Yeh, yeh, yeh. I know. I've been a complete shithead as far as updating the blog is concerned, but that will be remedied soon. Just so you know, we've been too busy and dragged out to do any writing lately, but this is in no way a permanent state. Check back real soon and I promise you a SHITLOAD of new stuff!

Be safe,

TRS

Inspirational Music

The Idiot Apocalypse Part 2

   Every reputable scientist on file was recruited to flesh out the plan – everyone knew what the plan was,  but that was it. Everyone thought it was a great plan, a fabulous plan, we'll make our own idiots! But no one had suggested how to actually do it, how to create idiots on purpose! It was quickly realized that normal selective breeding wouldn't work – there were no idiots to select for breeding. No, something drastic was called for here, something as unthinkable as the plan itself. And, after weeks of think-tanking and brainstorming, it materialized.

    A world wide contest was run, and the winning (or losing, depending on how you look at it) male and female with the lowest IQ were chosen. Preparations for the upcoming conception went on for weeks. The couple were kept on a constant diet of low-cal beer, poorly made crack cocaine, Twinkies and Ding Dongs, and entrees from the Olive Garden. Over the counter sleeping pills and Gravol were mandatory each evening, washed down with a half bottle of Red Devil, the nastiest red wine ever created, and each day was kick-started with crack, crystal meth, more Red Devil and an optional tube of glue huffed from an old sock. Some humanitarians voiced the opinion that this constituted cruel and unusual punishment, so the couple was permitted to substitute low grade heroin for the Gravol, an offer they both refused. Either they were intensely dedicated to the plan, or it was already starting to work.

    When the prearranged six month DNA damaging program had finished, the couple (who were oddly reluctant to leave), were pulled from the Official Compound, sent out for a romantic diner and given a coupon from Block Buster's, good for one free adult video rental, then sequestered in a 2.5 star hotel for the weekend. At 6 a.m. Monday morning, the pair were separated, the woman taken to her new lodgings, where a team of skilled, highly trained men would whine at her for up to 18 hours a day begging for “At least a hand-job or something”, then yelling at her that she was getting fat when she refused. She was supplied with all the cigarettes she could handle, alcohol reduced wine coolers, and a vast library of old video tapes featuring    'Parking Wars', 'Dancing with the Stars', and 'Who's the Boss'. The man was walked out to the sidewalk in front of the hotel, handed a half pack of Marlboro’s, and officially told to “Fuck off.”. After doctors had determined that the conception was, unbelievably, successful, the world settled down to wait out the gestation period with the most famous, (and, in all probability, most important) mother-to-be in all human history.

    In fact, many of the leftover religious crowd (who were unknowingly slated to take over, should no proper idiots be found), were likening her to The Virgin Mary and suggesting she carried the second coming of the previously unsuccessful savior of humanity, propositions she countered with a hearty “Blow it out yer ass or I'll come over there and kick yer uterus out!”

To be continued...

As always, be safe.

TRS

Preview

Excerpt from the upcoming 'End of Days, The Complete Annihilation of the Human Race, or Just a Beautiful Dream?'

Part One:

The Idiot Apocalypse

(Found in a time-capsule from the future that some idiot had buried backwards)

    And there came a day in Earth's history when the unimaginable, the unthinkable, the inconceivable, occurred. The last idiot known to man (his name is not important yet), died in, as you can probably guess, an outlandishly stupid manner. He was checking on the readiness of his lunch, and had just opened the oven door, when the majority of his head was blown across most of the kitchen, not so neatly shredded off right around the lower mandible. Things might have turned out differently for the entire human species had he not, at the last minute, wondered if perhaps his can of baked beans could do with just a little more baking. Hell, he could even have baked them without incident if he'd only thought to open the can first, or at least poke a hole or two in the lid. Nope, straight into the oven and let's just crank 'er up to around 475. Opening the oven door allowed a rush of much cooler air to hit the already stressed to maximum can, giving it that one, last push over the top, and it blew up faster than an inflatable doll in a monastery. The last thing he saw caused the last conscious thought he would ever have, which was,  

“Shit. Thought I'd bought the one without the gooey piece of pork fat.”.

Alright. In reality, there is no way that could have happened. I took a little license there with the pork fat. His actual last thought was, simply, “Shit.”.

    Now, you would think that the practical upshot of this event, the loss of mankind's last surviving idiot, would be something of a bonus to the rest of the species, but you would be wrong. Within hours of his death, the final few decent ratings enjoyed by reality TV shows and sitcoms about mixed families raised by single gay fathers took a nose-dive. The entire entertainment industry flew into mass panic; no one had ever imagined that idiots would someday be in short supply, hence, no one had ever come up with a contingency plan. Writers hadn't thought of writing anything that did not target the lowest common denominator, Studios hadn't requested anything above that same level, and Producers were still ecstatic over the fact that anything that aired under the catch-all definition of 'Reality TV' was an instant hit. Not only that, but these programs cost virtually nothing to produce – no major stars, no writers, no vast, expensive sets, no distant locations, nada!

