Same outfit, different pose, cheesy background...
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Good Works Are For Suckers, The Greatest Moment In TV History, and So Much Time, So Little Women
Today has primarily consisted of more reading of Jack T. Chick religious tracts (They’re addictive!), though I did have to venture out into the world to attend a training at work.
Well, I didn’t have to, but I chose to.
Unlike the training I had on Monday, this one actually was specifically related to my job, and was thereby at least slightly more interesting.
Also, one of the people presenting the information was actually a fairly hot chick.
She was a little too hawk-nosed to be really pretty, but she wasn’t bad looking at all, and she seemed to have a pretty smoking body.
That fact alone made it a little difficult to concentrate (especially since she was sitting next to me), but the presence of her almost constantly visible underwear added further distraction.
She was wearing hip-hugging jeans while her black (non-thong) underwear was fairly high up on her waist, so about two inches of her unmentionables were visible, depending on how she was sitting, above the top of her jeans.
Still, I managed to get through it without spending too much time staring, and I think I learned something.
Maybe.
What did I learn? Something about underwear, I think…
Once I returned home it was back to the tract reading, which has been considerably more informative than the underwear training was.
So far I’ve learned that playing Dungeons & Dragons is incredibly dangerous, and will ultimately lead you into practicing witchcraft.
(In a related article posted on Chick's Web site, the D & D expert Chick consulted commented on how often he receives mail from people telling him that he's wasting his time attacking Role-Playing Games. He said one typical response he gets from defenders of RPGs is that he should devote his time to "real" issues, such as social justice, the plight of the poor, and so forth. His response was, "Satan would LOVE that." So apparently, as we'll see in a bit, not only does God hate engaging in meaningful acts of charity and community service, the Devi, conversely, loves them. )
In all honesty, the fact that D & D will lead you on the path to witchcraft is pretty sweet, since, according to the tracts, real magic actually works! One girl cast a spell on her dad to get him to stop hassling her about playing D & D, and not only did he stop hassling her, he went out and bought her $200 worth of D & D supplies! Score!
The ideal circumstance, then, would be to get into witchcraft, use it to get everything you want out of life, learn how to predict the future so that you’ll know when you’re going to die (According to other tracts, this is determined and announced well in advance of the actual event, as both sides [God and the Devil] need to have time to put together last minute strategies for recruiting the nearly departed. The period shortly before you die tends to be kind of similar to “Sweeps Month” on TV, apparently.), then, right before you die, drop down on all fours and repent. That way you’ll have had a kick-ass life and you'll still manage to avoid the Lake of Fire.
The other thing I’ve learned is that not only do good works not win you any brownie points, they’re apparently reserved strictly for chumps. In fact, if anything, God seems to be even more pissed off with you if you devote your life to helping others. So the message seems to be never help anyone.
Of course, if you’re really, really keen to help people out, rather than building hospitals or volunteering at homeless shelters, you can simply give out Jack T. Chick religious tracts to people and tell them all about the Lake of Fire.
So instead of becoming a firefighter, or joining the Peace Corps, or working to cure cancer, consider simply accosting total strangers and telling them about the time we murdered God, and how that act can assure us a place in Heaven.
Young people who are simply “hanging out” seem to be especially receptive to this technique, by the way.
But anything else, like working to remove children from abusive homes, or providing vaccinations to people in third-world countries is just going to royally piss God off.
But if that demonic spirit of volunteerism and community service is still eating away at you, go ahead and volunteer...just be sure to bring plenty of tracts with you, and never forget that your sole purpose in volunteering is simply to create more opportunities to get people down on all fours and a-repenting.
Still, I can’t help wondering why it is that God pays no attention to the good things people do, but obsessively keeps track of all of the bad. Why so negative, God? Quit being such a downer. Nobody likes people who are always pointing out problems and never handing out kudos. Come on; it won’t kill you to give out the occasional “Attaboy!”
Turn that frown upside down, and remember that old song: accentuate the positive, eliminate the negat-
Oh, right, music is from the Devil, and, as presented by Jack T. Chick, God has no face, so who knows if He’s frowning or not.
Either way, just lighten up a little big guy. Did you ever think that maybe you’re the one with the problem? After all, you don’t see healthy people going around tossing missionaries and Nobel Peace Prize winners into a Lake of Fire, do you?
Maybe if you’d talk about it we could figure what’s really bothering you and find a more constructive outlet for those bad feelings than constantly hurling people into the Lake of Fire.
Maybe we could even consider some medication.
At the very least it seems like you could use a hug.
Ah well, I guess that’s enough casual blasphemy for right now.
I’ve found another Nick Cave song that’s captured my attention. It’s called “Are You The One That I’ve Been Waiting For?”
I have to say that it seems all too painfully familiar. I especially like the “ice age” line...
Last night on “Blind Date,” as part of what seemed to be a theme for this week, another couple got married. This time, though, it wasn’t two daters getting married while actually on their blind date. Instead it was a couple who had first met on “Blind Date” sometime back, continued dating, got engaged, and then agreed to have their wedding recorded for broadcast.
Under normal circumstances, many brides, in response to jitters and the generally nerve-wracking nature of weddings, can get a little…well, there’s no better word than “bitchy.”
These, of course, were not normal circumstances, and this particular bride-to-be seemed to have more of a natural inclination in that direction than most women to begin with, so I have to say that the day before the wedding didn’t seem to be an especially happy one for her, and she was making it her business to ensure that it wasn't a happy one for the groom either.
Despite her best efforts the groom managed to remain pretty relaxed.
In a total role-reversal, though, the day of the wedding found the bride relaxed almost to the point of being in a coma (champagne seemed to help in that regard), and, as he waited at the chosen location for her to arrive, the groom became progressively more agitated.
He was not exactly thrilled to see her when she arrived more than an hour late and a little drunk, especially since it was well after high tide on the beach where they were getting married.
In an angry move that he will be regretting for the rest of his life (and beyond, if his wife can find a way), when asked if he would take her to be his lawfully-wedded wife, he hung his head and stood in silent consideration for several minutes before saying “I do.”
With the two weddings and a couple of other highlights, I have to say that “Blind Date” was especially entertaining this week.
The ultimate moment, though, for me at least, came in the form of a disastrous turn of events on a date that had otherwise been going very well.
Amazingly well, actually.
Mocca, a dreadlocked wedding singer and playa extraordinaire (that’s the view he seemed to have of himself, at any rate), had found himself a sure thing in the form of his date (whose name escapes me, so we’ll call “Tramp”).
Tramp was a very, very attractive young woman, and very early on in the date she made it absolutely clear to Mocca, and anyone observing, that he was going to get lucky.
In fact, short of handing him a written affidavit certifying that she was going to have sex with him, there was absolutely nothing that she could have done to make this fact any clearer to him.
This annoyed me more than a little, as Mocca was exactly the kind of sleazy creep who should never have good things happen to him, but to whom bad things almost never happen. Once again, most likely as it had for most of his life, fate had handed him an underserved golden opportunity in the form of Tramp.
However, in what for my money may have been the greatest moment in the history of television HE BLEW IT.
He took a 100% guaranteed sure thing and absolutely destroyed his chances.
I sat on my couch, clapping my hands together in a geeky display of giddy glee when they stood outside his door and Tramp said, “You know, I don’t think I’m going to come in tonight.”
In his post-date wrap-up Mocca concluded that Tramp’s real name ought to have been "Tease," but that clearly wasn’t it. She hadn’t been leading him on; it was clear that she had fully intended to rock his world up until the moment that he blew it.
So what did he do, you ask? Well, as mentioned, his chances with Tramp were assured. All he had to do was wait for the cab to deliver the two of them to his place, take a minute to record his post-date impressions for the show, and then he was all set for a night of wild boot-knocking.
Instead, Mocca decided to try to pressure Tramp into having sex in the cab, in the presence of the cab driver, cameraman, and any other crew members who may have been present (the cab was a mini-van).
Ten minutes. If he had been willing to wait ten lousy minutes, he would have been set.
I could wait ten minutes with both hands tied behind my back...
Ah, that particular train wreck was truly a thing of beauty, and it almost made me believe that there is such a thing as justice in the world.
Almost.
The only thing that would have been sweeter would have been to let out a “Haw-Haw-Haw!” as Mocca was tossed screaming into the Lake of Fire…
On another episode of “Blind Date,” though, I did encounter a real injustice.
I totally forget the names here, so we’ll go with “guy” and “chick.”
Guy shows up to pick up this chick for their date. He’s a little on the cheesy side, bringing her flowers and a teddy bear, but hey, at least he was trying.
The guy had a little bit of a playa-wannabe vibe going on, but overall he seemed decent enough, and he definitely didn’t deserve what followed.
The onscreen graphics at one point describe the chick as “The Reason Men Don’t Understand Women.”
I have to say that was a pretty accurate assessment.
Throughout the date as the guy makes attempts to initiate conversation with the chick, she totally ignores him, and we have to suffer through the most painfully awkward silences I’ve ever encountered. Even in my own life I’ve never encountered anything that horribly, horribly awkward.
The chick just won’t say anything. The graphics indicate that there was “something” that he did at the front door that set her off. As a guess I was thinking it was the fact that he asked for a hug as they met, but while that was a little creepy, I didn’t think it warranted the kind of cold shoulder she was giving him.
But it wasn’t that anyway.
After several mostly silent hours she finally gave him the rundown.
Apparently what he did, in her mind, was much worse than asking for a hug.
What did he do?
His face, apparently, betrayed a visible reaction to the fact that she was attractive.
Essentially he appeared pleasantly surprised by her appearance, which is a terrible, terrible thing to do, as, according to her (once the floodgates opened she wouldn’t shut up again), if he had confidence in himself, he would never have been taken aback by the fact that she was good-looking.
