So it’s Thursday.
Thursday is, of course, named for Thor, the Norse god of thunder, son of Odin (also known as Wotan, or Woden, along with many other names, though it’s “Woden” that “Wednesday” is named for).
The names of days of the week have rather an odd hodgepodge of sources.
Four of them draw their names from Norse mythology (Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday), one comes from Greco-Roman mythology (Saturday), and two come from entirely non-mythological sources (Sunday and Monday).
Of course, that’s hardly surprising considering that the English language itself has an odd hodgepodge of sources, one of the most notable of which is actually Danish (specifically in the form of the Vikings who established Danelaw in England in the 9th Century) , which serves as the primary source of our Norse-flavored words and names for the days of the week. One other big contribution the Danes made to the language is the reflexive pronoun (himself, herself, itself, yourself), the usage of which Microsoft Word usually finds objectionable.
I would imagine that right about now you’re wondering if there’s any point to this beyond my demonstrating the fact that I actually remember some stuff I learned in college, and right about now I would have to say, no, there isn’t.
There are probably a bunch of other things I could (and in some cases, should) be doing right now, but I’ve elected to do this, though I’ve done so without having any particular subject that I feel like writing about.
You, unfortunately, are left to pay the price for my lack of preparation or purpose.
In any case, this particular Thor’s Day started a little after 8 am when I woke up to discover that it was a little after 8 am. I thought about getting up, but the thought was quickly cast aside as I drifted peacefully back to sleep.
As I slept I had a dream that it was actually Saturn’s Day morning, and that it was shortly before 10 am, and, in my dream as in reality, I was lying in bed sleeping peacefully.
Unfortunately, if I were, in fact, sleeping peacefully at a little before 10 am on a Saturday (I’m dropping the whole source names thing as of now) that would make me nearly four hours late for work.
So, in my dream, my peaceful sleep was shattered as I awoke in a panic, wondering why no one had called me to ask me why I wasn’t at work.
Specifically, I was wondering why, in their best imitation of Gary Cole in “Office Space,” the people at work weren’t calling to inform me that it’s “not a half day or anything.”
As is always the case in any dream I have about being late, my panicky attempts to get dressed and on my way in order to make up as much time as possible were consistently stymied by various recalcitrant clothing items such as socks that refuse to get on my feet, pants on which the leg seems to move, and so forth, and as I stumbled my way along I became increasingly tardy.
Eventually the various delays got to such a point of ridiculousness that I realized that even I don’t have luck that bad, so, therefore, I must be dreaming.
Such proved to be the case, and I opened my eyes to see that it was, in fact, now nearly 10 am, though it remained Thursday, and so I was not late for work.
Still, I opted to get up anyway.
In some fashion I managed to do not much of anything for nearly three hours before finally resolving to go out into the world and pick up a few things.
I drove down to Giant to pick said things up. Since I’m largely broke (thanks to my fun adventure with Sprint last week), I took some money out of my savings to get the things I needed, as tomorrow is payday, so sometime tonight the amount I took out will be automatically replaced.
I don’t often eat fast food these days. The most common circumstance in which you might find me eating fast food would be if I were at work and had, for whatever reason, neglected to bring a lunch. Even in those circumstances, though, we all tend to go for Chinese food much more frequently than fast food.
In any case, as I was a bit hungry, and was in close proximity to McDonald’s, I opted to toss my meager groceries into my car and walk over to the Golden Arches.
Since it was a rare instance of nutritional naughtiness during the week, I decided to go all out and get a Double Quarter Pounder (though why they don’t simply call it the Half Pounder is beyond me).
I was in line behind two people who were, quite possibly members of the ICPWCIFTTJWTLA (International Conspiracy of People Who Congregate In Front of Things That Jon Wants To Look At), or they may just have been random idiots.
In any case, the fact of the matter was that they slowed me down considerably.
The first, an older man, had apparently just crawled out from underneath a rock for the first time in his life and, as his first order of business, walked into a McDonald’s where he utterly failed to grasp the basic concepts of ordering food. Worse, because he apparently had become desperately lonely in his time spent under a rock, he was starved for human contact and attempted to engage the woman working behind the counter in conversation.
This effort was doomed from the start, as they didn’t speak the same language. Still, he persevered for quite some time before finally figuring out that it wasn’t working and that the people behind him were prepared to murder him if he didn’t just order some damn food and get the hell out of the way.