   

   The industry's panic quickly carried over to the Sponsors, who immediately withdrew their sponsorship, and the result was the total collapse of every single television network on the planet except for PBS. Apparently, they had seen this coming since the 1970's, but no one took them seriously, thinking it to be part of some pledge drive or other.

    The collapse of all the networks got people to thinking, hey! What if the same thing happens to important institutions that actually matter? That could turn out to be a negative thing! And so the search was begun for more idiots to enjoy the programs and buy the products they were told they needed during each commercial break. The United Nations voted, and the hunt started, logically, in the birthplace of idiocy itself. Teams were sent out all over North America, desperately seeking some lost, unknown pocket of secret, hidden idiots.

    Days passed fruitlessly, stretching into weeks. Was it possible that any remaining idiots were smart enough to successfully evade the search teams? Well, no, as one PBS executive pointed out. If that were the case, then they would have evolved and would no longer be idiots, now would they? Again, panic gripped the world. No idiots left? None? What the hell are we going to do? We've already seen the downfall of the entire entertainment industry, (Not, you, PBS), the Retail industry reports that 80% of the products offered for purchase are just sitting in warehouses, collecting dust, and McDonald's has completely disappeared off the face of the earth.

   

   An emergency meeting of the United Nations was called and every single country on the planet was represented, for the first time in history. The result of this meeting was a plan so outrageous, so undreamed of, that most people had difficulty even believing it at all. Mankind would, for the first time ever, attempt to intentionally breed idiots...

To be continued...

Until next time, as always, be safe!

TRS

Hope it's temporary!

Damnshitpissfuck. I just spent a half hour on 'Punk Not Profit', my absolute favorite music blog, and every single download site had 'file deleted' or 'file no longer exists'.  I hope it's only a temporary situation - these guys put a shitload of work into it, and it's the best source for Punk music I've ever seen, check them out, well worth it! 

As always, be safe!

TRS

Don't Offer Unsoliticed Work-Out Advice. Ever.

It doesn't matter the gender, age, level of fitness, nor even the size of their belly from the number of people that will offer unsolicited work-out advice when you casually mention that you use the treadmill. These people are not contenders for a magazine cover shoot for Muscle & Fitness nor a Subway commercial walking alongside Jared. You have a hard time believing they might run briskly to their car in rainy weather let alone exercise furiously in the gym. They have no specialized training, no rippling abs, yet they insist their work out tips are GOLD. I could give two shits they run rather than walk on the treadmill. Big fucking deal! There will be no incoming call from the President congratulating them on their efforts. You have 15 pounds of breasts on your chest like I do you don't want to fucking run! They think they will lose weight quickly that way. Who fucking cares? Whats my rush? I'm not a prizefighter wanting to drop down a weight class for my next big bout. So for all of you out there that want to offer unsolicited work-out advice? Just don't. Roll up that little tidbit of advice and push it up your ass. Thank you.

Pay close attention...

Watch and learn, kids.

Karma – Instant vs. Long Term. There's An Error In My Account...

   I'm having a problem with the whole 'Karma' thing. It's not that I don't understand the concept – do something good, something good happens back to you – that's pretty straight forward. What I don't get is the return policy. Something good happens back to you when? The other half, do something shitty and something shitty happens back to you, seems to work fairly quick, as does the appear to do something good side of the equation. Example: a total asshole, splitting up with her husband via text message while driving to meet her boyfriend, grimaces impatiently at an old lady crossing the street slowly in a wheelchair. Others perceive the grimace as a heartfelt, caring smile of empathy. Total asshole gets to the liquor store 43 seconds after a crazed gunman kills everyone in the store (because they didn't have his favorite brand of Schnapps) and doesn't even stop to think, “Hey, that old lady saved my life!”. The error in judgment made by those who witnessed the grimace has extended the lifespan of another worthless piece of shit. Meanwhile, a genuinely really nice guy bolts in front of a bus to rescue the frightened puppy of a six year old girl, hurls the puppy safely into her pleading, outstretched arms, and is instantly rendered quadriplegic by said bus, driven by a weeping man who’s wife has just dumped him via text message, prompting him to take his own life later that evening. Question: is this error ever noticed, and is the karmic bank account adjusted accordingly? Answer: NO. The hero spends the rest of his life in a wheelchair while the total asshole evades divorce proceedings and lives a long and useless life. Now, some defenders of karma will say our quad will get his reward in the next life, and our total asshole will get her comeuppance then, as well. Fat lot of good that does in th,e here and now, where a complete reversal of justice has played itself out. Besides, what if there is no next life? What happens to all the accumulated karma then? Does it just sit there, collecting interest? Is it distributed to deserving people here in this life? I guess what I'd really like to know is why can't I get part of mine now, like maybe some kind of interest dividend or long-term investment bonus, anything? I'm even willing to waive any and all next life returns to have just one tiny bit of my karmic deposit dropped on me today. Just a little, tiny bit – I mean, who the fuck is going to notice, huh? C'mon, karmic bankers, have a little heart, who knows, maybe something nice will happen to you.

