Soccer versus porn. Care to make the call?
Spain's success at Euro 2008 hurt erotic film festival
Spain's success at Euro 2008 hurt attendance at an erotic film festival which wrapped up Saturday in Madrid as its target audience -- men -- were glued to their television screens, organisers said.
Yeah. No contest.
I hate the Toyota Prius.
First of all; the name. It makes me think of priapus. If there is anything that does not remind me of male virility, it's the Toyota Prius.
Next up; it's a butt ugly car. It's as if Toyota said, we're going to foist a green car on you and we're going to make it as butt ugly as possible, because we know that you'll buy it. We could sell you a Prius if it was pink with teal polkadots, because you believe.
And finally? It's not all that. Case in point? Jeremy Clarkson of Top Gear takes the Prius down.
This really made my day. Regardless of the anti-American bias, it's a joy to see a faux cracker joyfully dispatch a Prius.
(tip 'o' hat: Ace)
Yet another sign of the impending apocalypse.
Literally.
Website Lets You Send a Post-Rapture E-Mail to Friends 'Left Behind'
By Kevin Poulsen EmailJune 03, 2008 | 3:42:43 PMIf millions of Christians suddenly disappear from the face of the Earth as the opening act for Armageddon, Threat Level thinks most nonbelievers will be too busy freaking the hell out to check their e-mail. But if they do log in, now they can be treated to some post-Rapture needling from their missing friends and loved ones, courtesy of web startup YouveBeenLeftBehind.com.
For just $40 a year, believers can arrange for up to 62 people to get a final message exactly six days after the Rapture, that day when -- according to Christian end times dogma -- Christians will be swept up to heaven, while doubters are left behind to suffer seven years of Tribulation under a global government headed by the Antichrist.
"You've Been Left Behind gives you one last opportunity to reach your lost family and friends for Christ," reads the website, which is purportedly run "by Christians, for Christians." The domain name is registered through an anonymous proxy service, presumably to protect the proprietors from the Forces of Darkness, and not because they're up to anything shady.
The e-mails will be triggered when three of the site's five Christian staffers "scattered around the U.S." fail to log in for six days in a row -- a system that incorporates a nice margin of safety, should two of the proprietors turn out to be unrepentant sinners or atheists.
Man, that's gonna be a bummer of an email session, realizing that your Raptured pals and relatives are such dickheads as to leave you some damn emails bragging on their ascent to paradise.
Of course, it would be a great hoot to get one of those emails from someone, and then run into them walking around confused and wailing, "What did I do wrong?!?!"
"Yo! I got your email! Hey, I thought you blew this joint."
"F&%k off."
"What? Didn't catch that."
"F#^K OFF! F@$K OFF AND DIE!!"
"Hey, are those trumpets I hear?"
"Where? WHERE? HERE I COME, LORD!!"
"Psych!"
Yeah. I'd pay good money for that...
(Tip 'o' the hat: Ace)
Chelada, baby!
That's right, kids. This is what it's come to. Budweiser, tomato juice and clams.
Really. Who the f*%k comes up with this stuff? I'm just trying to picture the guys at Anheuser-Busch around a table trying to come up with this.
"No, really, dude! Let's take Bud and mix it with Clamato! It's like, well, a Bloody Mary, only lighter or something!"
"Yeah, that's a good one! Maybe we can get people to use it like Red Bull and add their own vodka. Sorta like a this mellow beer and vodka bloody..."
"OH, OH, OH! Cool! And then we can put it in a tall can, with the most un-hip label we can come up with, which will make it so uber-hip that the straights will just cream at the thought of it!"
"Ok. So what do we call it?"
[silence]
[silence]
"Chelada."
"Huh?"
"Yeah. Chelada."
"What the f#^k?"
"No, wait. Wait. I'm seeing it... Enchelada without the 'En," right?"
"You got it, dude."
"But it's spelled 'enchilada.'"
"Never mind that, you anal-retentive twat, he's on a roll!"
[smiles all around]
"Run with it, guys! Make it work!"
I mean, can it get any worse than this?
(Via: Ace)
A good friend just sent me this link...
Click the pic.
Your Score : 78 credits
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Via Ace comes this:
Jerusalem Post
‘Green Hanukkia' campaign sparks ire
By GIL HOFFMANIn a campaign that has spread like wildfire across the Internet, a group of Israeli environmentalists is encouraging Jews around the world to light at least one less candle this Hanukka to help the environment.
