and the Lord is mighty pissed.

Three feet of snow, while being inconvenient for those of us who are His Chosen (ie: normal sized), is just the right depth to cover and smother/freeze to death the average sinful wee-person. God-sent blizzard conditions will blind these Devil-sworn creatures and cause them to wander into drifts where they will meet their well-deserved, frigid demise. In one fell swoop, the Almighty will cleans us of the vile corruption of midgetry!

It all makes perfect and holy sense.

And don't give me any of that nonsense about all the innocent people who are made to suffer, you pagan fool. The true Christian knows that God doesn't give a hat full of crap about the so-called innocent! When Jehovah gets His smite on, such trivial concerns do not matter in the least. Besides, any virtuous folk who become collateral damage will shoot straight to Heaven where they can frolic with the angels and laugh as the damned midgets writhe in eternal torment.

So, it's all good.

Now, quit your bitching and sit back and enjoy this tangible proof that God loves you.

I have no mouth and I must scream*

2010-01-31T10:05:00.001-08:00

I found this business card while cleaning out my file cabinet. Sadly, this place is only too real.

*With apologies to Harlan Ellison

Is It Just Me?

2010-01-26T22:39:00.000-08:00

OK, this has been bugging me for quite some time....

Is it just me, or does the rest of the universe find this guy(?) to be the most creepy, horrifying, whim-wham inducing, get your young son to a safe hiding place, unnatural, make your flesh crawl corporate mascot to ever appear in public?

Do the Burger King people think that by making potential customers uneasy they will sell more burgers?

Very interesting marketing strategy...

Now, please excuse me while a run to a corner and cower in abject terror.

Angry Cat Taken in by String, Again

2010-01-16T17:00:00.001-08:00

Mittens has had about enough of 'play time.'

Mittens, a perky Siamese, is incensed that he was again fooled by a simple piece of string.
“I was taking my afternoon nap on the windowsill, just laying in the sun, when this string started fluttering in and out of my line of vision,” noted the cat while he licked himself.
“I attacked the damned thing for nearly five minutes before I realized it was that stupid human waving the string around in front of my face.”
Mittens noted this wasn’t the first time he has been suckered in by a human being pretending to animate an object.
“There’s that battery operated fake mouse the bastard bought,” stated the cat.
“I discovered after losing about twenty minutes of my life chasing it that it has a remote control.
“And don’t get me started on that damned laser pointer. That thing is the bane of my existence.”
Mitten resolves not to succumb to temptation or instinct in the future.
“I’ll let that dumb ass wave that fake-ass toy mouse until his arm falls off.
“Of course, if he gets out that little fishing pole with the catnip thingie on it I’m not sure I can be held responsible.”

And,Then, My Head Damn Near Exploded...

2010-01-15T12:31:00.000-08:00

I started off the New Year by making a resolution to never make New Year's resolutions. The resulting paradox caused a mental logic-loop which resulted in severe brain damage. The doctors tell me that, though I may recover enough to someday blog again, I will probably only ever have the thinking ability of a doorknob. Which, though an intellectual step up for me, means that my one hope for employment would be as a "news" anchor for FOX. I do not want your pity.

But, that isn't why I asked you to meet me here.

What I really wanted to do, was to present you with my first official list of 2010. A list which I have entitled:

Crap that I plan to do in 2010!!!!!!

Use the word "crap" a lot less.
Find out: How much is that doggie in the window?
Write something in this color.
Punch a chicken.
Stop the hating or, if that proves to be to difficult, make a really good grilled cheese sandwich.
Make more lists.
Put the bop in the bop-she-bop-she-bop.
Take the bop back out, thus making it, simply, she-she.
Wear pants in public more often.
Yell "Hey, you damn kids! Get off my lawn!" only when there are actually kids on my lawn.
Get a lawn.
Write more posts about wallabies.
Think of an item for this bullet-point.
Come up with a catchy Martin Luther King Day carol.
Check to see if it is better than a poke in the eye with a dirty stick.
Work the word "razzmatazz" into every conversation.
Stop making fun of morons. (Okay, that's not gonna happen. Maybe stop making fun of Mormons. Nope, non-starter as well.).
Find Jesus so that every one else can stop looking for him.
Stop, drop and roll. In that order. Because, rolling before you stop and drop just looks silly.
Tell Wolf where I hid his car keys.
Make fewer lists.
razzmatazz.

That should get me to Thursday.

Waiting For The Other Ball To Drop

2010-01-14T13:59:00.000-08:00

So...here we are, a week plus into the new year and, now that all of the hoopla has died down a bit, I would like to take a moment to ask: How's it working out for you so far? For my part (thanks for asking!), other than the annoying fact that I keep forgetting to write 2010 on checks instead of 2009, not much seems to have changed. Not that I was really expecting it to...
That may read as pessimistic, but let me be clear--as far as the old glass half empty/glass half full thing goes, I have always been more of a "what, exactly is the glass half full/empty of ?" kinda guy. I don't give a rat's furry fanny about the volume of beverage in the cliched tumbler, I just want to know what sort of crap you are trying to get me to drink. ( And, when was the last time that damned glass was washed?). See? I am not pessimistic, I am...skeptimistic. Having experienced a number of new years, I have always felt that the whole celebration of the New Year thing seemed a bit...premature. Wouldn't it make much more sense to wait and see how the coming twelve months pan out and then decide whether or not a party is in order? Sure, a "That Year Didn't Suck As Much As It Could Have" party is way less festive (and not quite so spiffy as seasonal greetings go), but caution, I believe, is always the best approach to this sort of thing. Though I am not a superstitious person (except for my belief that throwing salt over my shoulder will protect me from rear-ambush by midget ninjas, of course. Which, actually, has proven to be quite effective since I have never once been way-laid by the little back stabbing terrors. If it works, it ain't superstition, I guess), such premature partying is just begging for a serious drubbing by the rubber chicken of reality. Why take chances?
And, while we are on the subject of the celebration, I would like to ask: What's up with that whole "Dropping of the New Year Ball" business? (Thanks, Chris T. for putting that question into my already over-crowded cranium!)? In actuality, the damned thing isn't even really dropped, it is merely un-rapidly lowered, which is very anti-climactic if you ask me (and, I know that you will because you always do). "Oh, look! The 2010 ball has gently descended as the clock strikes midnight! Whoop-de-freaking-do!" I'm thinking that, if you want to make it a real spectacle, the ball should be allowed to plummet several hundred feet onto the waiting crowed and then shatter on impact. Better yet, fill it, pinata-style, with a couple thousand man eating weasels, which would then leap from the ruins of the festive orb and begin to devour random revelers. Hell, if you can survive something like that, the rest of the year is almost guaranteed to be a lot more happy!
Just a thought.

Pancakes and The Industrial Revolution

2009-12-29T16:59:00.000-08:00

By ~~Banana Slug~~ Cheeky Monkey Pin-up Queen, sslugger

sslugger took the site’s relocation and name change a bit personally (mistakenly assuming our previous site was named after her when it was actually a sly reference to a sexual position first outlined by H.R. Haldeman on one of the Nixon Watergate tapes). Oh, and sslugger wishes to note that this is indeed a new sombrero, purchased in the gift shop at the ashram.

Yes, I’ve returned, after considerable soul searching and an extended visit to an ashram deep in the Himalayas where I not only learned to levitate, I let go of my bitterness at the lesser lights here who felt the need to tamper with an otherwise lovely website and migrate to a new one named after a monkey’s ass (instead of one of god’s most graceful creatures, the banana slug).
Oh, and I also learned how to concentrate for hours on end by focusing on nothing.
Well, nothing but pancakes that is, which I’ve discovered are the secret to universal understanding (think circularity. Then think both tasty and delicious. Now you’re getting it!).
But today we have a more specific mission and that is the discussion of pancakes as they relate to the beginning of the Industrial Revolution. Herein we will explore the role these circular delights played in lifting mankind from the drudgery of manual farm labor and feudalism to the drudgery of manual factory labor and corporatism.
It was 1954 and the United States was in the midst of its largest economic boom ever, largely due to the Roosevelt administration’s foresight in bombing the rest of the world’s manufacturing capacity into nonexistence. Millions of returning GI’s fueled a need for automobiles and consumer goods on a scale never before imagined.
Until this point, railroads and ships had served as the major transport methods, shuttling both raw and finished goods to anxious consumers. This system forced anyone who wanted anything of value to live near either a port or a train station, causing no end of population congestion.
97% of Americans at that time lived within hailing distance of a train or a ship’s whistle; the country couldn’t grow like it wanted unless people could spread out. And that couldn’t happen unless a new system of transportation were found.
This would all change because of a simple conversation between 2 men.
President Dwight Eisenhower was a man who loved his milkshakes and he was troubled by the fact that a faster route could not be found between the White House and his favorite creamery in Aberdeen, MD.
He needed a way to get back and forth between the two before Mamie Eisenhower noticed the pile of pillows ostensibly sleeping next to her.
Enter the CEO and President of the Cracker Barrel restaurant chain, one Daniel Evins. Evins buttonholed Eisenhower at a meet and greet with Senator Joe McCarthy, complaining there was no earthly way for customers to reach his chain’s 4,700 plus restaurants and that something ought to be done. Rather than contemplate what had led this man to open thousands of restaurants in the middle of nowhere, Eisenhower tasked his administration’s leading lights with finding a solution to their common problem---getting somewhere a bit faster.
The Army Corps of Engineers announced a breakthrough later that year with ambitious plans for a series of high speed roadways linking the restaurants (they would also connect Aberdeen to Washington on the sly).
These ‘interstate highways’ as they came to be known would have convenient exits every 2.8 miles linking all the Cracker Barrel restaurants together and allowing anyone interested in taking a quick swipe at a salt lick or buying a kazoo labeled “This Machine kills Commies” to do so at their leisure.
The only flaw in the plan were the menu choices at Cracker Barrel, which at the time consisted of suet, salted bacon and salt (with or without ham).
The entire highway system lay unused after the first few daring drivers crashed while clawing at their throats in thirst after consuming yet another salt caked biscuit. The entire project was imperiled.
Enter the junior Senator from Vermont, one Jack Kennedy (Vermont, owing to the staggering genetic deficiencies of its populace, had voluntarily ceded its Senate seats to nearby Massachusetts in a poorly worded state appropriations bill in late 1951).
Kennedy suggested Cracker Barrel serve its pancakes with Vermont’s abundant maple syrup, which until then had been clogging the rivers and drowning residents insufficiently abled to actually tap a tree, instead of the salt which had been customary in the American South to that point.
He further suggested using the new Interstate Highways to distribute this syrup.
Seventy trailers of pure, delicious maple syrup soon rolled down Route 95 bound for Cracker Barrels and grateful drivers everywhere.
The Interstate Highway system became a raging success, enabling the rise of suburbs, exurbs and entitled whiners everywhere.
And Cracker Barrel assumed new prominence as they sought to befuddle vast hordes of senior citizens with shiny geegaws, hopefully keeping enough of them off the roads so the rest of America could get somewhere faster than 43 miles per hour.
Join us next time when we discuss pancakes and their role in Jesus’ raising Lazurus from the dead.
Unless I head back to the ashram. The new office smells kind of funny and I don’t like the way that one guy is looking at me.