Well, I'm off to check my karmic bank account, so, as always, be safe!

TRS

G.M.I.S.P.

   Wow. It's really getting out of hand fast!  Only the beginning of June, crap weather, and yet the Grown Men In Short Pants are out in full force. Yesterday, as I was out on my daily stroll, the bastards outnumbered us sensible Long Pants guys by a long-shot.  I encountered another Long Pants-er to exchange data and commiserate with, which truly gave us a good look at the overall situation.  He had just come up from the beach (I cover the Uptown shopping district), and the scene there was horrific! He said it seemed as though he was the only male on the entire strip who had his walking sticks properly covered.  A third LP'er, who generally covers the rural beat, has not been heard from in close to a week, and we fear the worst.  It is  rare, yet not entirely impossible, for one of us to turn into one of 'them', usually at the behest of a female companion who tells us we'd look adorable in short pants.  Without others of our kind present to run interference, the poor gent inevitably goes down under the extreme pressure, and another is lost forever. We mark the passing of a brother not by flying a flag at half mast, but by wearing extra-long pants for a seven day mourning period.  If I've heard nothing from our rural outpost by tomorrow, I shall have the sad task of telling the others to prepare for the worst, and break out the Extra-Longs. It's a call I fervently hope I will not have to make.

Wish me luck, and, as always, be safe.

TRS 

Hey, GaGa, watch this, then quit show biz!

Nasal Bones and Tequila Worms

    

   As anyone who has ever met me will readily attest, I have, among many other equally annoying personality quirks, a rather large number of pet peeves. Oooh! There's one right there! Why 'pet' peeve? If they were pets, one well placed 'Free to good home' ad would quickly rid us of all those little irritants that clutter up our daily lives, keeping us away from seriously important things. Like finding tiny little things that annoy us and writing about them. Like I'm doing. Now.

    Let's get back to the top of the page. Nestled smack dead-center in my ever increasing collection of peeves, pet or other, are those two … those TWO … massive assaults against logic and reason, cold blooded murderers of common sense and rational thought, and the two peeves that disturb me beyond all others. Why do they vex me so? Allow me to explain. These two, found in the 'everybody knows' category of common knowledge, (as everybody should already know), are the two that have been blown into my face, with accompanying sour booze breath, by every single loud mouthed know-it-all drunken brain-dead mouth-breather genetic anomaly I have ever met, at any party I have ever been to, in my entire life. Ever. And what I find so offensive about these two is not the fetal alcohol poster boy spewing them, nor is it the fact that they are members of the 'everybody knows' family of pseudo information. No, the intense disgust and contempt these two pieces of 'information' generate within me result from this: if one takes the time to think one or two words past their file names – Nasal Bones and Tequila Worms – these tales, usually told with such certainty and unwavering authority, will actually prove themselves wrong to anyone capable of even base-level cognitive processing. Let's brutally dissect them, one by one, shall we? Oh, yes! Let's do!!

Our first bit of 'knowledge' runs thus:

If you slam someone in the nose with the heel of your hand, it will drive the nasal bones into the brain, killing them instantly.

Now, there's a couple of things of a physiological nature that I feel compelled to point out, but first, look at this for a minute:

    See, here's the thing, folks; the sphenoid, parietal, occipital, temporal and nasal bones are all far thinner than the frontal bone. The frontal bone is the thickest part of the human skull, and is also the area that thin, eggshell-like nasal bones are said to be punched through. The greater likelihood, however, is that the entire situation would play itself out in the other direction, resulting in a very small piece of the victim's nasal bone becoming imbedded in the assailant's hand.

    Before you come after me with documented evidence, let me say this: Yes, it is entirely possible to kill someone with the smack to the beak maneuver, but you have to realize that the person is killed by transfer shock (look it up) to the brain, and not a spontaneous nasal bone assisted pre-frontal lobotomy. In truth, a blow of the same force, delivered to ANY area of the skull, would have ended the same way - an early grave for one guy, and a great 'Hands of Death' story for another.      Also, if some part of the nasal bone (the nose is actually mostly cartilage) did, by fluke, manage to find itself driven into the brain, it would be far too short to cause any appreciable damage, let alone death. Plus, consider the area of the brain that would be pierced by said nasal bone – the frontal lobes. Possible result? Well, a somewhat calmer, more zombie-like victim springs to mind, having been the lucky recipient of a free pre-frontal lobotomy.

    Right. Enough about the nasal bone method of terminating one's foes, let's get on to the Tequila Worm. This is another one that gets me steaming, screaming stung, again due to the lack of just enough common sense to go one step further when thinking this one through. Our 'everybody knows' item:

If you drink a bottle of Tequila, and you eat the worm at the bottom, you get completely fucked up.

   I have even heard people likening the worm experience to Acid or Mescaline in intensity and hallucinogenic properties, but here's the real deal. The worm, which is not found in all Tequila, is an Agave worm. The Agave worm lives only in … the Agave cactus. The Agave cactus is used in the manufacture of certain types of … Tequila. Starting to see where I'm headed with this? The worm is included in the bottle merely as proof that the Tequila was made using the Agave. That's it. It does NOT have a mescaline content, as claimed by some, nor does it somehow “concentrate the alcohol”, an assertion made by others. The only thing the worm does, apart from it's intended function as proof, is this: NOTHING!