If he had simply taken it in stride as a given, or as if it were somehow his due that his date would be attractive, things would have been okay. But no; he was surprised, and therefore was a complete bastard who didn't deserve any chance to prove himself to be a decent guy.
All I can say is that’s it a damn good thing he didn’t actually say something about her being attractive.
In any case, the end of my day is rapidly approaching, and I have some more tracts to read. I may also attempt to finish a nearly complete picture of Jessica Simpson.
It’s not the unfinished one I posted last week, though it is from the same set and in the same outfit.
For some reason I never got back to that picture.
I didn’t touch the bikini picture either. That one I might end up scrapping and starting over completely.
There are also several Alley Baggett pictures I’d like to draw.
*Sigh* If only the “so many women, so little time” thing applied to some aspect of my life other than my plans for drawing.
Then again, odds are if I did encounter more women I might accidentlally indicate that I find them attractive, and then I'd be out in the cold anyway...
Well, I didn’t have to, but I chose to.
Unlike the training I had on Monday, this one actually was specifically related to my job, and was thereby at least slightly more interesting.
Also, one of the people presenting the information was actually a fairly hot chick.
She was a little too hawk-nosed to be really pretty, but she wasn’t bad looking at all, and she seemed to have a pretty smoking body.
That fact alone made it a little difficult to concentrate (especially since she was sitting next to me), but the presence of her almost constantly visible underwear added further distraction.
She was wearing hip-hugging jeans while her black (non-thong) underwear was fairly high up on her waist, so about two inches of her unmentionables were visible, depending on how she was sitting, above the top of her jeans.
Still, I managed to get through it without spending too much time staring, and I think I learned something.
Maybe.
What did I learn? Something about underwear, I think…
Once I returned home it was back to the tract reading, which has been considerably more informative than the underwear training was.
So far I’ve learned that playing Dungeons & Dragons is incredibly dangerous, and will ultimately lead you into practicing witchcraft.
(In a related article posted on Chick's Web site, the D & D expert Chick consulted commented on how often he receives mail from people telling him that he's wasting his time attacking Role-Playing Games. He said one typical response he gets from defenders of RPGs is that he should devote his time to "real" issues, such as social justice, the plight of the poor, and so forth. His response was, "Satan would LOVE that." So apparently, as we'll see in a bit, not only does God hate engaging in meaningful acts of charity and community service, the Devi, conversely, loves them. )
In all honesty, the fact that D & D will lead you on the path to witchcraft is pretty sweet, since, according to the tracts, real magic actually works! One girl cast a spell on her dad to get him to stop hassling her about playing D & D, and not only did he stop hassling her, he went out and bought her $200 worth of D & D supplies! Score!
The ideal circumstance, then, would be to get into witchcraft, use it to get everything you want out of life, learn how to predict the future so that you’ll know when you’re going to die (According to other tracts, this is determined and announced well in advance of the actual event, as both sides [God and the Devil] need to have time to put together last minute strategies for recruiting the nearly departed. The period shortly before you die tends to be kind of similar to “Sweeps Month” on TV, apparently.), then, right before you die, drop down on all fours and repent. That way you’ll have had a kick-ass life and you'll still manage to avoid the Lake of Fire.
The other thing I’ve learned is that not only do good works not win you any brownie points, they’re apparently reserved strictly for chumps. In fact, if anything, God seems to be even more pissed off with you if you devote your life to helping others. So the message seems to be never help anyone.
Of course, if you’re really, really keen to help people out, rather than building hospitals or volunteering at homeless shelters, you can simply give out Jack T. Chick religious tracts to people and tell them all about the Lake of Fire.
So instead of becoming a firefighter, or joining the Peace Corps, or working to cure cancer, consider simply accosting total strangers and telling them about the time we murdered God, and how that act can assure us a place in Heaven.
Young people who are simply “hanging out” seem to be especially receptive to this technique, by the way.
But anything else, like working to remove children from abusive homes, or providing vaccinations to people in third-world countries is just going to royally piss God off.
But if that demonic spirit of volunteerism and community service is still eating away at you, go ahead and volunteer...just be sure to bring plenty of tracts with you, and never forget that your sole purpose in volunteering is simply to create more opportunities to get people down on all fours and a-repenting.
Still, I can’t help wondering why it is that God pays no attention to the good things people do, but obsessively keeps track of all of the bad. Why so negative, God? Quit being such a downer. Nobody likes people who are always pointing out problems and never handing out kudos. Come on; it won’t kill you to give out the occasional “Attaboy!”
Turn that frown upside down, and remember that old song: accentuate the positive, eliminate the negat-
Oh, right, music is from the Devil, and, as presented by Jack T. Chick, God has no face, so who knows if He’s frowning or not.
Either way, just lighten up a little big guy. Did you ever think that maybe you’re the one with the problem? After all, you don’t see healthy people going around tossing missionaries and Nobel Peace Prize winners into a Lake of Fire, do you?
Maybe if you’d talk about it we could figure what’s really bothering you and find a more constructive outlet for those bad feelings than constantly hurling people into the Lake of Fire.
Maybe we could even consider some medication.
At the very least it seems like you could use a hug.
Ah well, I guess that’s enough casual blasphemy for right now.
I’ve found another Nick Cave song that’s captured my attention. It’s called “Are You The One That I’ve Been Waiting For?”
I have to say that it seems all too painfully familiar. I especially like the “ice age” line...
Last night on “Blind Date,” as part of what seemed to be a theme for this week, another couple got married. This time, though, it wasn’t two daters getting married while actually on their blind date. Instead it was a couple who had first met on “Blind Date” sometime back, continued dating, got engaged, and then agreed to have their wedding recorded for broadcast.
Under normal circumstances, many brides, in response to jitters and the generally nerve-wracking nature of weddings, can get a little…well, there’s no better word than “bitchy.”
These, of course, were not normal circumstances, and this particular bride-to-be seemed to have more of a natural inclination in that direction than most women to begin with, so I have to say that the day before the wedding didn’t seem to be an especially happy one for her, and she was making it her business to ensure that it wasn't a happy one for the groom either.
Despite her best efforts the groom managed to remain pretty relaxed.
In a total role-reversal, though, the day of the wedding found the bride relaxed almost to the point of being in a coma (champagne seemed to help in that regard), and, as he waited at the chosen location for her to arrive, the groom became progressively more agitated.
He was not exactly thrilled to see her when she arrived more than an hour late and a little drunk, especially since it was well after high tide on the beach where they were getting married.
In an angry move that he will be regretting for the rest of his life (and beyond, if his wife can find a way), when asked if he would take her to be his lawfully-wedded wife, he hung his head and stood in silent consideration for several minutes before saying “I do.”
With the two weddings and a couple of other highlights, I have to say that “Blind Date” was especially entertaining this week.
The ultimate moment, though, for me at least, came in the form of a disastrous turn of events on a date that had otherwise been going very well.
Amazingly well, actually.
Mocca, a dreadlocked wedding singer and playa extraordinaire (that’s the view he seemed to have of himself, at any rate), had found himself a sure thing in the form of his date (whose name escapes me, so we’ll call “Tramp”).
Tramp was a very, very attractive young woman, and very early on in the date she made it absolutely clear to Mocca, and anyone observing, that he was going to get lucky.
In fact, short of handing him a written affidavit certifying that she was going to have sex with him, there was absolutely nothing that she could have done to make this fact any clearer to him.
This annoyed me more than a little, as Mocca was exactly the kind of sleazy creep who should never have good things happen to him, but to whom bad things almost never happen. Once again, most likely as it had for most of his life, fate had handed him an underserved golden opportunity in the form of Tramp.
However, in what for my money may have been the greatest moment in the history of television HE BLEW IT.
He took a 100% guaranteed sure thing and absolutely destroyed his chances.
I sat on my couch, clapping my hands together in a geeky display of giddy glee when they stood outside his door and Tramp said, “You know, I don’t think I’m going to come in tonight.”
In his post-date wrap-up Mocca concluded that Tramp’s real name ought to have been "Tease," but that clearly wasn’t it. She hadn’t been leading him on; it was clear that she had fully intended to rock his world up until the moment that he blew it.
So what did he do, you ask? Well, as mentioned, his chances with Tramp were assured. All he had to do was wait for the cab to deliver the two of them to his place, take a minute to record his post-date impressions for the show, and then he was all set for a night of wild boot-knocking.
Instead, Mocca decided to try to pressure Tramp into having sex in the cab, in the presence of the cab driver, cameraman, and any other crew members who may have been present (the cab was a mini-van).
Ten minutes. If he had been willing to wait ten lousy minutes, he would have been set.
I could wait ten minutes with both hands tied behind my back...
Ah, that particular train wreck was truly a thing of beauty, and it almost made me believe that there is such a thing as justice in the world.
Almost.
The only thing that would have been sweeter would have been to let out a “Haw-Haw-Haw!” as Mocca was tossed screaming into the Lake of Fire…
On another episode of “Blind Date,” though, I did encounter a real injustice.
I totally forget the names here, so we’ll go with “guy” and “chick.”
Guy shows up to pick up this chick for their date. He’s a little on the cheesy side, bringing her flowers and a teddy bear, but hey, at least he was trying.
The guy had a little bit of a playa-wannabe vibe going on, but overall he seemed decent enough, and he definitely didn’t deserve what followed.
The onscreen graphics at one point describe the chick as “The Reason Men Don’t Understand Women.”
I have to say that was a pretty accurate assessment.
Throughout the date as the guy makes attempts to initiate conversation with the chick, she totally ignores him, and we have to suffer through the most painfully awkward silences I’ve ever encountered. Even in my own life I’ve never encountered anything that horribly, horribly awkward.