The founders of the Green Hanukkia campaign found that every candle that burns completely produces 15 grams of carbon dioxide. If an estimated one million Israeli households light for eight days, they said, it would do significant damage to the atmosphere.
Just take this in for a minute; you've got to read the whole thing to get the full flavor of sublime dumbass. I found this as The Lady and I prepare to celebrate the first night of Chanukah with latkes and a menorah lighting. It's The Lady's cultural background; nothing really religious about it as she's not observant. Me? I was raised Episcopalian, but I make a mean latke. So, each year, we set up a menorah in the window and fry up some latkes. The Lady chants in Hebrew and lights the candles and we toast the occasion with some wine.
If this environmental assclown thinks we're going to do away with that tradition, which extends from traditions thousands of years old, he's got another thing coming.
In fact, just because these jerks exist, I intend to burn as many damn candles as I can get into candlesticks, menorahs and so forth. After the eight days are over, I'm keeping that thing burning all the way through New Year's Eve, just to make up for any idiots that actually partake in this bit of dumbassery.
(crossposted at Daily Pundit)
Via NRO comes this neat little compilation of popular and obscure conspiracy theories:
The World's Weirdest/Stupidest Conspiracy Theories
(in no particular order, with each theory's author or main proponent in parentheses)
- The driver shot JFK. (the late William Cooper)
- The Beatles were designed and sent to the U.S. by the British Psychological Warfare Division, to undermine the morals of American teenagers. (Lyndon LaRouche)
- Christ's Crucifixion was staged. (Hugh Schonfield) Christ eloped with Mary Magdalene, and one or both of them fled to France to raise their family. (Baigent/Leigh/Lincoln)
- Christ and his disciples were a magic-mushroom cult. (Dead Sea Scrolls scholar John Allegro)
- HIV/AIDS was created in a lab.
- HIV does not cause AIDS.
- Man never landed on the moon. It's not even possible. But there is an alien base there. (see Wikipedia; for an artful and very funny parody of how these theories can be patched together from unrelated material, watch the mockumentary Dark Side of the Moon)
- The Zapruder film is entirely fake, even though it contradicts the findings of the Warren Commission. (Jim Fetzer)
- Stephen King killed John Lennon. (Steve Lightfoot)
- WWII was staged. It never really happened. The Illuminati employed elaborate special effects, stage magic, and phony journalism to scare the world into pacifism. (Donald Holmes)
- Queen Elizabeth I was a man. The real Elizabeth died as a child.
And the list goes on...
But the real fun is watching the commentors bring teh crazy. It's like dumping chum in the water.
I love the smell of Troofer in the morning...
(crossposted at Daily Pundit)
A small, gaudy beach house coffee cup heaped with Ben & Jerry's Jamaican Me Crazy sorbet (pineapple sorbet with passion fruit swirl...) with a splash of Barbancourt 8 year old Haitian rum is a wonderful thing.
And chased with a fantastically cold Red Stripe beer pulled out of one of the coolers on the porch?
Sublime.
I'm hoping something good comes of Live Earth, Al Gore's global revival meeting concert extravaganza.
If it turns out that this is the fitful twitching of the '60s before it shuffles off this mortal coil into the vale of complete irrelevancy, then it will have done a great service.
While cruising the blogosphere this morning (Interesting aside: My automatic spellcheck in Firefox just flagged "blogosphere." Ok. Added to the dictionary...), I'm finding lots of amusing stuff about Live Earth, including one piece in which Reverend Al invokes the prophet Bob:
The Live Earth concerts, which start this Saturday, July 7, are also one last chance for Baby Boomers to relive the “flower power” activism of the ’60s. In a recent interview in Rolling Stone, former Vice President Al Gore invoked music icon Bob Dylan to promote the importance of these concerts. Citing Dylan’s ‘60 anthem “The Times They Are A-Changin’”. Gore rambled: “What’s the old Bob Dylan line? ‘Come senators, congressmen, please heed the call/Rattle your windows’ - what’s the rest of it? - ‘for the times they are a-changin’.”
But there’s just one problem with invoking Dylan to hype the global warming scare. And that is that Dylan himself has expressed skepticism — to the same magazine — to the notion that global warming is a catastrophe. When he was asked by Rolling Stone founder and publisher Jann Wenner in the magazine’s 40th anniversary issue if he worried about global warming, Dylan replied with an unexpected rejoinder. He asked Wenner, “Where’s the global warming? It’s freezing here.” Wenner, who has blanketed Rolling Stone and his other magazine Men’s Journal with doom-and gloom climate change stories (that often bash CEI), quickly moved on to other topics after he received his comeuppance.