    So why do you get so wasted? Think about it. You've just drunk a bottle of Tequila, you're already wasted. In fact, you are already so shitfaced that you're about to eat a fucking WORM. Not only are you about to eat a fucking worm, you're trashed enough to think it's a good idea! The next time you are treated to some drunken buffoon gassing on about the 'hallucinogenic, almost spiritual experience' of dining on the pickled cadaver of some poor little Agave worm, you can do what I do – call bullshit on the story, then offer to eat the worm without drinking any Tequila, as I have MANY times (love to prove a point). I have eaten untold Agave worms, and the only sensation I have ever experienced is a mild, sort of queasy, disgust at having just put a maggot in my mouth without even the dubious benefit of being ratted on a nice bottle of Mescal. Stick with me, kiddies, you won't be popular with the 'everybody knows' crowd, but then again, who wants to be, huh?

Until next time, as always, be safe.

TRS

Two Things That Completely Amaze Me.

     I'm not amazed by much anymore, but every now and then, something squeaks in just under the radar and, BAM! I'm amazed. And I think you will be too. If you actually think about these two.

In order for this to work, I have two seemingly odd requests for you. Two things you need to do:

A) Flick a piece of snot at anything, and,

B) Fart in the shower.

    I realize that many people claim they never actually perform either activity themselves, and rather than wasting time convincing them that, yeah, you do, I'll simply ask them to do it just this once. In the interest of scientific inquiry. To further the sphere of human knowledge and make the world that one little bit better. You know who you are, and before you dismiss this entire exercise, just read it over. I'm sure you will find that these two questions that burn through my very core are actually based on some seriously sound and valid reasoning, and not just vulgar bathroom humor. That having been said, we'll start with the farts.

Shower farts, it seems, follow a completely different set of rules than do all other flatulent events in that, as far as my associates and I can tell, they all smell the same. I'm saying that your own shower farts all smell the same, not that any fart, dropped in any shower, anywhere adheres to this rule. A longitudinal study spanning several decades has yielded the following data: no matter what you eat, where you eat it, who prepared it for you, even if you've never eaten it before, any resulting flatulence that occurs in the shower (ANY shower) will smell the same. Try it. No matter where you are in the world, no matter what your diet consists of, POW! Same smell every time! HOW?!? How does this happen? What is it about cascading water that alters our flatulent physiology? I'm dead serious, here! Try it, test it, make an attempt at proving my theory wrong, for as most of us know, the only legitimate, recognized way to prove a theory is to try and disprove it – if you can't, then you're sitting on a good, solid theory.

   So. Eat a burger and fries in Washington State, check in at the nearest 'Comfort Inn' or perhaps a 'Big 6', throw your suitcase on the cinder-block double bed, hop right into the shower, and squeeze one off. And don't (if you're one of those types) try to squeak it all sneaky-like, either. As a sort of bonus, it was also discovered that no matter how hard you try, you just can't squeak a fart when your bum is wet. Can't play trumpet when the orchestra pit is damp. Now, take careful note of the aroma. Next, you could maybe have a nice piece of cheesecake at Lindie's in Manhattan, sashay over to the Marriott Essex House on Time Square, drop the eight or nine-hundred dollars for one night's stay (and before you go off about the price, the brunch makes it all worth while, trust me), amble up to your luxurious, spacious and ever so comfortable suite (no mere 'rooms' here), drift into the massive, glassed-in shower and, once again, fart. Repeat the aroma noticing thing that you did in Washington, and be astounded. The two odors, although created on opposite sides of the continent, will have no discernible difference. Also, you'll get the pleasure of baffling and confusing the staff when you walk out saying “Fuck me with a cheese grater, The RobScenity was right!” because they haven't seen me in years, but they remember the 'cheese grater' line.

    And now, the snot. I wonder why this has never been noticed before? Why did it fall to me to make what is possibly the single greatest discovery in the field of mathematics? I want you to think very hard about this one, ok? Generally, when one flicks a snot, the eyes and the nasal projectile both reach the point of impact at exactly the same time! Do you have any idea to what extent higher calculus, vector plotting, knowledge of trajectories, flow dynamics, to name but a few, come into play during this scenario? The multiple, instantaneous and then constantly revised calculations involved in plotting the route of the snot to its eventual landing site in the split seconds it takes to arrive there is nowhere short of miraculous. For one thing, there are no true constants when dealing with snot, are there? Viscosity, surface tension, density, weight, aerodynamic features, these are all just the start of a massive pile of unknown and unquantifiable variables. We can't even count on a consistent snot-to-fingernail adhesion factor, so even something as simple as determining the exact second of release is out of our realm. Yet, somehow, we are able to do all the calculations, make all the adjustments, and account for all the unknowable variables and still arrive at the exact point on the wall/window/sibling that the snot has also arrived at, at precisely the same time! HOW?????  