I Have a Big Wiener!

2009-12-22T15:47:00.000-08:00

And, I ain't sharing it with anybody! I don't care if it is Christmas--this baby is all mine!

Pass the dang mustard!

Yummmm!!!!!

Oh, for gawd sake, people, get your minds out of the gutter! Jeepers, you'd think none of you had seen a wiener before.

(You may be thinking: "Is there no depth to which he will not sink?" The answer to that question is: "Not that I have yet discovered.")

If nothing else, the title should bring a new crowd of very colorful people flocking to the old Cheeky Monkey site.

See what happens when you make me wear pants? That'll learn ya.

I'm back and ready to have at it

2009-12-22T11:14:00.000-08:00

By Cheeky Monkey Czar and Lone Voice of Reason, figu7es

Oddly enough, figu7es hasn't resumed his medications. Why are you asking?

In the spirit of the holidays, I'd like to offer an olive branch and some good advice for those ball-licking canines who are taking their sweet old time decamping to the ~~Island~~ Isthmus of Wyoming, so here goes.

From the wonderful people at Pet Comfort Products, a valuable primer on why dogs eat poop:

Why Dogs Eat Poop: 20 Reasons

1. Your dog might be hungry. If your dog doesn't have access to food, he might eat poop.
2. Some dogs will eat poop to clean up an area like a housekeeper. This is most likely if your dog is confined to a crate or kennel, or when he's chained up or otherwise restricted. He's taking care of his space.
3. If your dog likes to carry poop, and then eat it, it could be genetics. Some dogs have instincts to carry stuff in their mouths.
4. Your dog might be eating poop because of parasites or worms. They can suck nutrients out of your dog, driving him to eat poop. It might also leave him extra hungry because of the lack of proper fuel.
5. Your dog might be eating cat poop or other animal poop to get key nutrients and minerals not available in his own food.
6. Some dogs will simply eat poop to pass the time. Dogs will eat poop because they are bored or lonely. It can be a sign of neglect.
7. Your dog might eat poop because he's anxious, nervous or otherwise upset. Stress will drive animals to do odd things.
8. Some dogs will eat poop to hide the evidence. If you punish your dog for pooping, he might eat it to stop you from getting angry.
9. If your dog has puppies, she might eat puppy poop. This is an instinct to hide the poop from predators. Poop is evidence. Getting rid of it keeps her puppies safe.
10. Some young dogs and puppies will eat poop as a novelty. That is, they'll eat poop as an experiment. They don't know better.
11. If your dog watches you pick up poop, he might learn to do the same. This is called allelomimetic behavior. Your dog observes you and learns from you, by putting the poop in his mouth you put poop in a bag.
12. Your dog might see others dogs eating poop. From this, they learn to eat poop too.
13. Many dogs simply like the taste of poop. This obviously doesn't make sense to dog owners but that's irrelevant. Some dog like to eat it and that's that. It's warm, moist, and very much like what your dog was given as a very young puppy.
14. If your dog food lacks key nutrients, he might eat poop. Your dog is trying to get "food" with nutrients any way possible, even from his own poop.
15. Sometimes dog poop seems like dog food. This can happen when dog food is low quality and includes materials that are easily passed and not absorbed by your dog. When the dog poops, it seems to be very much like the food he just consumed!
16. In some cases, dogs will eat poop if they are given too much food. This is especially true if your dog's diet is high in fat.
17. Some dogs will eat poop to gain attention. Many dog owners get very upset when their dog eats poop, which means the dog gets attention. This is a wonderful opportunity for your dog to interact with you, although it is because of negative attention.
18. It is possible that some dogs will eat the poop of other, more dominant dogs. Your dog might be more submissive than other dogs, resulting in strange poop eating behavior. This seems to occur more in households with multiple dogs where dominance and submission is a factor. Obviously this doesn't explain much about dogs eating cat poop or other animal poop.
19. It is possible that your dog wants to eat more than one time per day. If you only feed your dog once per day, and your dog eats poop, it could be an indication they want to eat more frequently.
20. In some cases, your dog will eat poop by accident. Dogs are curious and will try to eat almost anything, including poop. Dogs explore the world through taste and smell, much more than humans.[emphasis mine---and reason 20 is patently untrue. No one has ever eaten poop by accident. It's poop, for Christ's sake.]

Remember doggies, acceptance is the first step toward a cure. Which of you poop eating, ball licking drool baskets can honestly look at this list and not see yourself in at least 15 or 18 of the reasons listed? I thought not.

Well, gotta be on my way. The Christmas Rapture waits for no man and the Santa trap is baited with cookies and ham hocks.

COUNTERPOINT BY SOME OTHER DOG
By Cheeky Monkey Hanger-on, Some Other Dog

This fellow has had more interventions than even figu7es.

For better or worse, I'm pretty sure I'm a 13. Poop rocks.

.

Season's Greetings and Drop that Damned Cookie, Fat Man!!!

2009-12-20T13:05:00.001-08:00

I would like to take this opportunity to wish all of our loyal Cheeky Monkey readers a very Merry Christmas. Notice, by the by, that I used the phrase "would like to" in regard to my offering of said wishes. This is because, what with my being a canine and all, I do not, in all honesty, believe in the Christmas thing. By virtue of being born a dog and, thus, perfect from the moment of my creation, there has never been a need for belief in a fat man in red who will be born to redeem my immortal soul. Even if he does come down the chimney(like a common burglar!),and sneak around the house to drop off gifts. Packages or no, Santa Jesus will get what those other "delivery people" get when they trespass on my turf; an ear full of barking and a sound nip on the ankle! Besides, how many of those gifts are for me? Exactly. And, quit eating those cookies, you obese blackguard! Every one knows that stray cookies belong to the DOG, and are not to be poached by some tubby intruder who smells of soot, pine sap and reindeer pee. You have been warned.

Instead, I would like to take a moment to say this:

The Matrix is, with out doubt, the most utterly idiotic piece of filth to ever be filmed. To borrow a phrase from Ian, it is "craptacular", over rated and quite senseless. Any one who does not agree is, obviously, an idiot of the first water. I have spoken. Ho Ho Ho.

Now, for your viewing pleasure, and as a token gesture of "Christmas" gifting in the hope of receiving a tasty snack or three, I present the following (Enjoy until the drooling stops):

And you thought that a lump of coal in your stocking was the worst that could happen. Foolish human! Some one was obviously very naughty, if Jesus Claus is giving them this!

Happy Whatever, Ass-Hat!

2009-12-20T09:44:00.000-08:00

As I was walking down the hallway outside of my store yesterday, another one of those "why ain't that used book store open?" people stopped me to get my take on the whole "how can you run a business if you ain't never open when I want you to be?" issue. We chatted for a few moments, and exchanged thoughts on the subject of lay-about, elderly volunteer workers and how they were destroying society, and then, having exhausted the topic, made to go our separate ways. As he started to walk away, I made the mistake of wishing him "Happy Holidays." (I know, what in Hell was I thinking?).

The guy, who, until that moment, had seemed like a fairly pleasant sort of idiot, actually snarled at me. His lip curled, his eyes bugged out a bit, his face reddened and he snapped, "It ain't a hall-E-day! Its a HOLY- day! Jesus' birthday. You people forget that part." (Yep! In a heart-beat, I had become a "you people". And we had been getting along so well, too.). Then came the lecture: "Blah, blah, blah...Jesus...blah, blah, blah...Sacred...blah, blah, blah...Christian Nation...blah, blah, blah...Toolbox (okay, not really sure about the "toolbox" bit. I must admit that after the first three "blahs", I had already tuned out and begun to think up a title for this post. I am efficient that way.)...blah, blah, blah...Bible...blah, blah, blah...Luke 2:10...blah, blah, blah...going to burn...blah, blah, blah." I thought his head was going to explode from sanctimonious zeal. (Which, though a tad messy, would have been so freaking cool to witness, wouldn't it? Head-explody! In 3D! Who-damn-rah!).

Now, those of you who have read my posts before and feel that you have some insight into my psyche because of it, might be thinking that I was about to open a hefty can of whoop-brain on the guy; that I was, in my own inimitable, sarcastic and condescending fashion, poised to flay him verbally. You would be wrong. (Jeezly-crow, people, its Christmas time! How about a little "good will to man, even if he is a complete moron" for goodness sake? Have you forgotten the true meaning of the season? Dang!).

Sure, I could have mentioned that, according to the Bible itself, Jesus was most likely born in the spring and not in the winter month of December. (Check it out yourself. I can't do all the work for you. Of course, honoring Jesus' birthday in the spring puts the celebration awfully close to the one for how He got murdered and then came back. "And...THIS TIME...HE'S PISSED!"). That Christmas, like the vast majority of "Christian" holy days, was appropriated from a pagan celebration in order to trick the non-believers in to converting (See: Yule for more details. By the way, I did not actually do any research on that "vast majority" bit, it just feels like something that the Christians would do. I am just going with my gut here.). I could have pointed out that people of other faiths hold celebrations at this time of year (What the hell is a "Kwanzaa", by the way?), or that I was just trying to include the New Year in as an added bonus. I did none of these things because--and it sorta hurts my soul to say this--I was stunned and unable to form a coherent sentence. Here I was, offering this total stranger a semi-sincere, decidedly generic and totally unwarranted wish for non-specific, cliched, free of charge and legally non-binding happiness, and he was going to get all snotty with me because it wasn't in his size or favorite color. Ungrateful bastard! (You see? This is why I have chosen misanthropy as a lifestyle.). These days, we are always hearing about how people are too selfish and greedy and don't take the well-being of others into consideration, and I was (out of character, I admit) trying to make a tiny gesture in order to help swing things back in the direction of fellowship, and this bozo had to go and ruin it by getting all Jesus-y about it!

So...in the spirit of the season, I shook my head, smiled a "You poor deluded fool" smile, and walked away.

From now on, just to avoid this type of unasked for tirade, I will keep my holiday greetings on an even more generic level. That way, I am not tempted to strangle some doofus and end up spending Christmas in jail.