Yet Dylan’s latest statement may signal that in the global warming debate, the times are changing. Even independent-minded celebrities are now questioning the establishment media orthodoxy that the debate over global warming and its effects are all but over. In a phrase familiar to those who study pop culture, it appears that the global warming scare may have “jumped the shark.”
(emphasis mine)
I love Dylan. Dylan can say stuff like that, and Jann Wenner, grinding his teeth, has to print it because it's Bob Dylan. Bob is a walking, living, breathing hypocrisy barometer. Needless to say, Bob is not hanging out with Reverend Al today.
Here's hoping that this is the high water mark of Reverend Al's Apocalyse Now. Half filled arenas and stadiums featuring musicians, actors and politicians howling out in mass hysteria the likes of which we haven't seen since the Great Tulip Bubble of 1637. But this isn't an economic phenomenon so much as an attempt to create a religion with all its attendant dogma out of whole cloth, slyly co-opting junk science and false reason to achieve it's aims.
Well, Al, let's throw a little Bob back to you, shall we?
As some warn victory, some downfall
Private reasons great or small
Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
To make all that should be killed to crawl
While others say don't hate nothing at all
Except hatred.Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Made everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It's easy to see without looking too far
That not much
Is really sacred.While preachers preach of evil fates
Teachers teach that knowledge waits
Can lead to hundred-dollar plates
Goodness hides behind its gates
But even the president of the United States
Sometimes must have
To stand naked.
That's one thing from the 60's that'll never lose relevancy...
(via Malkin and cross posted at Daily Pundit)
Whoops.
Police: Naked Couple May Have Died From Sex
COLUMBIA, S.C. -- Police on Wednesday were investigating how a naked couple fell four stories from the roof of a downtown office building to their deaths.
The man and woman were found near the sidewalk by a passing cab driver around 5 a.m. Wednesday. One person was pronounced dead at scene and the other died a short time later at a local hospital.
Clothing was discovered on the roof, leading authorities to suspect the couple, in their early 20s, may have been having sex. Their identities were not released.
"It's too early to rule out anything," Columbia police Sgt. Florence McCants said, but McCants said a preliminary investigation didn't show any sign of foul play.
The roof of the building is pyramid-shaped.
I usually don't post an entire article; that's considered gauche in the blogosphere. But I must make an exception in this case, because the last sentence is priceless to someone who is an admirer of Edward Whittemore and his book, Jerusalem Poker.
Ok. Well. I guess I'll stop with the obscure literary references...
Last week, I posted on my displeasure upon hearing of Paris Hilton being released from jail for unspecified "medical reasons."
In the interim, as you know, she was dragged screaming and crying from a courthouse back to jail after a judge ruled that the LA County Sheriff had no call to release her in the first place.
Oh, and how I laughed. I turned the schadenfreude up to 11. I really enjoyed seeing the clueless, elitist child of privilege go down in flames to be left smoldering in a jail cell.
I really wanted to post something about it at the time, but something began to bother me about the whole thing. Not so much the whole Paris-goes-to-jail part of it - she got what she deserved -, but how this society reacted to it. When you took a deep breath and looked at it, it was sort of how I imagine the behavior of the crowds at a Roman arena featuring the latest gladiatorial spectacle. So, I decided to leave it alone, pull back and move away from viewing this human train wreck.
And wouldn't you know it? Christopher Hitchens lays it out in no uncertain terms in Slate:
And now here I go, clearing my throat as above before deciding to do something I would have never believed I would do, and choosing to write about Paris Hilton. Choosing to write about her, furthermore, not just as if she were some metaphor or signifier, but as a subject in herself. At some point toward the middle of last Friday, it seemed to me, one was being made a spectator to a small but important injustice. Those gloating and jeering headlines, showing a tearful child being hauled back to jail, had the effect of making me feel sick. So, you finally got the kid to weep on camera? Are you happy now?
I don't mind admitting that I, too, have watched Hilton undergoing the sexual act. I phrase it as crudely as that because it was one of the least erotic such sequences I have ever seen. She seemed to know what was expected of her and to manifest some hard-won expertise, but I could almost have believed that she was drugged. At no point did her facial expression match even the simulacrum of lovemaking. (Kingsley Amis, a genius in these matters and certainly no Puritan, once captured the combined experience of the sordid and the illicit by saying that, even as he wanted a certain spectacle to go on, he also wanted it to stop.)