Now that I’ve given you your research materials, I shall bail. My head is pounding just thinking about this again, and I think I will go do something illegal. As always, be safe.

TRS

13 Years with the Man I love..

Words can never express how much I love and adore Rob..and I can only hope you have found someone in your lifetime that means as much to you as he does to me. He is intelligent, quick witted, funny, talented, sweet, thoughtful, perverted, cuddly, loyal, protective, strong, and the most beautiful looking man I have ever seen. I love his parents, his upbringing, his musical talents, his cool employment background which includes burning dead people, a stand-up comic, musician, published author, tour guide, his educational feats, and I love his heart, his stories, and his outstanding talents in the bedroom. I ADORE this man, and I will love him forever...

It Begins (Again)

   Well, it seems I was just too busy to notice, or perhaps I just didn't think it could possibly be that time already. I guess there are definitely some benefits to setting an alarm or learning how the calendar feature on my phone works after all. No matter how I managed to let this slip past, slip past it certainly has. I saw the first sign last night and nearly went into shock, so ill-prepared was I for the event. And today, I have seen no less than 7 occurrences, and I have yet to venture farther than the balcony. I'm not altogether certain I even want to venture farther than the balcony, if spotting 7 of these most atrocious of sights is any indication of what may lurk beyond the confines of my room. I shudder, even though the temperature is quite agreeable. In fact, it is precisely that agreeable temperature that has caused my shivering, as it is also the very thing which has brought out one of my most hated of all things, my peeve-est of pet peeves, one of the few things that ruins two otherwise extremely pleasant seasons. And I find myself contemplating venturing out into the world, and into the very midst of this yearly atrocity. I must be mad.

    What the fuck am I babbling on about, you ask? Find anyone who has known me for more than three hours, and ask them what I hate almost more than anything else in life. What they will say, is this, “Grown Men in Short Pants”. Short pants are for little boys, and there are few things on this planet (or any other, I would imagine) that look as ridiculous, ludicrous, preposterous, as a full-grown adult male kitted out in a pair of these goofy little half-trousers. Knobby knees, puffy, almost luminously white legs, do not belong out in plain view, where just anyone at all could accidentally happen to see them. No, they belong hidden, under a sensible pair of full-length men's pants. Think about it for a second – it's the whole reason fully legged pants were invented in the first place – so the general population would not be forced to gaze upon that which the pants so cleverly conceal!

    To make matters even more difficult, some GMISP's hold the opinion that their short pants make them appear boyish, youthful, and even 'adorable'! They DO NOT! The most cursory glance at the wearer cannot help but yield the following observation: You are an adult male, dressed in the trappings of a pre-teen in some vain hope of appearing less advanced in years than you, quite obviously, are. You're not fooling anyone, other than yourself. As for looking adorable, the only one who thinks that is you. And maybe your wife or girlfriend. Their opinion, however, along with their taste, is not to be trusted – just look who they picked as a mate.

Untill next time, as always, be safe.

TRS

I feel that I'm long past due for a full-out frontal attack on one of the most reprehensible things in the music business – the 'Family Band'. You know, like the Partridge Family, and even worse, the Brady Kids, to name the two best known examples of this horrid pseudo-musical phenomenon. I'll even go over the really obvious reasons, just in case some of you aren't in tune with the World of Music, but only a quick look at those as they are too painfully obvious to the rest of us.

First off, you live with your family, see them every single day, and the time you get to actually spend alone (the 'me' time) is not a plentiful commodity. A working band spends a ridiculous amount of time together, writing, rehearsing, and generally tightening up all aspects of The Show. It gets worse when the group is on tour, as all that together time is often spent crammed in a tour bus, or worse, a couple of old vans.

Families also don't always see eye to eye, which can lead to frequent fighting and tense situations. Many working band find that the only time they don't fight is on stage, the rest of the tour time can be quite the nightmare. So, the question arises, why on earth would anyone want to take those two situations and mash them together into one huge, volatile mess just waiting to explode in a maelstrom of potential fratricide, infanticide and suicide? I have no answers for you as to who would want this (inbred Ozark Mountain clans excluded) as a long term lifestyle.

Those, however, are not my reason for disliking the 'Family Band' format. My reason is simply this: not every person in every family is musically inclined or even remotely talented, so we always end up with one or two useless tits who just stand on stage wiggling, shaking a bloody tambourine, pinging away on a triangle or rattling those god-awful fucking maracas. Really, who the fuck, when faced with the decision to play an instrument, goes with the 'triangle' option? When I was a kid, the only triangle players in the school band were the three kids from the 'special ed' class. Mind you, if memory serves, one of them was pretty damn good at it – I often wonder if he went on to play triangle professionally with some Philharmonic Orchestra or other. Yah! Right! I lost a lot of sleep wondering about that one!! But back to that family member who is busy shaking, pinging or rattling their way through everyone else's hard work. They're a waste of space, a source of complete crap noise, but they have to be included because “They're a part of this family, too!”. If the same reasoning were used by surgeons or nuclear power plant workers … well, you see where I'm going with this. That's all I can say without getting angry right now, so as always, be safe.