Once he was out of the way the incredibly skinny shaven-headed manboy in front of me went up and placed his order. It’s worth noting that the manboy represents the exact demographic that McDonald’s is trying to appeal to with its “Value Menu,” as he proceeded to pay for his small drink, small fries, and cheeseburger with change he no doubt collected from the folds of a couch in a dentist office’s waiting area.
Since neither manboy nor the woman behind the counter had ever properly mastered the art of counting, this took a while.
Eventually I got my turn, and in stark contrast to the people who came before me I was a model of efficiency as I barked out “Number 3, no onions, for here.”
Bam! Gave her the money, got my change, the entire exchange taking approximately 35 seconds.
For some reason various chairs throughout the place had helium-filled balloons tied to them. Such was the case with the chair I sat in. When I’d finished eating and grabbed my jacket from off the back of the chair said balloon managed to get caught and forced me to wriggle awkwardly to get it out from where it was lodged between my back and my jacket. Accomplishing that I turned toward the table to grab my tray and I actually heard the “ding!” of my head banging against the hanging light fixture before I felt it.
Yep, look up the words “Smooth” and “Suave” in the dictionary and you’re bound to see my picture…
Once I got into my car and started it up I noted that the “Check Engine” light was off once again.
The light comes on whenever I’m idling for an extended period of time, such as at a long stoplight, or behind several people at a four-way stop, though it used to come on whenever I would think, “Well, at least my ‘Check Engine’ light isn’t on,” or something similar.
In any case, once it does come on it stays on until it rains or is at least damp out, or the temperature dips below freezing. Typically, even on a drizzly, miserable day like today (as was the case), the light will initially come on when I start the car up for the first time, but if I drive somewhere and leave it parked for a period of time, then start it up, the light will be off.
I’m not sure what the connection to the relative humidity of the air is, though I’ve determined that the reason it ever goes off is simply so that it can come back on again at some point.
If it were always on, I’d stop noticing. This way it can always manage to grab my attention.
As far as I can determine, there is no actual performance issue associated with the light. My car basically runs the same as it always has, so I tend not to worry about it, though it does irritate me.
I’ve been doing some work on another Jessica Simpson “Daisy Duke” picture, but it’s been a little tricky. The source image is HUGE. It’s an extremely high-res picture, which is good, but simply having it open eats up a lot of system resources, so there tends to be a little bit of a lag with my drawing tools.
Also, I’ve been playing around with different techniques (with varying results), so that’s been affecting my progress.
I was actually reading some of the IMDb message boards for the “Dukes of Hazzard” movie yesterday. I really shouldn’t read message boards, especially at IMDb, but sometimes I just can’t help myself.
In any case, some of the posters were using terms such as “criminal” in reference to the casting/the fact that the movie is being made at all, and were talking about how everyone associated with the film ought to be raped and murdered, and not necessarily in that order.
Seriously. People were getting that upset about a “Dukes of Hazzard” movie.
I tend to get pretty passionate about comic book movies, but as much animosity as I feel towards Tim Burton and the others who followed him for the “Batman” travesties, for example, I don’t feel that they should be brought up on criminal charges, or, in fact, physically injured, and I certainly wouldn’t create a login to an Internet message board solely to suggest either.
Hell, as much as I love “Dead Like Me” you still don’t see me calling for the head of Showtime’s president on a pike or anything (although…no, never mind).
Even so, in the case of the brilliant and critically-acclaimed DLM or in the case of Batman, who is an enduring, iconic figure in popular culture, such passion is much more justifiable than it is in the case of The Dukes of Friggin’ Hazzard.
Most of the ire seems to be centered on Jessica Simpson being cast in the role of Daisy.
Honestly, the casting of Stifler and Jackass (Sean-whatever-his-name-is from “American Pie” and Johnny Knoxville) in the roles of Bo and Luke seems much more bothersome to me.
I’ll admit it; I used to like the TV series.
Then I turned 8.
Still, I went through much of the early days of my adolescence during the TV show’s run, and, as she did for many boys my age, Daisy Duke figured prominently into said adolescence, so I can see how she would have something in the way of iconic status, and would, as such, be a point of contention for some people when it comes to casting.