I am thinking of going with: "Hope you don't get pink-eye before the New Year!"

That seems safe. Unless, you know, the Christians have a damned holy day for that, too.

Dada moe blogging...lost in a snowdrift edition

2009-12-19T17:07:00.000-08:00

UPDATE: Our final snow tally is 23 inches. That's the second largest snowfall on record here. We just don't see a whole ton of snow around these parts (South Philadelphia, for those not familiar with our whereabouts).

I am encouraged that our, shall we say, less gifted neighbors are as we speak cleaning the snow off their cars and piling it back in the street, which had been plowed.

F*king geniuses.

Today's snow and what we are expecting overnight actually amount to about 2 winters worth of normal snowfall for us. Interesting fact: Philadelphia does not plow side streets unless there is at least 12 inches of snowfall. We live on a bus route though, so our truck has been entombed like a mammoth that fell into a crevasse. I expect to see it in about 2 weeks.

Moe ultimately opted for discretion over valor and retired to his cushion for a nap.

figu7es, chets the dog, sslugger and our staff CPA Fez Toque are taking no chances.

Tonight we are all the 900 foot Jesus

2009-12-15T19:35:00.000-08:00

Oral Roberts, dead at 91.

Uh...Sorry About That.

2009-12-09T21:04:00.000-08:00

The management of Laughing Wolf's brain would like to apologize for Ian's most recent post here on the Cheeky Monkey bloggy thing. We realize that he can be a bit rude, and that he has a tendency to wave his imaginary junk around at the drop of a hat. We are ever so sorry that you, our favorite reader, had to witness such an uncalled for non-display of completely non-existent butt-nakedness.
The holidays, it seems, are stressing him out and his behavior has become a bit more unpredictable than normal. Not that we are making excuses, understand. Bad behavior is bad behavior (as Wolf has mentioned several times in the past), and the reason behind it does not make it right. Unfortunately, due to Ian's status as a Figment-American, as well as the fact that he is merely a manifestation of Wolf's own psychosis, there isn't a heck of a lot we can do as far as punishment goes. Truth be told, punishment only seems to make his shenanigans that much worse. Please do not make us re-live the horrible memory of the "Pudding Pops Fiasco" of 1998.
So, all we can do is offer this rather lame apology, and hope that you will not view the unseemly behavior of one of our staff writers (fictional though he is) as a reflection on the rest of the Monkey team. With few exceptions, they are all decent and up-standing-citizen type folk. (Well, maybe not so much figu7es. And, Round Guy and Laughing Wolf definitely have some mental and emotional issues. That Caleb fellow and Guest Columnist, though...nope, that's a non-starter, too. Let's face it, the whole crew is pretty F-ed up.).

If it is any consolation, Ian tends to roam around in the imaginary buff when he is at home, too. Which is quite disturbing on several levels.
Any way, sorry. It will, most likely, happen again.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled bloggery...

This Week in the Headlines

2009-12-09T20:35:00.000-08:00

The Tantalizing Stories We’re Talking About...

Child in Helmet Object of Ridicule

Hollywood Remaking Last Year’s Movies

Large Fish Overly Proud of Scar

Area Dog Licks Testicles, Again

CW Star Hopes to Be Noticed at Area Mall

Local Prostitute Really Does Have Heart of Gold

Man at Golden Corral Scaring Other Patrons

What Your Teeth are Telling You

Partially Reconstructed Mayan Ruin Shows Great Room and Foyer

Late Night Informercial ‘Too Full of Shit to Believe’

A Mormon Sneaks a Coke

F*ck you Timmy, You’re on My List

2009-12-09T20:24:00.000-08:00

By Cheeky Monkey Guest Columnist, Santa

We think Timmy may regret getting on St. Nick's bad side.

Thought you were smart, did you? Thought you could outfox old Santa? Of course, you did; why you’re Timmy. Nothing bad could happen to little old Timmy.
Well I just checked twice and f*ck you Timmy, you made my list, you evil little shit.
Forget a lump of coal---you’re lucky I don’t drop you where you stand.
What part of naughty or nice aren’t you getting, you whiny turd? You’re done. Finis. Dead to me. You’ve pissed me off for the last time.
You don’t think I could just slip into your house tonight and slit your stupid throat while you sleep? You’ve got a chimney, right? Why I could be in and out of there in a hot second, leaving no evidence behind except your fresh corpse.
I could come down tonight and do it. It’s not like I have much going on this time of year. And, as anyone knows, if I can get around the entire world in one freaking night I can easily enough get to 3315 Maple Street to smother one little douchebag in his sleep.
Just sayin’.
You better watch out Timmy, ‘cause Santa Claus is coming to town.

What the Hell are YOU Looking at?

2009-12-08T19:26:00.000-08:00

No, seriously. What in tarnation are you gawking at? I just stopped by the Cheeky Monkey offices to enjoy the peace and quite without that figu7es guy stinking up the place (I swear, that guy is stuffed with manky SPAM chunks!), and all you lookie-loos have to go sticking your dang noses into my business. Alright, so I don't have any pants on. Big whoop. I THINK better that way. Doesn't restrict the blood flow to the old thought-locker. So what? You have a problem with a guy who likes to go commando? The breeze feels spectacular. Besides, my office=my right to display my junk. I think that's in that Constitution thingie. Right after the one about giving guns to idiots. So, bugger off. I am exercising my right to bare junk.

(Yes, I know. Sometimes, even I have no idea what the heck I am talking about. Of course, what do you expect? I don't even really exist. Which means that you have been standing there staring at my imaginary block and tackle. Who needs help now, wise guy?).

figu7es tainted by scandal.....again

2009-12-08T12:17:00.000-08:00

If it's Tuesday, it must be sex with seedy strangers

No matter how many times we tell him, figu7es refuses to believe the American South is not his friend.

We warned figu7es his latest binge would not end well. And judging by old Buddy Hogley and Piggy Sue, it hasn't. We got this in the inbox, with a request for $38 against a threat of selling the photos to the National Enquirer. Luckily, we're inured to scandal here and decided to post them ourselves.

And we didn't have the $38.

figu7es: when you're ready for your medication, it's here waiting for you, wrapped in some roast beef.

[Insert Generic Holiday Greetings Here]

2009-11-26T08:50:00.000-08:00

The turkey was a little tough last year

You're on your own. We're off to eat scads of Brazilian food. No cooking today, no sir and no adherence to some scripted meal. Today is meat on swords. Mmmmmmm, swords.

Figu7es was scheduled to attend but it appears he is in the Deep South on some kind of lengthy bender. It won't end well (it never does).

At least his plans for world domination appear to be slowed.

Help. I Have Fallen and I Don't Wanna Get Up.

2009-11-21T19:48:00.000-08:00

What the hell are you gawking at?
Yes, I am laying on the floor.
What's it to you?
Was walking through the room when...WHAM...I tripped and fell flat on my ass.
Hurt a bit; knocked the wind out of me for a moment.
Surprise.
Life's like that.
Now, here I am, flat on my back.
Prone.
Prostrate.
What?
No, dumbass, not the gland...
Prost-rate.
With an extra "R".
Jeez.
Get a vocabulary for Chrissake.
Any way, I thought about getting back up at first.
Then, I figured, "Screw it."
The view isn't so bad from down here.
No, no.
Get your damned hand out of my face.
Did I ask for you to help me up?
I think I like it down here.
Its kinda cozy, really.
Comfortable.
Not as far to fall next time.
Carpet could use a good scrubbing, but I am not one to nit-pick.
Nope.
I think I'll just stay right here for a bit.
Would you mind turning the TV a little to the left?
No, for crying out loud...the other left.
That's better.
And, toss me the remote before you leave.
The crap on this channel is boring.
Thanks.
Oh, and drop a box of Pop Tarts and some juice boxes on the floor beside me.
I plan on being here for a while.
Yep.
It isn't so bad down here.
Now, go away.

We're All Gonna Die!!!!!! Again.

2009-11-21T09:27:00.000-08:00

It has been brought to my attention that people across the country are getting themselves in quite the tizzy about this whole 2012, end of the world thingy. Folks, it seems, are beginning to be so worried about the possibility of the world coming to an end that they are becoming anxious, fearful and suicidal. Well, "Bravo!", I say, "Why put off the complete abandonment of reason until tomorrow when it is so much more idiotic to do it today?"

My understanding of the coming Apocalypse is that it is based on an ancient Mayan prediction carved on the Tortuguero Monument, which indicates that the end of the world, or at the very least, the Mayan calender, will happen at 11:11 AM on December 21, 2012. (Think of the money you'll save by not having to Christmas shop!). On that date and time, the lunk-headed masses believe, the planets will all be lined up and earth quakes, volcanoes, tidal waves, cheese shortages, Sarah Palin elected president and any number of horrendous natural disasters will wipe out the population of the Earth. (Question: is that 11:11AM EST? I need to be sure so that I can just not bother to set my alarm clock that morning. Guy needs his sleep, after all, if he is going to have to face a post-apocalyptic landscape.). Life as we know it will come to an end. Yippee.

Now, I can understand why so many people are jumping on the "2012 is the end of everything" wagon. These are the Mayans, we're talking about here! The mostly extinct race of people who so accurately predicted the arrival of the Spanish, the advent of small pox and measles epidemics, the box-office success of Twilight, and the near obliteration of their own people. How could they possibly be wrong about, you know, the end of the world? The law of averages would indicate that they would have to be right occasionally, no? Adding weight to this is the fact that the Mayans took the time to carve their prediction onto a freaking monument! Everyone knows that the crap that ancient people bothered to chisel into stone always means something important and is, by virtue of being written in a dead language, nothing short of total truth. (Or, whatever truth you can cobble together from misinterpreting the chicken scratch that passes for actual language on the majority of these artifacts.). Plus, we know for fact that this sort of prognostication has proven true in the past. The writings of Nostradamus can always be reliably jiggered with in order to prove accurate. In the 1980's, I recall, there was a to do about a planetary alignment which would cause California to fall into the Pacific Ocean (Although I am told that this did not truly happen, I like to imagine that it did. Suck it, California!). The Book of Revelations is still a chart topper on many folk's "how its all gonna end" list ('splain to me, please, how the Old Testament can prattle on and on about the evil, sinfulness of fortune tellers and soothsayers but Revelation, which is the "visionary" writings of a locust eater, is okay. Shouldn't Jack Van Impe and his Armageddon loving ilk all be ritually strangled and have their carcasses tossed on the dung heap?). And, anyone who lived through the cataclysmic aftermath of Y2K knows the horrific result of ignoring such saying of sooth.