TRS

Just Some Stuff That Makes Me Wonder...

I will admit that I had to look at this woman for quite some time before I actually realized what, exactly, I was looking at. The weird thing is, I found myself wondering how the hell she did that before I had even the slightest clue what 'that' was, the nature of which I shall share with you now.

The woman, (whom I have seen several times since), was wearing a hat. Not any old hat, oh, no. This happened to be a hat that looked like hair. I know what you're thinking, and you are wrong – I do know the difference between a hat and a wig, and this was most assuredly a hat. I know this because I saw her take the damnable thing off. When she did remove her hat that looked like hair, I found myself in yet another binge of wondering. Underneath the hat that looked like hair, she was sporting hair that looked like a hat! Two questions sprang instantly to mind:

1. How the Hell did she manage to do that, and, more importantly,
2. Why the Hell would she even want to?

If you already have hair that looks like a hat, why bother putting on an actual hat? To cover up your horrific hair? Wouldn't you just try to style your hair, attempt to make it resemble something other than a hat? And if you were, in fact, putting on the hat in order to draw attention away from some hairstyle-related deficiency, then WHY THE FUCK would you choose a hat that looked like hair? Why not just toss on a wig?

After much pondering, and as I mentioned, more sightings which allowed me the luxury of intense observation, I have come to the conclusion that the woman is hiding something. Something much, much larger and more worthy of hiding that mere shitty hair. Let me give you a few facts, and let's see if you come to the same conclusion I did:

1. Her hat looked like hair,
2. Her hair looked like a hat,
3. She was unusually tall and thin,
4. She gave new definition to the term 'homely',
5. Her overall bearing and appearance were reminiscent of an emu or ostrich, and finally,
6. I never saw or heard her speak,

As you can see, all the evidence points to only one possible explanation: Inter-dimensional Immigrant from an alternate universe who did little or no homework when it came to relocating to our reality. I welcome your comments and / or theories.

As always, be safe

TRS

To MsAnthropy on our 13th. Love you!

Time

Time flies. Having said that, time also stands still. In fact, it seems that, sometimes, time stands at its most still when it is flying. But its at times like that, when time is standing still, that it can slip by and fly far faster than time flying by itself. 

Now, if you haven’t got a headache yet, I shall endeavor to explain the previous paragraph in a way that won’t induce projectile vomit type migraines in all of us , no easy task, following so closely on the heels of all the Equinox Feasting that I’m sure we’we all overindulged in this weekend. Seriously, I have eaten so much that the leather of my studded belt is groaning like a teen upon learning that there will be “a pop-quiz in math (groannn), and it counts for marks (GROANNNN), but if you’ve been studying, you’ll do fine (GGRROOAAANNNNNN)”. And random studs are starting to ping and pop off in all directions. I am a walking, talking fragmentation grenade and the pin has definitely been pulled on this one!

But, I digress, one of the things I’ve always excelled at, and one of the many things most of my teachers hated about me. Digression, Grand Eloquence, and Circumlocution - the holy trinity of dragging shit out WAY longer than it needs to be dragged. My excuses were always longer than the the missing homework that I was making excuses for. I was so good at excuses in elementary school that all the other kids would come to me when their asses needed rescuing from what would otherwise have certainly been a whoopin’ of biblically exaggerated style proportions, and had I charged a consultation fee (which many friends have since told me they would have gladly paid), I would be rolling in cash right now with a shit-load of ‘too much time’ on my hands - a dangerous thought indeed, but one that brings us very neatly back, via a combination of two time honored comedic devices, the segue and the call-back, (also referred to as a ‘tag-back’) to my original topic, which was, of course, time.

Time, as you may or may not recall, flies and stands still, at the same time. My theory is that, although it is the most precise and regimented thing we know, (you could almost set your watch by it), it simply doesn’t know how to behave in certain situations. There! Did you hear that? The first tiny cracks and pops of a skull that is pregnant with migraine (ooh! ooh! I’m crowning!). Maybe I had better define ‘time’ - Time is a man-made concept and device whose sole function is to measure the passing of itself. You would think it would be pretty good at that by now, it follows an insanely strict set of rules and has had plenty of time to practice. Here’s a couple examples of what I meant in my opening statement.

O.k., you are 6. Quick, how long is it between xmasses? For most of us, the answer would have been, oh, say three or four years.
Now you are back to your own age, and have been told that its three weeks before xmas. How many, like myself, would say, “No, no, no. We just had one, what ... 2 or 3 months back. Didn’t we?”
Right, you with me so far? Well, get out the headache pills, because here comes my explanation for this odd behavior that time has displayed (and I’ll show my work):

I was previously married for 11 years, but I was in the doghouse for ten of them. Dog years are said to be 7 to each human year. 10 X 7= 70. We have to add on the original 11 human years, because these types of sentences always run consecutively and not concurrently as we would like them to.