The chick just won’t say anything. The graphics indicate that there was “something” that he did at the front door that set her off. As a guess I was thinking it was the fact that he asked for a hug as they met, but while that was a little creepy, I didn’t think it warranted the kind of cold shoulder she was giving him.
But it wasn’t that anyway.
After several mostly silent hours she finally gave him the rundown.
Apparently what he did, in her mind, was much worse than asking for a hug.
What did he do?
His face, apparently, betrayed a visible reaction to the fact that she was attractive.
Essentially he appeared pleasantly surprised by her appearance, which is a terrible, terrible thing to do, as, according to her (once the floodgates opened she wouldn’t shut up again), if he had confidence in himself, he would never have been taken aback by the fact that she was good-looking.
If he had simply taken it in stride as a given, or as if it were somehow his due that his date would be attractive, things would have been okay. But no; he was surprised, and therefore was a complete bastard who didn't deserve any chance to prove himself to be a decent guy.
All I can say is that’s it a damn good thing he didn’t actually say something about her being attractive.
In any case, the end of my day is rapidly approaching, and I have some more tracts to read. I may also attempt to finish a nearly complete picture of Jessica Simpson.
It’s not the unfinished one I posted last week, though it is from the same set and in the same outfit.
For some reason I never got back to that picture.
I didn’t touch the bikini picture either. That one I might end up scrapping and starting over completely.
There are also several Alley Baggett pictures I’d like to draw.
*Sigh* If only the “so many women, so little time” thing applied to some aspect of my life other than my plans for drawing.
Then again, odds are if I did encounter more women I might accidentlally indicate that I find them attractive, and then I'd be out in the cold anyway...
Please Jack, Tell Me How I Can Avoid The Lake Of Fire!
So this morning I got up and thought about working out.
Then I thought about not working out.
Because the second idea didn’t involve lifting weights, it actually carried more weight, and so it was the one I went with.
I did need to venture out into the world, though, so I popped my contacts in and took a shower.
Initially I was planning to head to Wal-Mart and pick up a few things, but I decided that I didn’t need anything that Wal-Mart had to offer and restricted myself to going to the grocery store, as I didn’t want to have to go out into the world at all, so I might as well make my trip as short as possible.
Even though I was five items shy of the limit, I opted not to go through the “express” line, as it seemed to be moving at a rate roughly equivalent to that of continental drift.
The only other open line had fewer people and seemed to be moving slightly faster.
While in line, the woman ahead of me showed me that when it comes to being a crotchety old crank I still have a lot to learn. This woman had complaining distilled down to an art form! I felt bad for the younger woman in line ahead of her, who was on the receiving end of her rant (like a helpless Threshold reader).
The old woman was very loudly complaining about the high cost of living in general, and the high cost of items in the store in particular. While she didn’t explicitly say anything to that effect, there was a strong undercurrent of wistful reminiscing for the “good old days.”
At the end, as she paid for her groceries, she was even complaining about how ugly money is now, and how nothing should ever change, for any reason, under any circumstances.
If she hadn’t been slowing me down (Yes, I was in a hurry even though I didn’t actually have anywhere to go, and I’m sure if she’d noticed she would have complained about people being in a hurry.), and so irritating, I might have found her charming.
But she was slowing me down, and she was irritating, so she had no charm, even though I did have some grudging admiration for her ability to complain.
Once I got home and had put my groceries away I decided to put the new registration stickers on my license plates. While I was at it I decided to attend to a few other things, like reattaching the “cargo net” in my trunk and cleaning out my glove compartment.
In the process of the latter I discovered that I’ve been driving without a valid proof of insurance since October. Oops.
Fortunately that was rectified easily enough by grabbing one of the copies that I had in the apartment. My insurance company sends me multiple copies of my current proof of insurance on a regular basis. I had assumed that somewhere along the line I had thrown one in the car.
Guess not.
Then I looked up recipes for pork tenderloin. Of late I’ve been trying to make use of more pork, as it’s typically cheaper than beef and chicken. So I picked up a pork tenderloin today, hence the need to find a recipe.
I found several that seemed interesting, but ultimately I went with stuffed pork tenderloin, since the stuffing included bacon. In general, I’ve never been that big a fan of pork (so the whole decision to start cooking more pork is kind of a change for me), but I’ve always loved bacon (as most people who know me can attest).
Of course, I found that I was out of bread crumbs (one of the ingredients for the stuffing), so I had to walk over to Safeway to pick some up. I also needed some string for tying the tenderloin together after slicing it open, stuffing it, and rolling it up.
The only place I could get string was the scrapbooking place by Safeway. I’d bought string there once before, but they’d since moved it. The woman working there, probably unaccustomed to seeing a man in the store, came over to offer her assistance. I told her that I needed some string.
I didn’t want to say that I was going to use it for cooking, because who knows if you’re supposed to use some special string or what, so I was evasive when she asked me what I needed it for. I said simply that it was “complicated,” and left it at that.
She wasn’t about to let it drop, though, and she kept after me, explaining that the kind of string they sell is less than ideal for, say, holding things together, or for binding things, and the whole time I was thinking, “Look bitch, just sell me the damn string and stop asking questions.”
Of course I didn’t say that.
I can’t help but wonder what she was thinking, though. Maybe she thought I was some serial killer looking for some twine for binding up his first victim.
Oh well; she’d hardly be the first person to think that.
When I got home I ended up Googling something I’ve been meaning to look up for a while.
What was that, you ask? I’ll tell you: religious tracts written by Jack T. Chick.
Somewhere along the line in your life you’ve undoubtedly seen these, those weird little offensive pieces of fundamentalist Christian propaganda that, in comic book form, blithely tell you that you’re a wretched sinner who is soon going to die and burn forever in the Lake of Fire.
Some time ago I was actually reading some full-fledged comic books by this guy entitled “Crusader,” which purported to tell the story of a former Jesuit who wanted to expose the insidious plots of the Roman Catholic Church, to whom he used to report, to the world. Evidently the Roman Catholic Church has all sorts of diabolical plans to ensure that everyone goes to hell, as the Pope is actually in league with the Devil.
Most of his tracts are slightly less anti-Catholic, focusing instead on a “tough love” approach to getting people to accept Jesus Christ as their personal savior.
Chick’s tracts present an odd version of reality in which, for the most part, people only need to hear that Jesus died for their sins to be instantly won over. Some people resist, but fortunately they die pretty quickly, and are cast into the Lake of Fire.
Just to add an extra dose of torment, most of the unrepentant sinners are taken up to Heaven very briefly to see what they’re going to be missing out on, and to have it explained to them that it didn’t matter that they led upstanding lives and pledged themselves to the service of mankind. They didn’t get their sins expunged by believing in Jesus, so it’s off to the Lake of Fire for those misguided do-gooders, where they can writhe in agony throughout eternity next to other afterlife lottery losers like Mother Teresa (she was Catholic, after all).
The fact that we’re all going to Hell can’t be (and, according to Chick, isn’t) repeated enough.
Fortunately, God loves us so much that he gave us a way out: He shed his Precious Blood for us, which washes away our sins.
And our sins need to be washed away, as, much like ugly people at Studio 54, sinners are not allowed into heaven.
So yeah, since there’s nothing we can actually do (another point he frequently makes) to earn a spot in Heaven, it’s a good thing that God loves us so much.
Well, not so much that He won't still gleefully cast us into the Lake of Fire for all eternity if we don’t toe the line, but, you know, He still loves us a lot.
In any case, you may be wondering why I spent most of my day reading these things (and, in fact, sought them out).
I should think the answer would be obvious: I’m a devout fundamentalist Christian.
What? You mean you couldn’t tell? Darn, I really need to work on. After all, I need to let you know that you’re all sinners and you’re all going to roast in the Lake of Fire for all eternity unless you…
Wait a second. Jack T. Chick tells me that all I need to do to get into heaven is believe that God loves me and that He shed His Precious Blood to wash away my sins. After all, there are no good works that I can perform that will get me in. I just have to accept God’s love.
Hmm…so why should I waste my time trying convert you worthless sinning bastards? I mean, it’s not going to earn me any brownie points. God doesn’t give a rat’s ass what I do, so once I’ve been washed clean of sin by His Precious Blood, I can do what I want!
Whoo-hoo!
Most people in Chick tracts don’t seem to realize this, though.
Like “Eric,” the guy who knocked up his girlfriend, then dumped her as soon as she told him. He changed his plans, though, once a Chick-enlightened doctor explained to him that abortion is murder, and that if he lets his ex get the abortion, he’ll be just as guilty.
There’s good news, though, in the form of God shedding (you guessed it) His Precious Blood.
So, because he’s been saved, “Eric” changes his plans, stops his girlfriend from getting the abortion, and then he marries her.
If he’d had any sense, he would have just waited until after she left the clinic, then repented his sins.
Now he’s screwed. Here he is, not even out of high school yet, and he’s saddled with a wife and a kid.
(Conversely, since, as a human being and therefore a sinner, he was going to go to Hell anyway. What difference would the abortion have made? I mean, the Lake of Fire wouldn’t have been any hotter than it already is, and honestly, once you’re in excruciating pain, are you really going to notice if it gets more painful? And honestly, Chick’s tracts show us that any lowlife can get into Heaven, thanks to God’s Precious Blood. It actually seems like there’s a higher class of people in the Lake of Fire.)
Okay, I guess it’s not supposed to work that way, but honestly, that’s the idea that he’s selling.
Seriously, though, the only reason I’ve been reading the tracts is that they’re unintentionally hilarious.
To make it even more entertaining, I’ve been reading them via a site that features descriptions and links to the tracts, along with actual reviews.