A big part of the problem is that people tend to confuse what is possible with what is actually probable. The Universe is vast and there are a lot of things that we do not understand about how it functions. This means that many things are possible. However, the Universe also operates on principles of logic, science and reason(in spite of what some folks would like us to believe), which indicates that very few of those possibilities are really probabilities. It is possible that California could(DID!) crumble into the ocean. It is not probable that the position of Uranus would have any role to play in said blessing to the rest of the world. It is also quite possible that winged monkeys will hop out of my butt, do a little tap dance and then invite you to high tea. That is, of course, if I made the effort to genetically engineer such monkeys, take the time to send them to dance class, get them hooked on tea and cram them into my colon in preparation for such an event. Given my aversion to having things crammed into my colon, however, such an occurrence is not truly probable.

So, I am not sweating the 2012 thing, and I advise you to relax, too.
On the other hand, I am requesting that suicide hot-line counselors, who have to field calls from folks who are so terrified by the coming "End of all Things" in the next couple of years, strongly urge these people to go through with it. Best to skim the scum out of the gene pool when the opportunity arises. Also, on the off chance that the Mayans were right, who wants these whiny paranoids around to be a pain in the ass while the rest of us struggle to rebuild society?

This Horse Has Big Dreams

2009-11-14T19:51:00.001-08:00

By Cheeky Monkey Guest Columnist a Horse

This horse actually out-counted Clever Hans at a state fair last summer. Although to be fair, Clever Hans had a head cold at the time and had also been dead for nearly 100 years.

People look at me and they just see a horse. But I’m more than that. I’m much more than an ordinary horse; I’m a horse with huge dreams and plans and ideas.
I’m not like the rest of those horses, content to let the days pass as they will, standing out in some field with no regard for past or future. I want to make something of my life.
I can see big things in my future and I know how to make them happen.
You know what I’m dreaming about now?
Oats.
That’s right. Delicious oats.
Bet you didn’t see that coming, did you?
You figured, he’s just a horse, why there’s nothing at all on his mind. But you’re wrong. I’ve got oats on my mind. They’re delicious and nutritious and in my dreams, I’m eating these oats---and they’re delicious, just like I knew they’d be.
But it doesn’t stop there; I’ve got my sights set even higher than that, if you can imagine such a thing.
I’m dreaming about an apple, or maybe even a carrot.
Does that blow your mind or what?
A horse with an apple---is he crazy? Who would ever think a horse would want an apple? Or a carrot? And that the horse would eat the apple and the apple would be maybe even more delicious than the oats he had already eaten.
But as you see, I’m not afraid to dream big. And I know if I work hard enough these dreams of mine will become reality.
Why I might even get that sugar cube someday.
If I had a little horse here, I’d tell him what I’m telling you: dream big and just go for it.
The sky is the limit baby.

Billy Bob Thornton Accidentally Locked in Trailer as Movie Wraps

2009-11-14T19:40:00.000-08:00

Actor Spends Four Weeks on Studio Backlot

This, sadly enough, is the before picture.

Oscar Winning writer and actor Billy Bob Thornton, acclaimed for his work in films like Monster’s Ball, Bad Santa and Sling Blade was left inside a locked trailer on a studio backlot for nearly 4 weeks without food or water after filming concluded on his latest movie.
Principal filming for Mr. Woodcock II: Cockier than Ever, wrapped on September 29th. At that time, Thornton was apparently padlocked inside his on set trailer, which was then towed to a remote corner of the studio’s lot and left unattended.
Thornton was discovered 27 days later when the trailer was moved to the set of Martin Lawrence’s Big Momma VI: Damn Big Momma in anticipation of the arrival of Omar Epps, scheduled to co-star in the picture.
Studio spokesman Arthur Herzogg claimed Thornton, who survived the ordeal by eating paint chips and drinking his own urine, showed absolutely no ill effects from the accidental imprisonment.
“He sauntered out of that trailer, stretched a bit and then walked right down to the set of Bad News Bears II: The Bad Seed like nothing ever happened.
“It’s almost like the man didn’t care at all.”

Hallucination Only Too Real

2009-11-14T19:38:00.000-08:00

Bill Farrington's vision of stepping into the light proved itself more than a simple hallucination, Mr. Farrington related from his bed at nearby Jefferson Hospital.

USA Today Crossword Puzzle Smarter than Man in Seat 13C

2009-11-14T19:34:00.000-08:00

While looking for a picture to go with this piece, we found this delightful site.
We are amused. And a little sorry for, um, appropriating his picture. Visit.

USAirways customers reported that the USA Today crossword outwitted a visibly frustrated passenger aboard flight 1772 from Charlotte, NC to Dallas, TX for the entirety of the trip.
“I thought he might actually cry by the end of it,” noted the woman in 12D, pondering the passenger in 13C and his increasingly frenzied attempts to make some headway on the puzzle during the nearly 3 hours of flying time.
“I saw that he had put ‘stop’ in for the across clue ‘gatehouse cry,’ which probably should have been ‘halt.’ That’s why he was unable to get ‘hester’ on the down ‘letter wearer prynne.’”
“Last I saw he had put ‘Sarah’ in for that.”
The USA Today puzzle, which traditionally traffics in pop culture references and droll wordplay, seemed at times to be toying with the man.
“I am fairly certain that a desert dwelling monk could have answered 11 Down ‘2 1/2 Sheen,” offered the sleepy traveler in 13A.
“Hell, I’ve never actually seen the show and I know the answer is ‘Charlie.’
“But, sure as shit, he rushed with ‘Martin’ into the first 6 spaces and just stabbed the 7th letter space over and over with his pen.”
Passengers were divided on whether the man was just distracted by the annoyances of air travel or whether he had actually been mentally bested by the puzzle.
Later reports of a USA Today puzzle found in a bathroom trash can with the words ‘You suck’ crammed into every space have not been confirmed.

We’re not taking any chances

2009-11-14T07:54:00.000-08:00

By Cheeky Monkey Webmaster and figu7es Personal Assistant, Chets the Dog

figu7es has been on a bit of a rampage since he ditched his meds. Chets the dog, his traditional whipping boys, have decided discretion is perhaps the better part of valor and are hiding out until someone arrives with a tranquilizer gun or Angela Lansbury.

With figu7es off his many medications (we’ve tried grinding them up in his food and wrapping the pills in a slice of roast beef to no avail---although we inadvertently discovered that we will eat almost anything wrapped in a slice of roast beef and that thorazine, clozapine, risperidone, quetiapine, oxycodone and Advil taken together as a drug cocktail are one wild ride if you are not a raging dynamo with massive tolerance levels like figu7es and are instead just some poor dogs who saw a seemingly innocent slice of roast beef they had forgotten was filled with anti-psychotic medication) we have decided to play things safely in re: the whole doggie to Wyoming fiasco.

figu7es has gone to great expense to realize his dream of deporting all dogs to the Island Isthmus of Wyoming.

Apparently figu7es has rented several hundred amphibious vehicles (he persists in the notion that Wyoming is an island when any sane person knows it is actually more technically an isthmus, much like Panama or Europe) and is planning on having them retrofitted with one way doggie doors like the one pictured below.

Obvious? Certainly. But we fear it just might work.

Sure, it’s a clumsy attempt, but figu7es may be on to something in that dogs, despite our best intentions, hey, why do I have 3 hands? And why are the fingers growing so much longer?
Man I suddenly feel tired.
Damned clozapine. Double damned delicious roast beef.
Anyway, sometimes we dogs are easily fooled.
As proof I need only note the tennis ball I chased for two hours this morning that apparently was never actually thrown.
Two hours I won’t get back I might add.
So anyway, we’re going to hide out in disguise until we find the proper delivery system for figu7es’ medications.
We’re thinking gin.
Chet’s the dog, out.

A QUICK TAKE FROM SOME OTHER DOG

It appears figu7es may have reeled someone in.

I'll take door number one, Monty.

Here in my car, I feel safest of all

2009-11-10T09:20:00.000-08:00

This is becoming a rather disturbing trend.

I'm taking a long weekend with my lady friend. Adios, suckers! We're going to celebrate her latest award.

Rrrrrrooooowwwwwrrrrrrrrrr!

Do Not Adjust Your Internets: The Revolution has Begun

2009-11-09T14:25:00.001-08:00

figu7es takes charge, by Dear Leader figu7es

Dear Leader promises many wonderful changes, especially as regards dogs, who will promptly be shipped to the Island of Wyoming.

I feel obliged to announce that I will not be resuming the 'medication' mentioned below and have decided instead to enact my plan for world domination.

My first act is to take over all significant communication portals, starting with this key component of the internets. Oh, and the New York Post.

I will issue instructions shortly but fear not, for I am a Benevolent Ruler.

Unless you're some kind of ball licking canine, in which case it's over for you. Book your ticket to Wyoming doggies!

Can I bring REAL change to the world? Why, yes, thanks for asking.

For starters:

Compulsory showings of Murder, She Wrote on ALL television channels, except Turner Classic Movies, which can show such wholesome fare as The Manchurian Candidate, Gaslight and that sexy romp, Bedknobs and Broomsticks.

Rrrrroooowwwwrrrrrrrrr!

Loose the Cow Army! The Revolution begins!

More later, after Matlock.

Dear Leader figu7es and his First Lady (the delightful and sexy Ms. Lansbury), will bring a host of improvements to the human race. And better TV reruns.

dada moe blogging: and sometimes life intrudes

2009-11-09T14:07:00.000-08:00

Moe's formerly secret shame. The Hospital shaved about 50% of him, enough to make several other cats.

I have been relatively quiet of late (naturally after promising a blitz of activity), primarily due to a health scare we had with Moe. I see, however, that figu7es has been manning the barricades and for that I apologize; in the madness we forgot to refill his meds.

Everything there should be under control once the thorazine kicks back in.

We are grateful we live near the University of Pennsylvania Veterinary Hospital as we had to hustle Moe to the emergency room. He ended up spending a little over 2 days in hospital and thankfully it appears to have been only a viral infection, which he seems to have beaten back.

I highly recommend Penn and want to thank everyone there who helped Moe--the staff is compassionate, obviously cares a lot about what they do and really takes the time to explain options and educate people as to what's really going on.

Naturally, Moe charmed the staff and spent much of his time having his belly rubbed (after they shaved it for the ultrasound).

Moe now has a cardiologist, an internist and a nutritionist and while we probably could have purchased a good used car instead, we're quite happy to have Moe back in one piece and as cantankerous as ever.

Moe is finally about back to normal (this happened almost 2 weeks ago), wandering around the house complaining and doing whatever he can to get into the back courtyard, so Mrs. RG and I are finally breathing a sigh of relief. He also consented to the above photo, with the proviso that we shave figu7es in like fashion.