(10 X 7) + 11 = 81. By the time I was 41 (which is 72 in drug years, 287 in dog years and I don’t even want to start calculating how old in dogs who are also on drugs years). Sorry. By age 41, I had already been married for 81 years.

In contrast, 3 days from today, MsAnthropy and I will be celebrating our Thirteenth anniversary, and it feels like only three or four years. Who amongst you thinks that this was the longest, most convoluted way of saying HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!!! in the whole of our species existence? I know I do, and I’ll tell you why...

Until next time (eh? eh? Another tag-back!) as always, Be Safe.
TRS

ZombieLand (HBC/ZELLER'S)

ZombieLand Exposed!
A true tale of frustration and corporate indifference

In direct violation of yet another new policy from HBC / ZELLER’S, here’s what that fine company has pulled on yours truly recently. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with the purchase of the company, and it’s parent corporation, the HUDSON’S BAY COMPANY (whom most people will readily identify as co-conspirators, along with the catholic church, in the attempted genocide of Canada’s First Nations Peoples) by U.S. Creepy Low End Discount giants, TARGET, but there has been a surge in new policies and practices of late.

The one I’m contravening right now is the 'Social Networking’ policy, which states in part (and I’m paraphrasing here) that ZELLER’S employees MAY NOT say anything negative about the company, its parent, its vendors or suppliers, or its clients. Failure to comply with this policy may result in termination and possible criminal charges (not sure how, exactly. I guess they figure on some slander, or libel or that jolly mixture of the two - defamation of character. Good luck with that). The base line, as suggested by one of my (former) supervisors, is that an employee could have a crappy day, go home, and write on their Facebook wall: “Had a shitty day at work, customers were assholes and manager pissed me off”, and conceivably be fired for it. However, the 'Social Networking’ policy no longer applies to me, as I have been terminated. Suck on THAT one, ZombieLand.

Yep, after almost 5 years of service, HBC / ZELLER’S #361 Manager, Edwina Teo, first suspended, then terminated me for refusing to sign a new LPO policy, but get this - the letter she gave me indicates that I resigned. How? Good fucking question, let’s answer it. The letter states that the company is taking my refusal to sign a document that I had signed in previous years as my resignation, even though I was taken off the schedule against my wishes, and the policy I signed was NOT the same one they were trying to get me (under duress) to sign now. Right, a tiny amount of background is needed here. The policy in question, or rather, the one item that I am questioning, concerns parcel / baggage checks and states that, and I quote,

“All parcels are subject to an inspection by the Sales manager / Leader or Loss Prevention at any time at any location (this includes tote bags, shoe bags, briefcases, backpacks, purses etc)”. *emphasis mine*.

The practical upshot is this: I could be outside enjoying a legal, regulation cigarette and at the same time, a manager or LPO could be upstairs going through my shit. I contend that, if even the RCMP can’t do something like that, then ZELLER’S sure as hell can’t. Oh, yeah. I also informed Edwina Teo that I would, in fact, sign the policy if I could determine its legitimacy / validity, a task she gave me 24 hours to complete and which, after three solid weeks, I still can not get a straight answer on from any government agency, even though the BCCLA’s own Privacy Handbook states that HBC / ZELLER’S actions are “not acceptable”

So, there we sit for now - terminated without just cause, with a letter stating I quit (which also fucks me out of getting EI), from a job I’ve held with no real problems for close to 5 years. I’ve put in the Labour Relations Board’s requisite request for severance pay and lost wages, if HBC / ZELLER’S refuses to comply, then I sue for wrongful dismissal, drag it through the courts, make them look like idiots. Small, petty, heartless idiots, and start up a bit of the good old Media Circus as I go - gotta make your own fun, right?

Until next time, as always, be safe!
TRS

Punch me! C'mon, I double dare ya!

A Chinese Satanic Jew, a Female Agnostic Muslim leader, and a heterosexual catholic priest walk into a bar...

   That's all I've got right now, but I think that with a good punchline, this has the potential to go down in history as the funniest joke ever written. So come on, people! Punch me and we'll make Comedic history!        

   And while you're at it, think up some uses for my favorite new phrase and we'll see if we can get it into everyday speech. I'm very pleased with this tiny bit of Dark Prose: "it made a sound like a sack full of babies being beaten with a claw hammer.." Evocative, no?

Until later, as always, be safe and Adiós for now.

TRS

Electric Hellfire Club - Hypochristian

Something I don't think I'll ever understand.