If you’ve got some time to kill, I definitely recommend checking them out.
Besides, not only is it entertaining, it could SAVE YOUR SOUL.
Unless you’re Catholic, at any rate…
What I actually find most amusing about the tracts is the fact that Chick seems to think that the biggest problem in the world is a simple lack of even the most basic awareness of Jesus Christ.
Apparently the vast majority of people have managed to go their entire lives without ever encountering the notion that there was a guy named Jesus who was actually God in human form, and that He died on a cross.
Some people even manage to go through seminary and become ordained without ever hearing about that (though that’s due primarily to Jesuit infiltration at most of the country’s bible schools).
Fortunately, even if they don’t ultimately accept the message, pretty much everyone is receptive to it. Even devout Muslims who are in the middle of their daily devotions when you walk by and loudly mention that they’re worshipping the wrong god (after all, fundamentalist Islam is renowned for its tolerance of opposing viewpoints). Oh sure, they might make some lip-service about “killing the infidel,” but it’s all empty posturing. I highly recommend traveling to the Middle East and engaging in this activity in front of every mosque you see. You’re bound to win all kinds of converts, and make some interesting new friends while you’re at it.
The one thing I do wonder about, though, is what life is like after the tract.
I mean, once you’ve accepted J.C. (Not to be confused with Jack himself, who throws in the “T” to keep his initials from having even the appearance of being blasphemous) as your personal savior, what do you do next?
Presumably you’ve repented your sins, so that means that you can’t drink, smoke, do drugs, engage in sex outside of marriage, celebrate Halloween (it’s the Devil’s “birthday”), read Harry Potter books, watch shows like “Bewitched” on TV, listen to music (even Pat Boone is tainted by the Devil’s touch), go to college (they’ll try to teach you about evolution), swear, dance (it’s hard to dance without music anyway), play video games, be Catholic, burn candles (too much like witchcraft), or pretty much do anything other than go to church (as long as it’s not Catholic, of course), read the bible (King James version ONLY), and, of course, read and distribute tracts by Jack T. Chick.
When you don’t have tracts handy, be sure to at least mention to everyone you see that they’re going to go to Hell. It’s not a good day until you’ve gotten someone down on all fours begging God for forgiveness.
Here’s what I think a typical day in Jack T. Chick’s ideal world would be like:
6:00 AM: Wake up and immediately begin reading the bible. (Tip: A laminated bible makes it possible to read the Word of God while showering. That way you can clean your soul while cleaning your body…which you need to be sure to touch as little as possible.)
7:30 AM: Load up your pockets, lunch bag, briefcase, and socks with a good supply of Jack T. Chick religious tracts and step out into the world of sinners.
8:07 AM: On your morning commute, pass the time by counting the invisible demons telling people to do bad things. Let out a hearty “Haw! Haw! Haw!” as the angels surrounding you stymie the demons’ best efforts to tempt you.
8:56 AM: Arrive at work. Hate Catholics.
10:00 AM: Tell your boss that he's a sinner bound for the Lake of Fire. Never even consider the fact that this could get you fired, as so far it hasn't.
11:23 AM: Realize that you’ve already run out of tracts, having surreptitiously slipped several into the pockets of unsuspecting passersby and forced the rest onto every sinner (ie, every human being) you’ve encountered.
12:00 PM: Eat lunch. Hate Catholics.
12:15 PM: Return to your office. Inform your secretary that she is going to burn in the Lake of Fire for having breasts.
1:37 PM: Stare out your window wistfully and watch the client you just met with, who refused to accept Jesus Christ as his personal savior and stormed out, is run down by a truck being driven by demons. Take satisfaction in knowing that the client is now in the Lake of Fire.
2:14 PM: Hate Catholics.
2:41 PM: Stare rapturously at your Lake of Fire screensaver.
3:20 PM: Comfort secretary as she drops to all fours and prays for forgiveness. Nod with satisfaction when she states that she now “Feels clean!”
5:02 PM: Stop in at a Catholic church. Inform the priest working there that there was a guy named Jesus and that He died for our sins. Give priest a tract explaining why he’s a sinner and how he can be saved.
5:20 PM: Inform the swarthy, bearded man on the train holding a bomb that Allah is a moon god and that he’s going to go to Hell for backing the wrong horse. Hand him the “Allah Had No Son” tract, which explains that Muslims are precious to God, and He really wishes that they would join the fold so that He wouldn’t have to keep tossing them into the Lake of Fire.
6:00 PM: Arrive home. Hate Catholics.
8:00 PM: Listen to your son as he tells you about his day at school, which consisted of telling his teacher that she’s a lying sinner because she tried to teach him that the earth is round, and how the teacher brought in two homosexuals for “Show and Tell,” in accordance with the new laws (written by Satan) which mandate a minimum of three hours a week of “sensitivity” training. Commend him for his initiative, but remind him that these aren't the "good old days" when Christianity could be openly taught in school, and that he should save his comments for his fellow students once he's off school property, as expressing a belief in Christianity while in school can get you arrested and/or committed.
9:00 PM: Retire to bed after a session of efficient, Christian lovemaking with the wife. Try not to think about how your were picturing Jesus’ face on her body the whole time.
9:30 PM: Drift peacefully off to sleep with the sound of the burning flesh of sinners in the Lake of Fire as your lullaby.
2:09 AM: Wake up to relieve yourself. Hate Catholics.
Hmm…you know, in all honestly that day actually sounds more exciting than one of mine. Ah well…
Then I thought about not working out.
Because the second idea didn’t involve lifting weights, it actually carried more weight, and so it was the one I went with.
I did need to venture out into the world, though, so I popped my contacts in and took a shower.
Initially I was planning to head to Wal-Mart and pick up a few things, but I decided that I didn’t need anything that Wal-Mart had to offer and restricted myself to going to the grocery store, as I didn’t want to have to go out into the world at all, so I might as well make my trip as short as possible.
Even though I was five items shy of the limit, I opted not to go through the “express” line, as it seemed to be moving at a rate roughly equivalent to that of continental drift.
The only other open line had fewer people and seemed to be moving slightly faster.
While in line, the woman ahead of me showed me that when it comes to being a crotchety old crank I still have a lot to learn. This woman had complaining distilled down to an art form! I felt bad for the younger woman in line ahead of her, who was on the receiving end of her rant (like a helpless Threshold reader).
The old woman was very loudly complaining about the high cost of living in general, and the high cost of items in the store in particular. While she didn’t explicitly say anything to that effect, there was a strong undercurrent of wistful reminiscing for the “good old days.”
At the end, as she paid for her groceries, she was even complaining about how ugly money is now, and how nothing should ever change, for any reason, under any circumstances.
If she hadn’t been slowing me down (Yes, I was in a hurry even though I didn’t actually have anywhere to go, and I’m sure if she’d noticed she would have complained about people being in a hurry.), and so irritating, I might have found her charming.
But she was slowing me down, and she was irritating, so she had no charm, even though I did have some grudging admiration for her ability to complain.
Once I got home and had put my groceries away I decided to put the new registration stickers on my license plates. While I was at it I decided to attend to a few other things, like reattaching the “cargo net” in my trunk and cleaning out my glove compartment.
In the process of the latter I discovered that I’ve been driving without a valid proof of insurance since October. Oops.
Fortunately that was rectified easily enough by grabbing one of the copies that I had in the apartment. My insurance company sends me multiple copies of my current proof of insurance on a regular basis. I had assumed that somewhere along the line I had thrown one in the car.
Guess not.
Then I looked up recipes for pork tenderloin. Of late I’ve been trying to make use of more pork, as it’s typically cheaper than beef and chicken. So I picked up a pork tenderloin today, hence the need to find a recipe.
I found several that seemed interesting, but ultimately I went with stuffed pork tenderloin, since the stuffing included bacon. In general, I’ve never been that big a fan of pork (so the whole decision to start cooking more pork is kind of a change for me), but I’ve always loved bacon (as most people who know me can attest).
Of course, I found that I was out of bread crumbs (one of the ingredients for the stuffing), so I had to walk over to Safeway to pick some up. I also needed some string for tying the tenderloin together after slicing it open, stuffing it, and rolling it up.
The only place I could get string was the scrapbooking place by Safeway. I’d bought string there once before, but they’d since moved it. The woman working there, probably unaccustomed to seeing a man in the store, came over to offer her assistance. I told her that I needed some string.
I didn’t want to say that I was going to use it for cooking, because who knows if you’re supposed to use some special string or what, so I was evasive when she asked me what I needed it for. I said simply that it was “complicated,” and left it at that.
She wasn’t about to let it drop, though, and she kept after me, explaining that the kind of string they sell is less than ideal for, say, holding things together, or for binding things, and the whole time I was thinking, “Look bitch, just sell me the damn string and stop asking questions.”
Of course I didn’t say that.
I can’t help but wonder what she was thinking, though. Maybe she thought I was some serial killer looking for some twine for binding up his first victim.
Oh well; she’d hardly be the first person to think that.
When I got home I ended up Googling something I’ve been meaning to look up for a while.
What was that, you ask? I’ll tell you: religious tracts written by Jack T. Chick.
Somewhere along the line in your life you’ve undoubtedly seen these, those weird little offensive pieces of fundamentalist Christian propaganda that, in comic book form, blithely tell you that you’re a wretched sinner who is soon going to die and burn forever in the Lake of Fire.
Some time ago I was actually reading some full-fledged comic books by this guy entitled “Crusader,” which purported to tell the story of a former Jesuit who wanted to expose the insidious plots of the Roman Catholic Church, to whom he used to report, to the world. Evidently the Roman Catholic Church has all sorts of diabolical plans to ensure that everyone goes to hell, as the Pope is actually in league with the Devil.