Consider it done.

I rest my case (NOW WITH FURTHER UPDATED GOODINESS!)

2009-11-05T11:10:00.001-08:00

By Cheeky Monkey Ruler by Fiat, figu7es

[Ed: This is an actual product. We suppose it proves figu7es longstanding point RE: dogs and poop eating, but we are not certain it justifies his rather superior attitude or the way he struts around the offices in the buff.]

Take that doggies! Maybe if you scarf as much of this stuff as you do the merde you'll be fit to re-enter society at some point (although I am still holding out for the island exile to Wyoming).

Still feeling so high and mighty, Mr. Caley Terryesque? Huh?

I thought not.

Methinks there's poop in the air. Did someone just exhale?

A POLITICAL COMMENTARY BY SOME OTHER DOG:

This fellow has been known to repurpose previously discarded materials.

If we had universal health care I could get into rehab and get me some of that Deter stuff.

Who am I kidding? I love poop.

UPDATE! KAL'EL TERROR DOGGIE CAUGHT IN EMBARRASSING PROSTITUTION SCANDAL!

Is this the elusive Caleb? Frankly we're not certain. We are, however, absolutely certain that mr. laughing wolf is going to end up punching us in the junk for going along with figu7es on this one.

I, figu7es, ask you Mr. Karen Tarberry dog, just what are you doing in the above photo? Have you no shame (that's a rhetorical question, as you are, after all, a dog)? First with the licking in those places and now this?

What's next, Glenn Beck?

I knew allowing dogs on this site could come to no good end.

Oh, by the way, RRRRRRRRROOOOOWWWWRRRRRRR!

Rrrrrooowwwwrrrrr! It's dinner time doggies!

2009-11-02T06:38:00.000-08:00

[ED: We caught figu7es passing these around the neighborhood. While we applaud his entrepeneurial spirit, we're just a tad nervous about where he plans to store his 'inventory.']

A True History of Halloween

2009-10-27T09:03:00.001-07:00

The holiday which we know as Halloween has very ancient beginnings, reaching as far back as the Celtic people of the early 1920s. In those medieval times, the night of October 31 was called Samhain (pronounced, for some bizarre reason, SOW-in. Really. Even though none of the letters in the word Samhain, no matter how hard you squeeze them, make any sound remotely like those found in Sowin, that is the way they pronounced it. Except, of course, for the "S". And the "n". But the rest is just nonsense. Oh, well, what can you expect from illiterate, pagan people?), and was a time when villagers would come together to celebrate the harvest buy building bonfires and burning livestock, grain and the occasional unsuspecting passerby. Though great fun in and of itself, this practice was begun in the belief that the ritual fires would ward of the wandering souls of the mischievous dead (who, it seems, just wait for October to roll around so that they could mess with the folk who pissed them off in life) and debt collectors. And because the ancient Celts (pronounced KELTS) were a rough and earthy people who found watching a flaming chicken race through town to be the height of comedy. This annual festival also marked the advent of winter, and was seen as the last chance for a village to come together in celebration before undertaking the boring and traditional winter pastimes of freezing, starving and dying.
The name of the holiday was changed when the early Church, who had just invented Satanism, decided that, because Samhain did not revolve around a Christian idea, it would be a wonderful opportunity to burn a large number of Celts. They declared November 1 to be All Hallows Day (thus making October 31 All Hallows Eve or "Hallow'een"), a day dedicated to not building bonfires and, instead, giving money to the Church. A few years earlier, they had enjoyed great success by tampering with the Yule celebration, begun as a holiday paying tribute to family unity and peace and goodwill to all, in a similar fashion by declaring that festival to coincide with the birth of Baby Jesus, thus negating the whole point of the celebration altogether. Any one caught calling the holiday Samhain instead of Halloween had their name put on a list and were given very stern, frowny looks by the local priest. Because the Celts did not want to be on a list (or be frowned at by a priest), they began the custom of dressing in costume so as to be able to celebrate anonymously. The Church also encouraged people to begin going door to door and begging for food in exchange for prayers as a substitute for the traditional, and less hygienic, ritual of smacking each other about the face and neck with a dead rodent. This change was eagerly embraced by the populace, as everyone likes free food and very few people enjoy being struck on the noggin with a putrid rat carcass. Many hard-liners, however, unable to completely abandon tradition, insisted on carrying along a dead mouse with which to threaten home owners if they refused to fork over the goodies. A sound drubbing with said defunct rodent became the "Trick" part of Trick or Treat.
This door to door routine gave rise to another Halloween tradition: the Jack O' Lantern (pronounced Jack-O-Lantern). Because the Celts were too busy living in filth and being pagans, they had never bothered to invent street lamps. To avoid wandering into the swamp or being eaten by bogeymen while begging, they had to create a portable light source. Initially, this was accomplished by hollowing out a kitten and inserting a candle but, after the Great Cat Famine of '24, cats were in short supply and an alternative was required. Geese were used for a short time but proved to be far too combustible. After further experimentation with livestock, the pumpkin was chosen due to the fact that the average gourd would not bite when being carved. The custom of carving Jack O' Lanterns has survived into modern times, thus giving vandals something to throw at houses on Halloween. (Thanks, Celts!).
As an almost interesting side note, Samhain has a little known sister holiday,which falls on April 30, called Walpurgis Night (pronounced Ham-and-Swiss-on-Whole-Wheat). This day was set aside to celebrate the coming of Spring, and the Church has not messed with it much. Let's hope that they will get around to it soon.

Wherein Our Faulty Memories Betray Us Again: Apparently Mr. Al Roker is in No Way Deceased

2009-10-26T15:31:00.000-07:00

Mr. Roker was less than amused by figu7es choice of Halloween costumes.

We’re not certain if it was wishful thinking given our history with the man (see here, here and perhaps here--really, don’t click that last one) but yesterday we at Cheeky Monkey inadvertently published a piece implying that one Mr. Al Roker was deceased and haunting an office complex in suburban New Jersey.
Mr. Roker, who showed up this morning with a ball bat and a rather nasty attitude, wants it made known that he is decidedly NOT dead and that if he wanted to haunt someone they’d damn sure know it.
He then proceeded to haunt the staff here for three or four consecutive hours, breaking much of the furniture and a fair number of our bones.
Chets the Dog fled the scene early and have not been seen since. figu7es had to be hospitalized and I myself relearned an important life lesson:
One does not f*ck with Mr. Al Roker.
As he has told us to say---he is the baddest of the bad and will happily beat us further and leave our sorry asses for dead if we mention him again in any less than favorable light.

Ghost of Al Roker Haunts Suburban Office Complex

2009-10-25T18:17:00.001-07:00

This otherworldly image was taken with Kurt Eisenbach's cell phone.

Workers at a New Jersey Office have been plagued recently by visitations of the ghost of jovial former weatherman Al Roker.
Mysterious events, eerie late night sightings and other unexplained occurrences have convinced workers at Triangle Distributing Company that they are being haunted by none other than the spirit of Al Roker.
“The chocolate chip muffin I bought this morning was three quarters eaten when I came back from the supply room,” noted startled administrative assistant Betsy Whizen.
“Plus he drank most of My Dunkin’ Donuts Iced Latte. It had to be that Al Roker’s ghost---I followed the trail of crumbs to the men’s room and there were horrifying noises coming out of there. And the stench!.”
The sightings began late last month when Diego Clara, Trinity’s office manager, was working late and thought she glimpsed someone rummaging through the office refrigerator, though no one else was in the office at the time.
The next day, shocked workers discovered nothing remained in the refrigerator but a few bread crusts, an empty yogurt container and some Raisinettes; all the other food---and the containers---had been eaten---even some three week old lo mein way at the back.
It took another week for the staff to realize it was beloved gadfly Al Roker’s ghost haunting them.
“I’d hear this deep, jovial laughter---out of nowhere---and then I found a bunch of photos of really old people next to the copier,” explained area sales manager Kurt Eisenbach.
“Miriam [another employee at Triangle] saw someone she thought was Al Roker run by her toward the men’s room after discovering her Quizno’s sub missing. Right after that we had to unclog the toilet.
“Then we found a series of numbers scrawled all over the office whiteboards. After comparing them to weather.com we discovered they were the high and low temperatures for most of the Continental U.S. for last Thursday. We believe Mr. Roker was using them to construct a complicated algorithm to bet on the NFL.”
Workers at Triangle remain upbeat in spite of their celebrity poltergeist.
“Al Roker is nothing if not jovial,” mused Eisenbach. “And if he cleans out the office fridge once in awhile, well, that’s more than anyone else was doing.”

Dear Alex Trebek:

2009-10-25T13:20:00.000-07:00

I am writing to complain about the offensive nature of your Jeopardy! television show. Understand, please, that I did not watch your program intentionally. I was searching for Access Hollywood and came upon a broadcast of your game show accidentally. I was appalled by the insensitive concept of your politically incorrect show! How dare you to put so-called "intelligent" people on display and allow them to flaunt their "knowledge" in so public a forum? Have you no regard for the tens of millions of Americans who are intellectually challenged? Have you never stopped to consider how they might feel if, once they figured out how to turn on the TV and change the channels, one of them were to stumble across your game show accidentally? Their self-esteem might be irreparably damaged by the experience! Even if they are not quite able to mentally grasp what they are watching, all of the "What is the chipmunk?" and "Who is Ivan the Terrible?" business could, quite possibly, make them feel that they are not as smart as your contestants. Shame on you and your producers for such callous disregard of the feelings of the stupid! Jeopardy! is nothing more than a blatant display of thinkism.
I am given to understand, Mister Trebek, that you are Canadian, so it may simply be that you do not have a clear picture of how things are done in a non-communist country. This does not, however, excuse your thinkist behavior. In AMERICA we work very hard to ignore that people are individuals and to pretend that any differences are never acknowledged. At least in public. As we are, by nature, a lazy and vapid people, we find it takes less effort and expense to force the bright minority to fake stupid than it does to encourage and educate the moronic majority. Better that they should remain idiots but still feel good about themselves, than for them to have their feelings hurt or be pushed to learn something. AMERICA, Mr. Trebek is called "The Melting Pot" for a reason. I am not quite sure what that reason is (I think it has something to do with how melting wax all sticks together and burns if you get any of it on you. Or that we are allowed to call kettles black or something), but I know for a fact that there is no room in our pot for thinkism!
I urge you and your producers to consider a change in the format of Jeopardy! in order to make it less offensive. Perhaps you might use that nice Wheel of Fortune show as a template. Granted, all of the spelling is pushing things a bit (and, why can't a contestant buy a dang "K" every now and then? Vowels are confusing), but at least it has that mesmerizing colored spinning thing to make the less thought-able among us feel like they could participate too.
If we could make just the smallest effort to hide smart people away in dark attics and keep them from public displays of thinking, we might be able to wipe out thinkism in our life time.
End PDT now!