I don't get this one, and I've seen an unbelievable number of examples, in  younger guys as well as older generation men. Allow me to set the stage: I'm visiting with my parents, and my Dad comes in and says Ma wants to talk to me. I enter the room they keep Ma's cage in and ask her what she wants. She has no idea what I'm on about, so I mention what Dad said and she starts to giggle. Then she asks me if I have any problem buying ear-muffs. No, Ma, I have no problems buying ear-muffs. She asks me if I know what ear-muffs are. (she's 87 and I think the inevitable dementia we all eventually succumb has a good starting foot-hold). I tell her that, yeah, I'm 54, got a fairly decent idea what ear-muffs are and put my hands over my ears in what I thought was a reasonable indication of my vast knowledge vis: the ear-muff and it's many and varied uses. She started giggling again, but I stopped her before she started explaining. Are you telling me that, after being together for 60 years, Dad still won't buy pads? She was starting to rock with the effort of trying to suppress laughter (didn't want Dad to hear). Why not? I am genuinely curious about this phenomenon because, as I mentioned, it seems so wide spread, multi generational, even multi cultural. She didn't know why. I said is he afraid that if people see him with a sack of pads, they'll think they're for HIM? Does he imagine people will think he's putting feminine hygiene products in his bum? It got her laughing hard enough to buy me a pack of smokes. But I still don't understand. See, if I'm going to the store for pads, tampons, condoms, whatEVER, I take the completely opposite tack - I hold them up real high, ask questions about them, get price checks done over the P.A.  all real high profile. Why? Because to my way of thinking, me buying pads or condoms or K.Y. is saying  Hey! I'm getting it! Quite probably not tonight, but... !

I'm not one of those sorry, sad-sacks who's over in the meat department eying up the liver and wondering if the microwave will alter it's texture  and ruin the entire experience for him. Because I'm getting it, lots of it, fabulous, regular it. Anyone who may in the dark over 'it', or the microwaved liver reference should probably have asked their Mommy or Daddy before clicking the 'ADULT CONTENT' button that gets you here.

There, that's all I wanted to say, except this: Guys, it's time to nut up or shut up. Buy the fucking pads, already. Don't worry, nobody will think they're for you!

Until next time, as always, be safe.

TRS

A Few Items Of A Musical Nature

I'm not entirely sure if  I've done this one here already, or on some other blog.  Or at someone's house. Or maybe just another rant behind that dumpster in Tacoma. Either way, it has been drilling  up from my unconscious, poking away at my subconscious and is now almost through my conscious mind to a point where I will notice it, then force you to notice it as well. So, let's just jump the gun and notice it right now, in a bunch, all at once. It's been one of my biggest pet peeves for decades now, and it is this: Smarmy, near wash-out Rock Stars on yet another 'Final Comeback Tour' who have the unbelievable nerve , as they're about to kick into the encore, their one, single, hit song from almost 30 years ago, to  say :

"We think you may  remember this one! (huff...pant)  It's from our first album, back in '78, (wheeze...gasp) and I think ... it might go just a little ...bit ... like ... this!"

Right, that's it!! Stop tape right fucking there and let me see if I've got this.  You THINK the audience MAY remember this one? The sole reason for attending your concert? The only one of your numbers that anyone even recognizes because it's the only decent tune you've ever done? And... AND ... now let's see if I'm hearing you correctly, you THINK it MIGHT go JUST A LITTLE BIT like this? Before I choke on what you're trying to pass off on us, allow me to break it down for the benefit of those who may not be familiar with your Band, and your song. Your one, single, marketable effort stemming back 30 years. Just who the fuck are you trying to kid, here? You  think ... it might go just a little ...bit ... like ... this? That's what you think? This song that you've played almost every single night for the past 30 fucking years? The one song of your's that saw any airplay at all? The song your tired, pathetic group of has-beens... no, not even has-beens, almost-was's, has based it's entire 30 year 'Reunion/Comeback/Come Back For Another  Reunion' World Tour on? The only piece of music that has ever made you a dime? The 3 minute slice of fame that's been keeping the 5 of you from starving for the majority of your LIVES? No. You don't THINK anything. You KNOW! You know EXACTLY how that song goes! You know every single note, half tone and semi-quaver, inside out and backwards well enough to fart them out in your sleep without missing a goddamn BEAT!!! You know every back-beat, every nuance, every hook in that number better than you know your own family! You know not only what you had for breakfast, but what every member of the band had for breakfast and how many milligrams of what particular prescription drugs each one was over-amping on the day you went into the studio to cement your futures and guarantee your rightful place in musical history! So, DO NOT DARE to give us that 'think ... it might go just a little ...bit ... like ... this ' bullshit, you're not fooling anyone! Oh, yeah, and as far as a 'comeback' is concerned, if I want any comeback from you, I'll scrape the roof of your mouth. Thanx for listening.

Whew. May have gotten a tad carried away on that one. Say, why not get revenge on me by letting me know YOUR biggest peeve/pissoff? That'd sure show me, huh? C'mon, DO IT!

Until next time, as always, be safe!

TRS

Where is the Zodiac...?

Here it is - a loooong overdue installment of "Where is the Zodiac just when we need him?". Let's roll!


Microsoft automatic updates.


Most of the State of Tennessee.


ZombieLAnd management. 


People who need to ask if they're having fun yet ( not their first appearance here).


Anyone who's Anti-anything that I'm NOT Anti.


Wishy-washy fiddle fuck fence sitters. 


That guy with that thing. You know!


Until next time, as always, be safe.  ( except for that guy, with, you know, that thing )


TRS

My favorite Satanic band singing about my favorite serial killer. It just don't git much better'n that!

Dedication - to every piece of shit that's ever fucked with me.