Most of his tracts are slightly less anti-Catholic, focusing instead on a “tough love” approach to getting people to accept Jesus Christ as their personal savior.
Chick’s tracts present an odd version of reality in which, for the most part, people only need to hear that Jesus died for their sins to be instantly won over. Some people resist, but fortunately they die pretty quickly, and are cast into the Lake of Fire.
Just to add an extra dose of torment, most of the unrepentant sinners are taken up to Heaven very briefly to see what they’re going to be missing out on, and to have it explained to them that it didn’t matter that they led upstanding lives and pledged themselves to the service of mankind. They didn’t get their sins expunged by believing in Jesus, so it’s off to the Lake of Fire for those misguided do-gooders, where they can writhe in agony throughout eternity next to other afterlife lottery losers like Mother Teresa (she was Catholic, after all).
The fact that we’re all going to Hell can’t be (and, according to Chick, isn’t) repeated enough.
Fortunately, God loves us so much that he gave us a way out: He shed his Precious Blood for us, which washes away our sins.
And our sins need to be washed away, as, much like ugly people at Studio 54, sinners are not allowed into heaven.
So yeah, since there’s nothing we can actually do (another point he frequently makes) to earn a spot in Heaven, it’s a good thing that God loves us so much.
Well, not so much that He won't still gleefully cast us into the Lake of Fire for all eternity if we don’t toe the line, but, you know, He still loves us a lot.
In any case, you may be wondering why I spent most of my day reading these things (and, in fact, sought them out).
I should think the answer would be obvious: I’m a devout fundamentalist Christian.
What? You mean you couldn’t tell? Darn, I really need to work on. After all, I need to let you know that you’re all sinners and you’re all going to roast in the Lake of Fire for all eternity unless you…
Wait a second. Jack T. Chick tells me that all I need to do to get into heaven is believe that God loves me and that He shed His Precious Blood to wash away my sins. After all, there are no good works that I can perform that will get me in. I just have to accept God’s love.
Hmm…so why should I waste my time trying convert you worthless sinning bastards? I mean, it’s not going to earn me any brownie points. God doesn’t give a rat’s ass what I do, so once I’ve been washed clean of sin by His Precious Blood, I can do what I want!
Whoo-hoo!
Most people in Chick tracts don’t seem to realize this, though.
Like “Eric,” the guy who knocked up his girlfriend, then dumped her as soon as she told him. He changed his plans, though, once a Chick-enlightened doctor explained to him that abortion is murder, and that if he lets his ex get the abortion, he’ll be just as guilty.
There’s good news, though, in the form of God shedding (you guessed it) His Precious Blood.
So, because he’s been saved, “Eric” changes his plans, stops his girlfriend from getting the abortion, and then he marries her.
If he’d had any sense, he would have just waited until after she left the clinic, then repented his sins.
Now he’s screwed. Here he is, not even out of high school yet, and he’s saddled with a wife and a kid.
(Conversely, since, as a human being and therefore a sinner, he was going to go to Hell anyway. What difference would the abortion have made? I mean, the Lake of Fire wouldn’t have been any hotter than it already is, and honestly, once you’re in excruciating pain, are you really going to notice if it gets more painful? And honestly, Chick’s tracts show us that any lowlife can get into Heaven, thanks to God’s Precious Blood. It actually seems like there’s a higher class of people in the Lake of Fire.)
Okay, I guess it’s not supposed to work that way, but honestly, that’s the idea that he’s selling.
Seriously, though, the only reason I’ve been reading the tracts is that they’re unintentionally hilarious.
To make it even more entertaining, I’ve been reading them via a site that features descriptions and links to the tracts, along with actual reviews.
If you’ve got some time to kill, I definitely recommend checking them out.
Besides, not only is it entertaining, it could SAVE YOUR SOUL.
Unless you’re Catholic, at any rate…
What I actually find most amusing about the tracts is the fact that Chick seems to think that the biggest problem in the world is a simple lack of even the most basic awareness of Jesus Christ.
Apparently the vast majority of people have managed to go their entire lives without ever encountering the notion that there was a guy named Jesus who was actually God in human form, and that He died on a cross.
Some people even manage to go through seminary and become ordained without ever hearing about that (though that’s due primarily to Jesuit infiltration at most of the country’s bible schools).
Fortunately, even if they don’t ultimately accept the message, pretty much everyone is receptive to it. Even devout Muslims who are in the middle of their daily devotions when you walk by and loudly mention that they’re worshipping the wrong god (after all, fundamentalist Islam is renowned for its tolerance of opposing viewpoints). Oh sure, they might make some lip-service about “killing the infidel,” but it’s all empty posturing. I highly recommend traveling to the Middle East and engaging in this activity in front of every mosque you see. You’re bound to win all kinds of converts, and make some interesting new friends while you’re at it.
The one thing I do wonder about, though, is what life is like after the tract.
I mean, once you’ve accepted J.C. (Not to be confused with Jack himself, who throws in the “T” to keep his initials from having even the appearance of being blasphemous) as your personal savior, what do you do next?
Presumably you’ve repented your sins, so that means that you can’t drink, smoke, do drugs, engage in sex outside of marriage, celebrate Halloween (it’s the Devil’s “birthday”), read Harry Potter books, watch shows like “Bewitched” on TV, listen to music (even Pat Boone is tainted by the Devil’s touch), go to college (they’ll try to teach you about evolution), swear, dance (it’s hard to dance without music anyway), play video games, be Catholic, burn candles (too much like witchcraft), or pretty much do anything other than go to church (as long as it’s not Catholic, of course), read the bible (King James version ONLY), and, of course, read and distribute tracts by Jack T. Chick.
When you don’t have tracts handy, be sure to at least mention to everyone you see that they’re going to go to Hell. It’s not a good day until you’ve gotten someone down on all fours begging God for forgiveness.
Here’s what I think a typical day in Jack T. Chick’s ideal world would be like:
6:00 AM: Wake up and immediately begin reading the bible. (Tip: A laminated bible makes it possible to read the Word of God while showering. That way you can clean your soul while cleaning your body…which you need to be sure to touch as little as possible.)
7:30 AM: Load up your pockets, lunch bag, briefcase, and socks with a good supply of Jack T. Chick religious tracts and step out into the world of sinners.
8:07 AM: On your morning commute, pass the time by counting the invisible demons telling people to do bad things. Let out a hearty “Haw! Haw! Haw!” as the angels surrounding you stymie the demons’ best efforts to tempt you.
8:56 AM: Arrive at work. Hate Catholics.
10:00 AM: Tell your boss that he's a sinner bound for the Lake of Fire. Never even consider the fact that this could get you fired, as so far it hasn't.
11:23 AM: Realize that you’ve already run out of tracts, having surreptitiously slipped several into the pockets of unsuspecting passersby and forced the rest onto every sinner (ie, every human being) you’ve encountered.
12:00 PM: Eat lunch. Hate Catholics.
12:15 PM: Return to your office. Inform your secretary that she is going to burn in the Lake of Fire for having breasts.
1:37 PM: Stare out your window wistfully and watch the client you just met with, who refused to accept Jesus Christ as his personal savior and stormed out, is run down by a truck being driven by demons. Take satisfaction in knowing that the client is now in the Lake of Fire.
2:14 PM: Hate Catholics.
2:41 PM: Stare rapturously at your Lake of Fire screensaver.
3:20 PM: Comfort secretary as she drops to all fours and prays for forgiveness. Nod with satisfaction when she states that she now “Feels clean!”
5:02 PM: Stop in at a Catholic church. Inform the priest working there that there was a guy named Jesus and that He died for our sins. Give priest a tract explaining why he’s a sinner and how he can be saved.
5:20 PM: Inform the swarthy, bearded man on the train holding a bomb that Allah is a moon god and that he’s going to go to Hell for backing the wrong horse. Hand him the “Allah Had No Son” tract, which explains that Muslims are precious to God, and He really wishes that they would join the fold so that He wouldn’t have to keep tossing them into the Lake of Fire.
6:00 PM: Arrive home. Hate Catholics.
8:00 PM: Listen to your son as he tells you about his day at school, which consisted of telling his teacher that she’s a lying sinner because she tried to teach him that the earth is round, and how the teacher brought in two homosexuals for “Show and Tell,” in accordance with the new laws (written by Satan) which mandate a minimum of three hours a week of “sensitivity” training. Commend him for his initiative, but remind him that these aren't the "good old days" when Christianity could be openly taught in school, and that he should save his comments for his fellow students once he's off school property, as expressing a belief in Christianity while in school can get you arrested and/or committed.
9:00 PM: Retire to bed after a session of efficient, Christian lovemaking with the wife. Try not to think about how your were picturing Jesus’ face on her body the whole time.
9:30 PM: Drift peacefully off to sleep with the sound of the burning flesh of sinners in the Lake of Fire as your lullaby.
2:09 AM: Wake up to relieve yourself. Hate Catholics.
Hmm…you know, in all honestly that day actually sounds more exciting than one of mine. Ah well…
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
WTF???
Found this on the IMDb page for Sin City:
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Kindergarten Cop (1990)
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Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Not Hot For Teacher, A Workout Plan I Could Support, and What Color is His Left Hand?
Cooking class was kind of a dud. We made chocolate chip cookies and brownies. Whoopee.
I’ve made cookies and brownies many times before, so it was pretty much a waste of time.
I didn’t bother taking any pictures because they were cookies and brownies. No real surprises in how they turned out.
Kathleen was ill, so I had to go by myself.
Everyone else there split up into two groups of three, leaving me on my own, which was the way I wanted it anyway.