Thank you, you thinkist commie bastard,
Ian
Chairman, PAPDT (People Against Public Displays of Thinking)

hair today

2009-10-24T08:39:00.001-07:00

Do not adjust your set

2009-10-23T18:25:00.001-07:00

Sure I've been communicating mostly in grunts and whistles lately, but that could change soon with a visit from an old friend [cue dramatic music].

UPDATE: Many of you have written in to ask about the provenance of this photograph. We might as well reveal that the photo is what many suspected---a meeting in the late 1950's between the Nation's 2 great Dick's---Van Patten and Nixon.
Little known is that Dick Van Patten served as an advisor to then Vice President Nixon, mostly on issues related to Communism and personal hygiene. Van Patten even counseled Nixon not to run for the Presidency in 1968, mostly because he was under the mistaken impression that the Constitution mandated circumcision for all U.S. Presidents (Article VI of the Constitution actually calls for circumcision of Circuit Court Judges and mentions the President only in passing and then just to say it liked what he was wearing).

The original, unretouched photo is below. Nixon, ham radio hobbyist to the end, actually rigged up a primitive phone camera in the Vice President's residence at the Holiday Inn in Potomac, MD. It was Nixon who in 1974 sought funds to restore the U.S. Naval Observatory as a residence for Vice Presidents, due to the many squabbles he had over the years with Holiday Inn management over towels and billing for local phone calls.

RRRRRRRRROOOOWWWWWRRRRRRR!!!!1!1!!1!

2009-10-20T07:55:00.000-07:00

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Something's not right about that boy.]

Some Random Thoughts

2009-10-17T11:05:00.001-07:00

I seem to have pulled a rant muscle while posting my last Cheeky Monkey piece. As it would bring shame to me if I were to attempt a rant when less than 100%, I have decided to take a different tone here while I recuperate. Have faith, reader, once I am back to my old self, I promise to bring on the ranting and raving big time. It is, after all, my job. In the mean time, here are a few random thoughts and questions that I ponder from time to time:

Do you think that Oprah actually reads all of the crappy "inspirational" books that she puts in her book club thing, or does she pay some poor dupe to do it for her? Where is the list of rejected books, and how do I get my hands on it? Bet that there is some really good reading there.
If you ask one of those idiotic "extreme" sports people-- the free climbers, hang-gliders and sky divers--why they do such crazy things, they usually answer with some form of "I like to challenge mortality. Facing Death really makes me feel alive". Why, then, do I so often read about the three rescue workers who fell to their deaths trying to save one of these bozos when his hang glider crashes into a mountain side and leaves the fool stranded? Shouldn't we just say' "Wow, looks like Death won this round." and leave their rotting carcases there as a monument to stupidity? They would then serve some purpose as a teaching tool. "See those bones up there, little Bobby? That was a guy who challenged Death and lost. Don't be an idiot. Never jump from a plane. Death always wins in the end."
Why do all of my more recent posts have some sort of list in them? And, what happened to all of the disparaging remarks about midgets? Have I developed OCD and gone soft. (Note to self: Wolf, you need to come up with a list of reasons why midgets are creepy. Dammit, man, you are losing your edge! Also, remember to wash your hands and check five times to make sure the door is locked. Then wash your hands again. Wolf.)
Ever notice how the volume of the music playing on a car stereo seems to be inversely proportionate to the quality of said music? Louder the music: crappier the song. When is the last time you heard a really good song blasting out of a passing vehicle? Is it possible that the occupants of the car actually believe that, by playing that junk at nerve-deafness causing volume, it sounds better?
I saw a yogurt commercial on TV in which a woman takes a container of a certain brand of yogurt from the store shelf and sucks it down like a vacuum. At the bottom of the screen, they flash the following: "Please pay for all food before consuming." Why do they need to tell us this? Are there actually people who think that such an ad would condone theft? Wouldn't it be cool if the company went bankrupt because no one ever paid for their product but just ate it for free in the market aisle? That would learn 'em.
While we are on the subject of the market... I had stopped at the local grocery store the other day to get dog food for Caleb. While standing in the checkout line, the woman in front of me stuck that little divider bar thingy between my bag of kibble and her econo-pack of toilet paper and box of feminine itching cream. Is there some sort of cross-contamination rule that I am not aware of? Was she afraid that I was going to make her pay for my dog food or, worse yet, snag her tube of Vagisil?
If those gadgets and doodads they huckster on infomercials for $19.95 (act NOW and get a second Cooterprimper! at no additional charge...just pay shipping and processing!) are really a $200 value, how can they afford to sell them so cheaply? Aren't these people hemorrhaging money? Is it possible that the advertisers are running some sort of scam? And, why not charge $20 even? That would make bookkeeping much easier, would it not?
Does Sean Hannity pee vinegar and water?
Is the cheetah truly the fastest land animal, or is there some other faster critter that just wishes to not draw so much attention to itself? Doesn't the "Fastest" label put undue pressure on some of the speed-impaired cheetahs in the classroom? Should we institute a "No Cheetah Left Behind" policy?

I don't know about you, but I feel much better now that I have cleared that mess out of my thought locker. Makes more room for the important stuff. Like, WHY THE HUMAN RACE IS DOOMED AS A RESULT OF....... ouch! Stupid rant muscle!

That Really Gets My Goat

2009-10-13T13:34:00.000-07:00

The national debate on Gay marriage really annoys me.

Not the subject of the debate (which boils down to a simple matter of equality under the law: should two consenting adults, regardless of gender, be permitted to form a recognized-by-the-State commitment to each other, and be entitled to all of the rights and duties of said legal commitment? Uh...yep.), but the bizarro rhetoric which seems to spring up as the body of the debate itself. Some of the whacko leaps in "logic" make all of the thinky parts of my head-meats go all hurty. As an evolved creature, gifted with a functioning brain, I tend to rely on reason when it comes to deciding where I stand on any particular issue. The anti-same sex marriage folks fall pretty short in that area. Here are just a few of the more weird arguments, in no particular order, which they tend to trot out and beat like the proverbial dead horse( trust me, I have heard Congresspeople spouting this junk on C-Span. Why do we pay these idiots if this is the best that they can come up with?):

Homosexuality is EVIL. (Why? Defend your answer in sixty words or less. Keep in mind that the use of the words God, Jesus, Bible, Religion, Faith, Morality, Sacred, Leviticus, Hell or synonyms of those words will adversely affect your final grade. This is a logical discussion, remember, and magic is not logic.).
The Gay's have an AGENDA. (Well, duh. Every group has an agenda. This is why they formed a group in the first place. The people involved had similar goals and came together to work on achieving them. The Republican party has an agenda. The Evangelicals have an agenda. The freaking Girl Scouts have a blasted agenda. What's your point?).
Allowing Gay marriages will diminish the meaning of MY marriage. (Idiotsaidwhat? It would seem to me that the only folks capable of doing that would be you and your spouse. It is, after all, your marriage. I find it amusing that many of the people who flog this little bit of nitwittery have found marriage to be so meaningful that they have had several of them.).
By definition, marriage is between a MAN and a WOMAN. (Uh...no it isn't. I looked it up in Webster's NewWorld Dictionary-- a book which exists for the purpose of recording what stuff means-- and here is what I found: marriage (mar'ij) n. 1. the state of being married 2. a wedding 3. a close union. You going to argue with Webster?!).

And, that is just a small sample of some of the off-the-wall crap that these folks are confusing with logical debate. Kinda makes a reasonable person's brain throb, doesn't it?

By far, though, my favorite little bundle of brain-fartage is this:

Inevitably, some one on the "anti" side will make a statement along the lines of "If we lets these here Gays git hitched, next thang ya know, folks'll be wantin' ta marry GOATS!".

Really? You have to go to goats? Isn't that a bit close to leaping all the way down the rabbit hole?

Look upon the future face of the end of American-Life as we know it and weep.

Billy will not rest until he is legally banging your kid.

It is all part of the immoral and unnatural Goat Agenda, designed to rip at the very heart of everything we hold Sacred and Patriotic.

You think Billy gives a rat's buttocks about Jesus?

Naaaaaaaaaaaa.

Frankly, I don't see it.

Having lived in rural areas for the majority of my life, I must confess that I have met a goat or two in my time. Believe me, they do not bring much to the table as far as the whole marriage thing is concerned. Sure, they keep the grass nicely trimmed, their milk makes tasty cheese and they are mighty good eating when cooked up with a mess of garlic and sage, but they will eat you out of house and home and suck as far as holding up their end of a conversation goes. Plus, and I am being blunt here, they are not the most attractive of critters. (I think it is the square pupils. It is unsettling to make eye contact with a goat. Try it. You'll see what I mean). Leaving out the "by virtue of not having the power of speech, a goat can't consent to marry anyone" issue, one would think that the "anti"s would, at the very least, come up with a more comely animal to use in their twisty rhetoric. Like a panther. Or, better yet, a wallaby. Now we're talkin' about some cute wildlife! Lovely things, wallabies. I can see the possibility of someone wanting to hook-up with one of those sexy little fellas. But, a goat? Nope. I ain't buying it.

My point( which I seem to have lost somewhere around "rabbit hole"), is that I grow tired of the folks in charge relying on over-blown, idiot-style babble when they should be utilizing logic and reason when debating topics of national importance. Save the voodoo and hyperbole for when you are spinning yarns for your half-goat grandkids. Let's talk sense for a change.

All the bullshit really gets my goat. (And, no, he does not want to marry you.).

Getting to Know Me...