I just don’t happen to be one of those people.
Some of the pundits attack Jessica Simpson’s intelligence and her talent. These may be valid complaints; I honestly couldn’t say. I’ve heard that she’s said a lot of dumb things on her reality series, which I've never watched, and she hasn’t exactly delivered Oscar-caliber performances in her Pizza Hut or Liquid Ice commercials.
That said, however, the role of Daisy Duke isn’t exactly what you’d call challenging or complex. There’s not a lot of depth to the characterization. I'm sure that, at the heart of it all, Daisy is a real, feeling human being, with needs, desires, and drives, but basically she’s just there to look good in short shorts and a tight shirt.
Whether or not, for example, she keeps a journal in which she writes poetry of amazing depth and complexity demonstrating her innate and incisive understanding of the human condition, or she is considering the intricacies of Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle as she stands there wearing a bikini in order to distract Cletus is utterly irrelevant. Her entire function is to be hot.
Now, as I’ve said, I can’t really attest to Jessica Simpson’s intelligence or talent, but I can tell you this: she’s hot.
I would have to say that I think she’s perfectly capable of standing around and looking good in short shorts and a tight shirt.
Now some people think it’s some sort of insult to the memory of Catherine Bach, as if she would be spinning in her grave (If she were dead. Is she dead? Who knows, or, more importantly, who cares? She must be like 100 by now, and therefore shouldn't get anywhere near short shorts or tight shirts.) to see someone “ruining” the role she created.
As mentioned, the role of Daisy Duke is not especially complex. Basically any hot chick could play it, or could have played it. With all due respect to Catherine Bach, any other random hot chick of the day could have filled her shorts. Erin Gray? Sure. Loni Anderson? Of course. All that Catherin Bach really had going for her back in 1979 was that nobody knew who she was, and therefore she would be cheap. She didn’t have to draw on any sort of special training or techniques as a thespian to stand around looking good in short shorts and a tight shirt. This isn’t some subtly nuanced Ibsen character we're talking about; this is Daisy Duke. Short shorts, tight shirt.
Besides, again, with all due respect, Jessica Simpson is like 17,000 times hotter than Catherine Bach ever was on her best day.
To anyone who’s bitching about Jessica Simpson “ruining” this movie, I would have to ask, have you ever actually seen Jessica Simpson?
I mean, come on. She’s so freakin’ hot that there was no hotness left over for her sister Ashlee because she had absorbed it all. (“Sorry Ashlee; I’m afraid there’s no hotness left. Your sister took it all, so unfortunately you’ll have to go through life looking like that. If you can avoid it, never be seen in public with your sister, as it will just make you look that much worse. Also, I’d advise that you never sing at the Orange Bowl.”)
Every curvy inch of Jessica Simpson is jam-packed with hotness. Why do you think her boobs are so big? They’re stuffed with hotness.
I would suspect that she was put on earth for no other purpose than to look good in short shorts and a tight shirt, and I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to discover that was exactly what God had in mind when He created her.
As mentioned, one of Daisy’s principle responsibilities is to use her extreme hotness to distract deputies like Cletus (or Enos, depending on which one they go with in the movie), and I think that Jessica is definitely up to that task as well. She’s got the kind of extreme hotness that can not only distract men, but can actually render them retarded.
In the picture that I mentioned working on (and which I mentioned having some difficulty with) Jessica, as Daisy, is wearing a bikini and I have to tell you that…umm…sorry, my mind drifted. Where was I? Oh yeah, Jessica Simpson in a bikini…and…
Ahem. Now you see why I’m having so much trouble finishing the picture...
In any case, all of the “Dukes” freaks out there need to relax, sit back, and think, “Jessica Simpson in short shorts and a tight shirt.” Repeat it over and over like a mantra, and soon you’ll forget all about Catherine Bach and her tremendous acting talent and the amazing depth she brought to her characterization of Daisy Duke.
Or, you know, just go out and murder the guys from the “Broken Lizard” comedy troupe (the people who brought the world “Super Troopers” and “Club Dread”) who are making the movie, as you seem to think needs to be done. Either way.
In any case, this entry is definitely in the “long-ass” category, so I think that I’ll wrap things up for this, the first week of 2005. I want to try to get some work done on that picture. You know, the one of Jessica Simpson in a bikini that…umm….
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