What I found a little irritating, though, was the way the instructor, Juli, continually made reference to me being “quiet.” It wasn’t intended to be an insult or anything, and I suppose it was true enough, but the whole “quiet” things just gets on my nerves sometimes, particularly in this case. I mean, I was in one of the kitchens by myself. The kitchen right next to mine wasn’t being used because the cabinets in it were locked (Juli doesn’t have the key), so I was completely isolated from the rest of the group.
Who was I supposed to be talking to? Should I have been singing a song? Shouting obscenities?
Maybe I am unusually quiet under most circumstances, but in this case the fact that I was quiet didn’t seem especially worthy of comment, so it annoyed me a little that she kept mentioning it.
The fact that Juli isn’t cute annoyed me more, though. If she were, I would have had an ideal opening tonight. I didn’t take it, though, because, as mentioned, she isn’t cute.
And the fact that she has made repeated references to going to church makes her even less attractive, as undoubtedly my views on religion would clash with hers.
But that particular personality clash would never be an issue, since, as mentioned, she just is not cute.
Seriously.
I only mention it so much because I was actually trying to force myself to find something cute about her tonight.
I just couldn’t do it, particularly since even “beer goggles” aren’t an option anymore. Not that it would matter, as my beer goggle prescription was pretty strong, so by the time I got drunk enough to think someone was cute I was on the verge of passing out anyway.
But no, despite my efforts to change my view, she didn’t get any cuter.
The opening, by the way, came when I was attempting to spread the brownie batter into the pan. Scraping the last bit of batter out with one hand, while holding the mixing bowl with the other was proving a bit of a challenge, so she came over and offered to hold the bowl for me.
She then said something like “Sometimes you just need to have that third hand.”
I’ve actually had that thought many times; all other considerations aside, it would be nice to have a significant other for no other reason than simply to have an extra set of hands around the house.
In response I said, “Yeah, but the problem is that at home I never have the third hand.”
She said, “I know the feeling,” and I thought, “Damn you, why can’t you be cute?”
Even I could have managed to parlay that situation into a conversation (at the very least), but given the fact that I feel zero attraction (and, in fact, a fair amount of repulsion), I just let it drop.
Still, it occurred to me then that, apart from someone who works a weird schedule like mine, my ideal match would probably be a teacher.
After all, the teacher mindset would probably work well with my personal temperament, and a teacher’s schedule would jive reasonably well with mine. At the very least we’d get to spend a lot of time together during the summer, plus she’d have the occasional holiday breaks.
So as far as a mate who works more or less traditional hours, a teacher would be a very good choice for me.
Just not Juli.
Lately the default CD in my car has been Liz Phair’s “Exile In Guyville,” but apparently after having spent so much time listening to women artists such as Liz, and after having just gotten through baking cookies and brownies, my inner metalhead decided to assert itself and I threw in Danzig II: Lucifuge to listen to on the way home.
I ended up hurting my ears and my throat.
Juli definitely wouldn’t have called me quiet if she’d been in the car for that.
Of course, being a prim and proper (but not cute) church-going girl, she probably would have been horrified and would have bailed out of the car at the first stoplight.
Today I actually managed to force myself to get some exercise. I went over to the weight room and spent a half an hour on the treadmill. In theory I’ll be working out tomorrow morning, but I have my doubts about whether theory will become practice.
I have to become more active during the week, though, as the Friday and Saturday morning workouts just aren’t cutting it on their own.
Even those are requiring an extreme amount of will power, though. I thought I had used up all of the will power I had just forcing myself to get out of bed Friday morning and drive there, but then I managed to scrape up enough to actually work out while I was there.
While I was impressed by the amount of will power I demonstrated, it really shouldn’t take that much.
I thought I was supposed to enjoy working out, or at least enjoy the sense of accomplishment afterwards.
So far that isn’t happening.
Honestly, I find myself wondering why I gave up something that I did enjoy (smoking), and more or less replaced it with something that I absolutely hate.
Hey Phillip Morris and RJR Nabisco, here’s my challenge to you: make a cigarette that not only isn’t hazardous to your health but actually reproduces the effects of a healthy diet and regular exercise.
How hard could it be to come up with something like that? If they could create something like that, rather than working on increasing my reps I could get in shape by going back to smoking two packs a day.
Even though I know I’m better off not doing it, I really do miss smoking sometimes.
I suppose that’s hardly surprising. I mean, it’s only been nine months since I quit, compared to the nearly eighteen years that I smoked. I actually spent more years smoking than not.
And it’s not as if I actually have an overwhelming urge to smoke, it’s just that sometimes it feels like something is missing (because something is, honestly).
Ah well.
Last night on “Blind Date,” two daters actually got married.
It started off as a joke, but by the end of the date, thanks to the girl’s roommate, who was empowered to marry people (through the “Church of Universal Light,” or whatever that church is that will make you a minister for like $25), they were gathered in the VIP room at “Cheetah’s” with some witnesses and getting legally hitched.
Not surprisingly, they were more than a little drunk.
What was more shocking than the fact that they got married, though, was the guy’s Bob Ross (“The Joy of Painting”) style white guy afro…
Did I mention that the semi-cute girl who told me that I smelled REALLY good no longer works in the rental office?
It’s been a very long time since I saw her in there, and yesterday when I got the little newsletter they print up I noted that her name was no longer listed.
Ah well.
For anyone who’s paying attention it’s probably apparent that of late the only sources of new (to me) music seem to be either Liz Phair or Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
That trend is continuing, and my current new favorite song is “Red Right Hand.” It’s a great song, and is featured, however briefly, in the movie “Hellboy.”
Throughout the years I’ve noticed Nick Cave songs popping up in all kinds of movies and TV shows (the oddest place being the soundtrack to “Shrek 2”).
I’ve been listening to Nick for a while, but it’s only recently that I’ve been making more of an effort to fill in my collection.
Beyond the cooking class, my Tuesday was pretty uneventful (even for me), so I guess that’s all for now.
I’ve made cookies and brownies many times before, so it was pretty much a waste of time.
I didn’t bother taking any pictures because they were cookies and brownies. No real surprises in how they turned out.
Kathleen was ill, so I had to go by myself.
Everyone else there split up into two groups of three, leaving me on my own, which was the way I wanted it anyway.
What I found a little irritating, though, was the way the instructor, Juli, continually made reference to me being “quiet.” It wasn’t intended to be an insult or anything, and I suppose it was true enough, but the whole “quiet” things just gets on my nerves sometimes, particularly in this case. I mean, I was in one of the kitchens by myself. The kitchen right next to mine wasn’t being used because the cabinets in it were locked (Juli doesn’t have the key), so I was completely isolated from the rest of the group.
Who was I supposed to be talking to? Should I have been singing a song? Shouting obscenities?
Maybe I am unusually quiet under most circumstances, but in this case the fact that I was quiet didn’t seem especially worthy of comment, so it annoyed me a little that she kept mentioning it.
The fact that Juli isn’t cute annoyed me more, though. If she were, I would have had an ideal opening tonight. I didn’t take it, though, because, as mentioned, she isn’t cute.
And the fact that she has made repeated references to going to church makes her even less attractive, as undoubtedly my views on religion would clash with hers.
But that particular personality clash would never be an issue, since, as mentioned, she just is not cute.
Seriously.
I only mention it so much because I was actually trying to force myself to find something cute about her tonight.
I just couldn’t do it, particularly since even “beer goggles” aren’t an option anymore. Not that it would matter, as my beer goggle prescription was pretty strong, so by the time I got drunk enough to think someone was cute I was on the verge of passing out anyway.
But no, despite my efforts to change my view, she didn’t get any cuter.
The opening, by the way, came when I was attempting to spread the brownie batter into the pan. Scraping the last bit of batter out with one hand, while holding the mixing bowl with the other was proving a bit of a challenge, so she came over and offered to hold the bowl for me.
She then said something like “Sometimes you just need to have that third hand.”
I’ve actually had that thought many times; all other considerations aside, it would be nice to have a significant other for no other reason than simply to have an extra set of hands around the house.
In response I said, “Yeah, but the problem is that at home I never have the third hand.”
She said, “I know the feeling,” and I thought, “Damn you, why can’t you be cute?”
Even I could have managed to parlay that situation into a conversation (at the very least), but given the fact that I feel zero attraction (and, in fact, a fair amount of repulsion), I just let it drop.
Still, it occurred to me then that, apart from someone who works a weird schedule like mine, my ideal match would probably be a teacher.
After all, the teacher mindset would probably work well with my personal temperament, and a teacher’s schedule would jive reasonably well with mine. At the very least we’d get to spend a lot of time together during the summer, plus she’d have the occasional holiday breaks.
So as far as a mate who works more or less traditional hours, a teacher would be a very good choice for me.
Just not Juli.
Lately the default CD in my car has been Liz Phair’s “Exile In Guyville,” but apparently after having spent so much time listening to women artists such as Liz, and after having just gotten through baking cookies and brownies, my inner metalhead decided to assert itself and I threw in Danzig II: Lucifuge to listen to on the way home.
I ended up hurting my ears and my throat.
Juli definitely wouldn’t have called me quiet if she’d been in the car for that.
Of course, being a prim and proper (but not cute) church-going girl, she probably would have been horrified and would have bailed out of the car at the first stoplight.
Today I actually managed to force myself to get some exercise. I went over to the weight room and spent a half an hour on the treadmill. In theory I’ll be working out tomorrow morning, but I have my doubts about whether theory will become practice.
I have to become more active during the week, though, as the Friday and Saturday morning workouts just aren’t cutting it on their own.
Even those are requiring an extreme amount of will power, though. I thought I had used up all of the will power I had just forcing myself to get out of bed Friday morning and drive there, but then I managed to scrape up enough to actually work out while I was there.