2009-10-11T10:17:00.000-07:00

A short while ago, I posted an essay against the evil practice of tipping, entitled "Please, No Tipping", wherein I attempt to explain why tipping is a foul practice which only helps to allow cheap employers to get away with paying their employees less than minimum wage. It seems that one of our six readers was so outraged by my post that he took the time to post a barely literate response in the comment section. From what I could manage to decipher of Anonymous' venomous little tirade, I gather that he/she did not agree with my point of view in the least. I also gather that he/she is a self-confessed moron. I quote the comment itself as proof:
"...You are the moron! We are all equal in this world together. You nor anyone better than another...". You see, Anonymous, if I am, in fact, "the moron" and we are "all equal in this world together" then, all folks being equal, you, too, are the moron. (Ain't language fun?). Far be it from me to try and convince you that you are not. I am fair-minded in that way.
Anonymous does, however, bring up a good point. (Though, I am pretty sure that it is not the one that he/she intended). I may have, inadvertently, given the impression that I believe myself to be better than other people. I apologise if that is the case, as it was never my intention to do so. While I must admit that I am better than a lot of people for any number of reasons (facts is, after all, facts), there are some things that I am not so good at; some areas in which I am not better than everyone else. In an attempt to show that I am not an elitist snob, and as a way of allowing loyal readers to get to know me, the real Laughing Wolf, on a more personal level, I humbly submit this brief list of things that other people are better at:

I can not dance worth shit.
All of the players in the NFL are much better at professional football than I can ever hope to be.
80% of Americans are better at mangling the English language than I am.
Your Mom is waaaaay better at giving a crap what you think than I care to be.
She also probably bakes a better cake than I can.
Most people have an easier time tolerating idiot's than I do. They also seem to be better at not telling the idiots that they are, without doubt, idiots.
If I want to make a joke, I actually have to think about what to say. Damn near everything that comes out of Sarah Palin's mouth, on the other hand, is freaking hilarious. And, she does not appear to think about it at all. She is funnier than I am.
Sean Hannity does a much better job at willfully misrepresenting the truth (lying) and misleading a far too gullible public than I do. For that matter, so does everyone at Fox "News".
I have never been as blissfully unaware of my own incompetence as was George W. Bush. He's a better ass-hat than I am.
Speaking of mass murderers: Hitler had a larger body count than I do. He hit six million plus. I am still at zero. I do not have the talent for it.
I am near-sighted. Many people can see far-off things better.
The Christians are much better at passing judgement on others than am I. They have me beat in the delusional thinking department, too.
I am not a good tipper.
Albert Einstein was a better genius than me. I suck at calculus.
I have difficulty with spelling. Round Guy spells better. I just thank evolution for "Spellcheck".
Over 50% of the world's population can menstruate better than I can. I can not do it at all. I blame genetics. Period.
I could be better at making allowances for other people's stupidity. I choose not to. How else will they learn?
The Matrix is one of the most over-rated pieces of filth to ever be filmed. This obviously has nothing to do with the topic at hand, but it can not be said often enough.
I am not an accurate spitter, nor can I yodel. Rednecks do these things better.
Most doctors are better able to diagnose illness than I can. I, however, charge much less.
Many individuals are better at being a moron than I am.

And, there you have it...a list of things that others do better than me. As you can see, I clearly do not think that I am better than every one else. I am quite sure, though, that I might have left an item or two out. That is accidental, I promise. Nobody is perfect, after all.

My life has led me to this place

2009-10-06T18:26:00.000-07:00

UPDATE: The trip takes a turn for the better. Scoot over to Well Hanged for the update and a rare (by internet standards) photo of the round one myself.

I'm no believer in divine retribution but I'm trying to understand what I could possibly have done to land me to where I was today.
Toad Suck, Arkansas.

Twice (I got lost the first time and had to come back).

I'm now safe in the bosom of Fort Smith.

I only wish I were kidding.

How the Saved Stole All Hallows

2009-10-04T18:54:00.000-07:00

(with apologies to Dr. Seuss)

All the folks 'round the country sure loved Halloween.

But the Saved, Yahweh's chosen, just found it obscene.

He hated All Hallows--the whole spooky season.

Now, please don't ask why. No one quite knows the reason.

It could be that his halo was nailed down too tight.

Or that folks having fun really gave him a fright.

But I think that the most likely reason of all

Was the fact that his brain was two sizes too small.

But, whatever the reason--his halo or wits,

All that Tricking and Treating sure gave him the fits.

For, he loved to pass judgement-he did it all day,

And he thought that his Path was the only True Way

Since the holiday's focus was not on his Lord,

The old kill-joy had deemed it a thing God abhorred.

"T'was started by pagans, so it's Lucifer's tool!"

(Guess nobody told him...so were Easter and Yule).

Righteous wrath through his soul was practically humming,

"I must stop this evil All Hallows from coming."

He knew, shortly, the Halloween fetes would begin,

With ghost stories and costumes; both true signs of Sin.

The Saved snarled to himself, his heart filled with hatin',

"Those fools will be acting like minions of Satan!

"They'll be bobbing for Apples! The Fruit of Man's Fall!

"If they won't bob for Jesus, they shan't bob at all!

"In our Nation, the choice of religion is free.

"Which is fine... if they all choose the same one as me!"

The Saved shouted with rage," There's a war to be fought!

"I will end this vile festival...like it or not!"

With cackles and grins and great anticipation,

The Saved drew up plans for world-thought domination.

He'd use innuendo and lots of implying

(If done in God's name, it is not really lying).

Since Witches, he'd claim, clearly worshiped The Devil,

And cast their dark spells at each Halloween revel;

It was easy to see how a soul would degrade,

If allowed to take part in a foul masquerade.

"There's a quote in the Bible to show what I mean.

" Look at Exodus twenty-two--just verse eighteen."

Other lines from the Book the Saved twisted and bent,

Disregarding what they had origin'ly meant.

On the off-chance his quotes wound up missing their mark,

He included true tales of what lurked in the dark:

Pedophiles! Kidnappers! Gangs selling drugs!

Hit-and-run drivers and beer drinking thugs!

And of apples with razors that cut when you chew.

(Which never has happened. Check the records. Its true!)

With his sermon all written, the Saved walked to town;

Where he'd spread the Good Word and bring Halloween down.

He prayed to gain courage,"There's a mob to be braved.

"But, if Jesus could do it, well, so could the Saved!"

He preached at town's center in a voice sure and loud,

And in very short order he drew quite a crowd.

All the people were stunned as he ranted and raved

About All Hallows evil and souls to be saved.

He roared at the crowed, spewing brimstone and fire,

Telling how carving pumpkins would bring the Lord's ire.

"Trick or Treating's demonic and masks are all bad!

"Halloweening condemns every lass, every lad,

"To Hell's burning furnace! Its no laughing matter!

"You're serving your soul to the Dark-- on a platter!"

Foam flew from his lips and a tear started welling

The people were buying the crap he was selling!
"I've done it!" he thought, "Halloween will be ending.

"Just think of the cash that my flock will be sending

"To reward me for stopping them going astray."

Then a small voice said,"Preacher, I've something to say."

A cute little girl, whom her folks had named Trixie,

Stepped forth from the crowed (she was dressed like a pixie).

"Mister Saved," Trixie said, "Halloween is just fun.

"We're pretending! That can't really hurt anyone."

For a moment, the Saved merely stammered and stared

At this sweet little pixie and what she had dared.

But, the Saved was a Zealot--he knew he was right!

And this child had decided to pick the wrong fight.

"Oh, my dear, little pixie. You think you're so pure.

"Don't you see that you're really just Lucifer's whore?"

He glared down at Trixie,"You'd best heed what I've said!

"If you don't mend your ways...Then you'll BURN when you're dead!"

Our poor Trixie, in fright, screamed and dropped in a faint,

As the Saved faced the crowd with a smile like a Saint.

"I have cast out her Demons!" he said to the folk,

"That must prove what I'm saying is not just a joke.

"If you stop Halloweening, your souls will be pure.

"When you die, you will get into Heaven for sure."

The Saved looked in their eyes and he knew he had won.

All Hallows was banished. Trick or Treating was done.

Every ignorant fear, every gullible mind
Made it easy as stealing a purse from the blind.

As he left, the Saved smiled. A strange gleam lit his eye.

" I think, next year, I'll take down the Fourth of July!"

NEW! SCIENTIFIC BREAKTHROUGH! GET IN ON THE GROUND FLOOR!

2009-10-02T14:46:00.001-07:00

figu7es feels like a new man since his fifth visit to the rehab facility Spa this year!

Amazing Breakthrough Puts Computing Devices in Your Home for Just Pennies a Day!

We labor day and night at figu7esco industries to bring good things to your life and our latest is no exception.
Behold---the personal computing device!
Scientists have long believed that computers would remain room sized and bulky forever, but not the salvage experts trash pickers scientists at figu7esco industires. Why our machines are sleek, powerful and decorative to boot! Who wouldn't want one of these beautiful home computing devices to catalog recipes, email friends, or explore the internets?
Well, no one, that's who.
We're making these useless surplus scraps of toxic garbage cutting edge personal computing devices available to the public for the first time. But supplies are limited, so there's no time to lose.
Order your personal computing device today and start computing!

figu7esco industries has spared no expense in making this 'personal computing device' for your home!

Does not actually support email function.
Has no browser, modem or monitor for that matter. The internets are out.
Device not sold for purpose of actual computation.

Posted mostly without additional commentary

2009-10-01T12:52:00.000-07:00

Oh, mama. Damn, we've betrayed ourselves.

Pow-wow Rant, Part II...sort of

2009-09-29T12:52:00.000-07:00

In my previous post, I spent some time bitching about the Pow-wow. That was mostly for dramatic effect. In actuality, I kinda enjoyed the whole thing. Got to meet some interesting people, learn some new stuff and hang out with some cool folks I only get to see once a year. Picked up a new coyote-skin headdress (never know when you'll need one of those), learned how to wrap feathers (was gifted crow and raven feathers) and how to better preserve my wolf pelt (line it with thin leather and store it flat with plenty of cedar to keep critters out), and had a lot of laughs. It is a four day party. With drums, furs and feathers.
And, the Indians are not as much of a pain in the ass as I described. Mostly.
The truly annoying part of the Pow-wow, the thing that made me want to whack someone with a tomahawk( gotta get one next year) was...wait for it...
The damned Christians!
Those hypocritical S.O.B.s are more vexing than Verizon phone solicitors.
I'm not talking about your average church-goer, or even the Catholics (one of the schools that comes to the Pow-wow every year on field trip day is a Catholic school. Well behaved kids and cooperative teachers with lots of questions. Of course, depending on who you talk to, the Catholics do not count as Christians anyway). I am talking about CHRISTIANS!!!!--the "I believe in Jesus and, therefore, I not only have the right to tell you what is wrong with you and why you are going to burn in eternal fire, but I also get to judge you with out benefit of any knowledge (learning about a different culture would, after all, endanger my precious soul) of who you are or what you believe and am, by virtue of my Bible-thumpery, better than you in any measurable way" type. Jeebus-nazis.
The point of the Pow-wow, is to teach people about the history and culture of the Native Americans. Granted, there is some discussion on Indian spirituality, but this is because virtually every aspect of the Native way of life had a spiritual component. We are neither preaching nor looking for converts; merely talking about the life-style of a vanishing People. A history lesson from the other side of the books, if you will.
The Jeebus-nazis are greatly offended by this, however( Pompous dicks), and have no qualms at all about letting us know it.
We had a local church take down some of our road-side signs so as to prevent us from leading potential lost sheep farther astray. They kept the signs (which is, technically, stealing. Isn't there a Commandment about that?).
We got letters from groups telling us that, if we choose not to burn in Hell, they can offer us guidance and save our pagan, Godless souls. One even enclosed a handy list of books we could buy from them to help fend off damnation.
At the Pow-wow, I had five people approach me and threaten to pray for me so that I might find Jesus. (For the record: I don't need to find Jesus. I know exactly where I left Him, and I just changed his litter box and filled his bowl with fresh water. Put out food, too. I am sure that he will be just fine for a few hours while I hang with the Indians for a bit).
What in Hell is wrong with these people?!? Why can't they leave me alone?!? Who died (and came back again) and made them fit to pass judgement?!? Isn't there a fantasy/fiction writer somewhere in need of persecuting?!?
So that we are clear, I have not gone pagan. I no more practice Native American spiritualism than I believe that the Magic Fairy Bird waved its mighty hand and created the universe in six days. I also do not believe that what I believe is any body's damned business but my own. You tend to your soul and I'll take care of mine.
As a point of reference, here is a very generalized over-view of Native American spirituality:

There was one Creator, who made the universe.
All things in that universe(people, animals, plants, mountains,etc.) were given a spirit and are worthy of respect.
The Earth was not given to Man, Man was given to the Earth. People are intended to care for the world and all of creation. It is their job.
Be respectful to all things because it is the right thing to do.
Be thankful for what you have been given, or you won't get any more.
If you lead a good life, you will join Creator in the sky when you die. If you are a bad person, you just don't get to go up there. You stop after death.
Prayers are always heard. Some times, though, the answer is no. Take care of your own business and help the folks around you.

And that's pretty much it. Not really a bad way to look at things, actually. So why are the Jeebus-nazis so freaked? Well, maybe it is because, in their view, people suck and are, by their very nature, evil things that must be subjugated, kept ignorant, homogenized and destroyed. Without a Hell, how do we scare them into not killing, robbing and raping their way from here to there (or giving us money)? We'd be doing it now if it weren't for fear of Fire and Brimstone. It ain't a real religion if, at some time, your god didn't get nailed to a stick. Without Jesus, how do we possibly justify the massacre of villages full of Godless women and children (massacre in God's name is, after all, Bible tested and Jehovah approved. Check out the story of Joshua). The Lord doesn't want you to get any spiritual cooties from contact with other cultures( as Jesus is, to all appearances, highly allergic to other beliefs; if you get the cooties, you can't play in the clubhouse anymore) and just hearing about a different theology will lead only to eternal buggery by Satan. No tag-backs. Perhaps, it is fear that they have been wrong all this time and, if they have to burn for it, they want every one to burn with them. Or, just maybe, they have their heads too far up their own asses to know any better.

What ever the case, they need to knock it the Hell off. It is kinda creepy.

But, then again, ignorance has always scared me.

I'm Baaaack!!!!! Here's where I've been...lucky me.

2009-09-29T08:35:00.000-07:00

The two people who actually read this blog may have noticed that I was away for a bit. This is because I was busy doing non-bloggy stuff; stuff of an interact with actual, real, live people nature.(While it is true that I normally find humanity to be on the decidedly icky side--folks who know me, or have read any of my posts, can readily attest to this-- I occasionally must force myself to hob-nob with my fellow humans. If only to reaffirm my commitment to misanthropy. Mission accomplished). Most of my September free time was utilized in the planning, setting up and hosting of our annual Native American Pow-wow. This one was number six. Yippee.

"But, Laughing Wolf," you might ask, as you duck to avoid the anticipated swat in the head I will aim at you for speaking out of turn, "how ever did you get caught up in such business to begin with?" The answer is simple: familial blackmail. (Let me add here that, after spending so much time this past month with the Indians, I know exactly why they lost their land. Can't agree on even the tiniest damned thing and suck on follow-through. Toss in cultural eradication, measles-laced blankets, and the occasional massacre, and you have the perfect formula for extinction). You see, my sisters, brother-in-law, nieces and nephew had been involved with a group dedicated to the preservation of Native American culture for a number of years. I, as is to be expected, was not. When that group broke up, due, in large part, to the fact that the head of the organization had stolen all of the money to buy cigarettes and booze, they, along with half of the other members, decided to form their own group in order to continue doing Indian-type stuff. Because I happened to be standing nearby at the moment (completely unaware and minding my own business), they dragged me along. Made me chairman of the group (I don't care what they tell me; it is well within a person's rights to decline a nomination, dammit!), forced me to learn Native history, wear a wolf pelt and MC their blasted Pow-wow (curse my command of the English language! I always knew that learning to speak would only lead to trouble). Like it or not, I find that I am a member of the Red Eagle Village for life, with no possibility of parole. (Where's a measles blanket when you need one?).

The Pow-wow lasts for four days (planning it takes three months). Thursday and Friday are reserved for local grade school field-trips (four hundred K thru sixth graders this year. Kill me now), while Saturday and Sunday are open to the public. We estimate that close to 2,000 people came this year. The group believes that this is because people love a good Pow-wow. I think that it is because we don't charge admission and don't pick and choose who can come. (My twenty page proposal: "Riff-raff who should not be allowed near me for any reason and why" was voted down in committee. I am a puppet chairman). There were 7 drums and 45 dancers (from 8 different Native American groups), 25 craft and food vendors (some of whom, I must say, are pretty cool people), 2 Boy Scout troops, 18 Red Eagle Villagers and 1 MC. (Me, your old pal Laughing Wolf. I was told by a visiting Lakota Indian that my name, in Lakota, is Shumanitu Taka Tuwe Ehate. Pronounced:SHOON-man-he-doo DON-ka DUE-hay e-HAW-day. Laughing Wolf is easier). It seems that, for the Native Americans, the MC's job was way more of a big deal than was the job of the Chief. In ancient times, the MC had to help plan and set up the Pow-wow, build any structure required, coordinate dancers, drums, dignitaries, and the day's events, chase out of control third-graders, placate crabby teachers, function as security guard, teach the public Indian history and customs, placate crabby dignitaries, field questions from the public, put up signs, design the ad-book, entertain the audience between drum songs, placate crabby dancers and drums, hunt frantically for a functioning Port-a-John, set up the sound system, placate more crabby Indians, act as traffic cop and grounds keeper, function as therapist and peace-keeper and, at the end of an event, take down and store all Pow-wow props and equipment. The Chief got to socialize, eat lots of fry-bread, and chat with the press. Because Red Eagle Village acts to preserve the old ways, that's the way we do it, too.
Which is why I haven't posted in a while. Been sorta busy.
Next year, though, I don't anticipate the same problem.
I'm joining a Cowboy group, instead. That should be much easier.

Point/Counterpoint: Your Grandparents

2009-09-26T19:23:00.000-07:00

POINT: Well, I Think Meatloaf Sounds Like a Damned Fine Idea
By Guest Columnist Your Grandfather

If he seems cranky, it's because he hasn't had a bowel movement since 1967.

That waiter sure got pretty snippy in a hurry.
I don’t happen to think asking for meatloaf is so out of line. What restaurant doesn’t serve meatloaf anyway? Just where did you take us?
I happen to think meatloaf makes a damned fine meal; where we come from we eat it just about every week. I know the diner always has meatloaf.
And his attitude---I don’t know where that came from.
Would it be so hard for him to slip back and ask the chef if he could whip up a meatloaf and maybe some mashed potatoes instead of all that weird stuff they got listed on this menu?
The customer’s always right, isn’t he? In my day a restaurant would’ve been thrilled you came in to eat meatloaf instead of just eating at home like normal people do.
I don’t even know what half this stuff is.
Hey, can we get some more bread over here?

COUNTERPOINT: What Kind of Fancy Pants Place Doesn’t Have a Salad Bar?
By Guest Columnist Your Grandmother

It seems that Grammie would prefer Ruby Tuesday's.

Well, isn’t this place posh? Of course, they can’t be bothered to even cut up the lettuce, just bring you out a giant wedge of iceberg and plop it in front of you.
At the Sizzler, you can choose iceberg or romaine, it’s all cut up and everything---and they’ve got plenty of fixings to go with it. Plus, you get to pick your dressing and use as much as you’d like.
I’m just saying that for the prices here you’d think they’d at least cut the food for you. I mean are they going to trot an entire cow out here and make me carve my steak out of it?
Because I’m not doing that.

COUNTERCOUNTERPOINT: Hey, I Like Meatloaf
By Guest Columnist some other dog

This fellow just showed up at the new offices. And, yes, he had poop on his breath.

Don't look at me like that. Things have been kind of rough since I got fired from that other site.

Ask the Graven Image

2009-09-26T18:45:00.000-07:00

The Graven Image has been providing advice for the lovelorn and confused for more than 50 years.

Dear Graven Image,
My girlfriend (I’ll call her ‘Dawn’) has an irritating habit of sleeping with all my friends. Do you think I should take her back (again) or just kick her to the curb?
Signed,
Doormat

Dear Doormat,
Find seven alabaster doves with no imperfections and sacrifice them at the base of my altar. Be sure to let the blood flow freely on the stones before throwing the doves into the fire that burns eternally at my feet. Oh, and send me this ‘Dawn’s’ phone number; I’m not exclusively into virgins.

Dear Graven Image,
My boss is a petty tyrant. I know the economy’s not good and I should be grateful I’ve got a job, but he cut my pay and still expects me to work weekends. Also, he makes fun of my weight in front of co-workers. i don’t know what to do.
Signed,
Boss’ boy toy

Dear Boy Toy,
The sacrifice of a young bull with enormous testicles will give you the strength to stand up to this Napolean.
Alternately, you may offer up a smoke offering of frankincense, a good Dominican cigar and a small house cat and I’ll give him a case of the shingles guaranteed to take his mind off you for months.

The Graven Image is syndicated in more than 400 daily newspapers, including Pravda, The New Orleans Times-Picayune and The Weekly Shopper. Write to the Graven Image at gravenimageadvice@gmail.com.

Isn't it the city that's supposed to be scary?

2009-09-20T18:59:00.001-07:00

Eeek!

Mrs. RG and I took a bit of a trip to the Bowman Hill Wildflower Preserve today (north of Philadelphia in lovely Bucks County), enjoying our one sunny day this year. We are hardened veterans of our urban cesspool, but this path stopped us cold.
I freely admit that I peed myself just a little.

Anyway, been busy with work and art openings (pics soon at Well Hanged) and a longer project I'm still kicking around. Madness should resume shortly.

As for the rest, Emperor figu7es and chets the dog have been missing for at least 2 weeks. Something about subpoenas.