While I was impressed by the amount of will power I demonstrated, it really shouldn’t take that much.
I thought I was supposed to enjoy working out, or at least enjoy the sense of accomplishment afterwards.
So far that isn’t happening.
Honestly, I find myself wondering why I gave up something that I did enjoy (smoking), and more or less replaced it with something that I absolutely hate.
Hey Phillip Morris and RJR Nabisco, here’s my challenge to you: make a cigarette that not only isn’t hazardous to your health but actually reproduces the effects of a healthy diet and regular exercise.
How hard could it be to come up with something like that? If they could create something like that, rather than working on increasing my reps I could get in shape by going back to smoking two packs a day.
Even though I know I’m better off not doing it, I really do miss smoking sometimes.
I suppose that’s hardly surprising. I mean, it’s only been nine months since I quit, compared to the nearly eighteen years that I smoked. I actually spent more years smoking than not.
And it’s not as if I actually have an overwhelming urge to smoke, it’s just that sometimes it feels like something is missing (because something is, honestly).
Ah well.
Last night on “Blind Date,” two daters actually got married.
It started off as a joke, but by the end of the date, thanks to the girl’s roommate, who was empowered to marry people (through the “Church of Universal Light,” or whatever that church is that will make you a minister for like $25), they were gathered in the VIP room at “Cheetah’s” with some witnesses and getting legally hitched.
Not surprisingly, they were more than a little drunk.
What was more shocking than the fact that they got married, though, was the guy’s Bob Ross (“The Joy of Painting”) style white guy afro…
Did I mention that the semi-cute girl who told me that I smelled REALLY good no longer works in the rental office?
It’s been a very long time since I saw her in there, and yesterday when I got the little newsletter they print up I noted that her name was no longer listed.
Ah well.
For anyone who’s paying attention it’s probably apparent that of late the only sources of new (to me) music seem to be either Liz Phair or Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
That trend is continuing, and my current new favorite song is “Red Right Hand.” It’s a great song, and is featured, however briefly, in the movie “Hellboy.”
Throughout the years I’ve noticed Nick Cave songs popping up in all kinds of movies and TV shows (the oddest place being the soundtrack to “Shrek 2”).
I’ve been listening to Nick for a while, but it’s only recently that I’ve been making more of an effort to fill in my collection.
Beyond the cooking class, my Tuesday was pretty uneventful (even for me), so I guess that’s all for now.
Funny Ads (Not So Funny Article)
Apparently some of the best Super Bowl ads were the ads that didn't get aired.
Like this one. (Choose the Uncensored version, obviously)
Or this one.
The fact that the ads weren't aired seems to indicate that not only can you not get away with having a nipple on live television, you aren't even allowed to make fun of people for being upset about a person having a nipple.
Hmm...it's been a while since I was in school, but it seems to me that as Americans we had some sort of Bill of Something or Other that gave us Freedom of...ummm....there was some kind of freedom.
Evidently, though, if I were still in school, I probably still wouldn't know what kind of freedom.
Anyway, just wanted to make a quick post. I'm sure the information contained herein will amuse some of you even as it depresses you...
Like this one. (Choose the Uncensored version, obviously)
Or this one.
The fact that the ads weren't aired seems to indicate that not only can you not get away with having a nipple on live television, you aren't even allowed to make fun of people for being upset about a person having a nipple.
Hmm...it's been a while since I was in school, but it seems to me that as Americans we had some sort of Bill of Something or Other that gave us Freedom of...ummm....there was some kind of freedom.
Evidently, though, if I were still in school, I probably still wouldn't know what kind of freedom.
Anyway, just wanted to make a quick post. I'm sure the information contained herein will amuse some of you even as it depresses you...
Monday, February 07, 2005
The Hazards of X-Ray Vision, I Don't WANT To Go Home Again, and the Super What?
This afternoon I attended a three-hour class held in a training room at my company’s headquarters.
The class itself wasn’t directly applicable to my job itself, though it did address a specific associated aspect of my job. I’m being deliberately vague as it involves an area and aspect of my company's policies that it’s probably best I not discuss too much in-depth here.
Suffice to say that the class was actually pretty boring, and the only redeeming value I see it having is that taking it will add three hours of overtime to my next paycheck.
As I’ve mentioned before, headquarters is where most of the company’s attractive employees are likely to be found, and I generally refer to it as the home of the “beautiful people.”
One other aspect of headquarters is that it consists of a lot of really long hallways, which you invariably spend a good deal of time walking through, since the parking areas tend to be pretty far away from where you ultimately need to be.
In the course of my travels down a lengthy hallway I actually had an encounter with one of the beautiful people.
By “encounter” I mean that I was walking behind her looking at her ass. I wasn’t walking behind her for the explicit purpose of looking at her ass; it’s just that, since I was behind her, I had to do something with my time.
While it was a very nice ass indeed, I can’t really say that I enjoyed the experience of looking at it (okay; I did, but read on...), as, honestly, visual stimulation of that sort is pretty much the last thing I need. I mean, certainly I appreciated it, but I really don’t need the additional frustration such a sight brings into my life.
What actually made matters worse was the fact that the fabric of her thin, off-white pants made the outline of her dark-colored thong very clearly visible.
So there I was, walking this long hallway with the closest thing to a real-world equivalent to X-Ray Vision I’ve ever encountered, torn between being grateful that, under the circumstances, she did have such a nice ass and wishing that I had the force of will to look away.
As I failed to muster the will to look away, I found myself thinking all sorts of thoughts, most of which I won’t repeat here.
Among the less indecent thoughts I had, though, was an overwhelming curiosity as to what this woman was thinking when she’d gotten dressed. I’m not of the opinion that this was done in a deliberate attempt to draw attention to herself, but it seems to me that most women would know better than to pair dark underwear (whether of the thong variety or otherwise) with thin, light pants.
Ah well, I suppose we all have moments when we forget basic principles like that.
Despite the preponderance of beautiful people to be found at headquarters, the actual class was almost entirely devoid of them.
As is invariably the case with pretty much anything involving my company, the majority of people there were overweight, nerdy men.
There were a handful of women there, but only one of them was even slightly (and it was only very slightly) attractive. She did sit next to me, though, but my a quick ring scan showed her to be off the market.
Because the pickings there were so slim (in terms of quantity, anyway, since the actual “pickings” were mostly pretty far from slim), I was glad that Kathleen (who is excluded from being factored into the attractiveness equation) was also taking the class so that we could partner up for any “group” activities.
After all, if I can’t meet attractive, single women, I don’t really have that much interest in interacting with new people (Hey, it says right in my profile that I’m anti-social. “Meeting new people” is pretty close to the top of my list of things I don’t enjoy doing.).
As the class was breaking up the semi-attractive woman sitting next to me actually sparked up a conversation with me, as she had taken note when I mentioned, during the “introductions” portion of the class, that I had moved out here from Tucson. It seems that she and her husband had also moved here from Tucson.
It occurred to me that this was pretty much exactly the sort of thing that I always hope to have happen when I go out into the world: to meet a reasonably attractive woman with whom I share some sort of connection or interest, however tenuous, which can facilitate conversation.
The ideal circumstance would be for me to parlay that initial conversation into something slightly more in-depth, possibly continued over dinner.
However, while this is what I’m always on the look-out for when I’m out in the world, pretty much the only time this sort of thing happens is, like today, with a married woman, or with some guy, neither of which is anywhere near the ideal circumstance.
So in this case I opted to point out that Kathleen had also moved out here from Tucson and let the two of them have a conversation without much more involvement on my part.
Speaking of moving, this morning before I woke up I had a dream that I had quit my job and moved back home to Michigan.
In the dream, even as I was explaining my reasoning and motivation for this move to a friend, I was thinking, “Why? Why would I do something like this? I don’t want to go home! There isn't a chance a in hell that I'll find a job that pays anywhere near as much as my job in Virginia did, and besides that I was actually fairly happy there. Why would I leave, and if I were going to leave, why wouldn’t I go back to Tucson instead? Why, Jon, why?”
What made it particularly baffling was the fact that, as I was talking to my friend, one of those “real” winter storms that I’m always ranting about was going on outside, and though my flight had arrived safely I was now snowed in at the airport, as all of the roads were closed.
I was very relieved to wake and find that it was all just a dream…
Over the weekend a friend of mine, in response to last week’s ranting, sent me a link explaining the Homosexual Agenda.
Finally, the truth has been revealed!
For her eighteenth birthday, my niece Jourdan got herself a tattoo. Evidently I paid for half of it with the money I gave her.
There’s not much I can say, as I have three tattoos myself, and at least hers were done professionally (mine were done with a tattoo gun made from a Walkman motor, a pen, and a guitar string).
The weekend was largely uneventful, though for a while I thought that I might have to actually make use of one of my sick days for the first time in over two years. Ever since I quit drinking I almost never get sick, even though in the closed environment I work in I’m often exposed to all manner of communicable diseases.
Friday, though, found me feeling absolutely terrible, with a headache that made it hurt to think, and which brought about feelings of nausea as if in sympathy with the headache.
However, I woke up Saturday morning feeling none the worse for wear (although, oddly enough, I felt ravenously hungry), and it was back to business as usual.
Evidently there was some sort of sporting event yesterday. The World Series of Golf or something.
No, even I’m not enough of a nerd to not realize that it was the Super Bowl.
Naturally I didn’t watch it because my team wasn’t playing…wait, I don’t have a team. So why didn’t I watch it? Oh yeah, I remember: because it was a football game.
Every year the Super Bowl brings out such conflicting emotions it me. I can’t decide whether I don’t give a rat’s ass or if I don’t give a flying fuck.
Like anything having to do with sports, the Super Bowl is utterly incapable of capturing my attention. Until Saturday I hadn’t even known who was playing in it. As it stands, I’d have difficulty recalling who it was now. I believe the Patriots won, though I don’t remember who they beat.
Not that it matters, as it’s not as though the championship title really means much of anything after the game. I mean, when the new season starts it’s not as if they go into it being the defending champions in the way that a boxing champion is the reigning champ. Winning the game doesn’t even guarantee them a spot in the next one. Once the new season starts they’re just another team like any other, and their championship is yesterday’s news.
On the topic of the Patriots, I find it out that they’re so geographically undefined. They’re not like the Packers, or the Bears, who are affiliated with specific cities. I mean, “New England?” An entire region can lay claim to them. They don’t even break it down by state, let alone city. If I lived in Massachusetts I’d be pissed that I have to share my team with Rhode Island (Actually, I wouldn’t, since I really don’t give a shit about sports, but this is for rhetorical purposes).
Honestly, though, that might not be a bad idea. Maybe the NFL should pare the teams down a little, having teams that represent entire regions rather than specific cities. You could have teams like the “Pacific Northwest Rain,” or the “Northeastern Nor’easters.”
You could have the “Southwest Agaves.” The “Bible Belt Fanatics.” The “Beltway Insiders.”
And to make up for the lower number of teams, they could follow the more sensible boxing model and eliminate the whole “season” concept, having year round “bouts,” some for the title, others for the rights to compete in a title bout.
Of course, it would still be boring as shit, and I’d never watch it, but it’s just a thought.
As for the actual Super Bowl itself, I heard that the halftime show was rather boring. Obviously there wasn’t going to be the kind of buzz generated by last year’s (after all, I’d be willing to bet that Fox had snipers in position to take out anyone who even looked like he or she might expose a nipple), but I gather that even disregarding any sort of controversy, or lack thereof, the show was just boring.
Even the commercials, it seems, were less than inspired.
Ah well.
In any case, I guess that’s it for now.
The class itself wasn’t directly applicable to my job itself, though it did address a specific associated aspect of my job. I’m being deliberately vague as it involves an area and aspect of my company's policies that it’s probably best I not discuss too much in-depth here.
Suffice to say that the class was actually pretty boring, and the only redeeming value I see it having is that taking it will add three hours of overtime to my next paycheck.
As I’ve mentioned before, headquarters is where most of the company’s attractive employees are likely to be found, and I generally refer to it as the home of the “beautiful people.”
One other aspect of headquarters is that it consists of a lot of really long hallways, which you invariably spend a good deal of time walking through, since the parking areas tend to be pretty far away from where you ultimately need to be.
In the course of my travels down a lengthy hallway I actually had an encounter with one of the beautiful people.
By “encounter” I mean that I was walking behind her looking at her ass. I wasn’t walking behind her for the explicit purpose of looking at her ass; it’s just that, since I was behind her, I had to do something with my time.
While it was a very nice ass indeed, I can’t really say that I enjoyed the experience of looking at it (okay; I did, but read on...), as, honestly, visual stimulation of that sort is pretty much the last thing I need. I mean, certainly I appreciated it, but I really don’t need the additional frustration such a sight brings into my life.
What actually made matters worse was the fact that the fabric of her thin, off-white pants made the outline of her dark-colored thong very clearly visible.
So there I was, walking this long hallway with the closest thing to a real-world equivalent to X-Ray Vision I’ve ever encountered, torn between being grateful that, under the circumstances, she did have such a nice ass and wishing that I had the force of will to look away.
As I failed to muster the will to look away, I found myself thinking all sorts of thoughts, most of which I won’t repeat here.
Among the less indecent thoughts I had, though, was an overwhelming curiosity as to what this woman was thinking when she’d gotten dressed. I’m not of the opinion that this was done in a deliberate attempt to draw attention to herself, but it seems to me that most women would know better than to pair dark underwear (whether of the thong variety or otherwise) with thin, light pants.
Ah well, I suppose we all have moments when we forget basic principles like that.
Despite the preponderance of beautiful people to be found at headquarters, the actual class was almost entirely devoid of them.
As is invariably the case with pretty much anything involving my company, the majority of people there were overweight, nerdy men.
There were a handful of women there, but only one of them was even slightly (and it was only very slightly) attractive. She did sit next to me, though, but my a quick ring scan showed her to be off the market.
Because the pickings there were so slim (in terms of quantity, anyway, since the actual “pickings” were mostly pretty far from slim), I was glad that Kathleen (who is excluded from being factored into the attractiveness equation) was also taking the class so that we could partner up for any “group” activities.
After all, if I can’t meet attractive, single women, I don’t really have that much interest in interacting with new people (Hey, it says right in my profile that I’m anti-social. “Meeting new people” is pretty close to the top of my list of things I don’t enjoy doing.).
As the class was breaking up the semi-attractive woman sitting next to me actually sparked up a conversation with me, as she had taken note when I mentioned, during the “introductions” portion of the class, that I had moved out here from Tucson. It seems that she and her husband had also moved here from Tucson.
It occurred to me that this was pretty much exactly the sort of thing that I always hope to have happen when I go out into the world: to meet a reasonably attractive woman with whom I share some sort of connection or interest, however tenuous, which can facilitate conversation.
The ideal circumstance would be for me to parlay that initial conversation into something slightly more in-depth, possibly continued over dinner.
However, while this is what I’m always on the look-out for when I’m out in the world, pretty much the only time this sort of thing happens is, like today, with a married woman, or with some guy, neither of which is anywhere near the ideal circumstance.
So in this case I opted to point out that Kathleen had also moved out here from Tucson and let the two of them have a conversation without much more involvement on my part.
Speaking of moving, this morning before I woke up I had a dream that I had quit my job and moved back home to Michigan.
In the dream, even as I was explaining my reasoning and motivation for this move to a friend, I was thinking, “Why? Why would I do something like this? I don’t want to go home! There isn't a chance a in hell that I'll find a job that pays anywhere near as much as my job in Virginia did, and besides that I was actually fairly happy there. Why would I leave, and if I were going to leave, why wouldn’t I go back to Tucson instead? Why, Jon, why?”
What made it particularly baffling was the fact that, as I was talking to my friend, one of those “real” winter storms that I’m always ranting about was going on outside, and though my flight had arrived safely I was now snowed in at the airport, as all of the roads were closed.
I was very relieved to wake and find that it was all just a dream…
Over the weekend a friend of mine, in response to last week’s ranting, sent me a link explaining the Homosexual Agenda.
Finally, the truth has been revealed!
For her eighteenth birthday, my niece Jourdan got herself a tattoo. Evidently I paid for half of it with the money I gave her.
There’s not much I can say, as I have three tattoos myself, and at least hers were done professionally (mine were done with a tattoo gun made from a Walkman motor, a pen, and a guitar string).
The weekend was largely uneventful, though for a while I thought that I might have to actually make use of one of my sick days for the first time in over two years. Ever since I quit drinking I almost never get sick, even though in the closed environment I work in I’m often exposed to all manner of communicable diseases.
Friday, though, found me feeling absolutely terrible, with a headache that made it hurt to think, and which brought about feelings of nausea as if in sympathy with the headache.
However, I woke up Saturday morning feeling none the worse for wear (although, oddly enough, I felt ravenously hungry), and it was back to business as usual.
Evidently there was some sort of sporting event yesterday. The World Series of Golf or something.
No, even I’m not enough of a nerd to not realize that it was the Super Bowl.
Naturally I didn’t watch it because my team wasn’t playing…wait, I don’t have a team. So why didn’t I watch it? Oh yeah, I remember: because it was a football game.
Every year the Super Bowl brings out such conflicting emotions it me. I can’t decide whether I don’t give a rat’s ass or if I don’t give a flying fuck.
Like anything having to do with sports, the Super Bowl is utterly incapable of capturing my attention. Until Saturday I hadn’t even known who was playing in it. As it stands, I’d have difficulty recalling who it was now. I believe the Patriots won, though I don’t remember who they beat.
Not that it matters, as it’s not as though the championship title really means much of anything after the game. I mean, when the new season starts it’s not as if they go into it being the defending champions in the way that a boxing champion is the reigning champ. Winning the game doesn’t even guarantee them a spot in the next one. Once the new season starts they’re just another team like any other, and their championship is yesterday’s news.
On the topic of the Patriots, I find it out that they’re so geographically undefined. They’re not like the Packers, or the Bears, who are affiliated with specific cities. I mean, “New England?” An entire region can lay claim to them. They don’t even break it down by state, let alone city. If I lived in Massachusetts I’d be pissed that I have to share my team with Rhode Island (Actually, I wouldn’t, since I really don’t give a shit about sports, but this is for rhetorical purposes).
Honestly, though, that might not be a bad idea. Maybe the NFL should pare the teams down a little, having teams that represent entire regions rather than specific cities. You could have teams like the “Pacific Northwest Rain,” or the “Northeastern Nor’easters.”
You could have the “Southwest Agaves.” The “Bible Belt Fanatics.” The “Beltway Insiders.”
And to make up for the lower number of teams, they could follow the more sensible boxing model and eliminate the whole “season” concept, having year round “bouts,” some for the title, others for the rights to compete in a title bout.
Of course, it would still be boring as shit, and I’d never watch it, but it’s just a thought.
As for the actual Super Bowl itself, I heard that the halftime show was rather boring. Obviously there wasn’t going to be the kind of buzz generated by last year’s (after all, I’d be willing to bet that Fox had snipers in position to take out anyone who even looked like he or she might expose a nipple), but I gather that even disregarding any sort of controversy, or lack thereof, the show was just boring.
Even the commercials, it seems, were less than inspired.
Ah well.
In any case, I guess that’s it for now.
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