(emphasis mine)
As he goes on, Hitch points out that, by our collective reaction, we emulate the puritanical fanatics that used to brand adulterers and burn witches:
Not content with seeing her undressed and variously penetrated, it seems to be assumed that we need to watch her being punished and humiliated as well. The supposedly "broad-minded" culture turns out to be as prurient and salacious as the elders in The Scarlet Letter. Hilton is legally an adult but the treatment she is receiving stinks—indeed it reeks—of whatever horrible, buried, vicarious impulse underlies kiddie porn and child abuse.
There are some parts of this essay that I take issue with. I find Sarah Silverman funny as hell. Her burning of Paris was simply true to type. After all, this is the woman who did Jesus Is Magic. It's interesting that at the end of her Paris bit, Silverman does look somewhat uncomfortable, and says, "Why do I feel dirty?" Well, I guess that's a question many of us should be asking.
Hitchens wraps this up by drawing an interesting parallel to Hilton's situation and the Scooter Libby ordeal. Overall, worth reading and remembering.
And revel in the irony, would you, of an avowed atheist showing the way to "Christian" charity.
I really wanted to stay away from this whole Paris Hilton thing. I really did.
I was thinking, "Ok, she's going to jail. Great. She deserves it. She does her time and gets on with her life. No problem."
Well, check this out:
Paris Hilton released after 5 days in prison
By staff and agencies
Last Updated: 3:44pm BST 07/06/2007Hotel heiress Paris Hilton has been released from prison for medical reasons after serving just five days of her 45-day sentence.
Steve Whitmore of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's office said the 26-year-old had been "reassigned" though he refused to give any more details.
Hilton will have to wear an electronic monitoring device on her ankle and will be confined to her home for the 40 remaining days of her sentence.
You or me? We'd still be in there, no matter what "medical reasons" we might have. Instead, she gets to serve out her time in her home.
Can't do the time, don't do the crime?
Yeah. Right.
What a waste of oxygen.
What I wouldn't have given to be in the room when this happened:
As (Marco Pierre) White was demonstrating a flaming Sambuca trick to pals Mario Batali, Tony Bourdain, Carole Radziwill and others, the burning booze spilled on his shirt and the table. In the ensuing group effort to extinguish the flames, several champagne flutes and wine glasses were broken and White "was accidentally stabbed in the hand," our source said. "Blood went everywhere but he didn't want to go to the hospital . . . very macho." White stuck his hand in a bucket of ice water, wrapped it with some napkins and was put in a cab.
A few points emerge.
First, chefs, as a general rule, party their fool asses off to such extremes as to astound. When the big dogs gather, it is a sight to behold. I've witnessed more famous chefs do this sort of thing than I care to remember.
Second, Marco shows the righteous stuff. He lights himself on fire and, in the ensuing liquid chaos, is stabbed in the hand by a broken wine glass. Does he go to the hospital? Hell no! Another general rule is that no self respecting chef goes to the hospital when cut, stabbed and/or burned, unless the wounds are so incapacitating that he can no longer perform or party (The corollary to this general rule is that chefs don't call in sick. Ask yourself this: When the flu is raging in your area, do the restaurants ever close?). I have only gone to the hospital once for a cut, and that's because it wouldn't stop bleeding after 2 and a half hours. And I only went after service was over. Then I went bar hopping for most of the night. It's what chefs do. Marco Pierre White is one of the toughest, meanest culinary critters to ever walk this earth. He's got a rep to maintain. He knows the rules and comported himself with honor and not a little style.
Huzzah!
To all the moms out there, especially my mom, Happy Mother's Day!
Now, having taken care of the formalities, let's take a look at reality.
I'm a chef.
Mother's Day is the day that I get to look down the maw of the Beast, losing hope by the second as I face The Busiest Day Of The Year in my business.
Working in a professional kitchen on Mother's Day is the height of madness. In my case, it was a huge brunch buffet for 125 people. We spent hours preparing a huge quantity of food, with the the last hour and a half a frantic dash to the finish line at noon. That was followed by a couple of hours of backing up the buffet and then breaking it down, putting away a huge amount of leftovers and getting the hell out of there.
I am now nursing the first of the many cocktails I will drink this evening.
Anyway, I found this amusing article via NRO, which sort of sums up the reality.
If you foolishly insist upon taking your mother or your wife out to brunch on Mother's Day, please take the following precautions.
Walk out onto your front lawn. Alone. Grab several handfuls of grass and put them in your pockets.
Take a garbage bag and fill it with more grass. You'll need it. Then drive to the fancy brunch place. Just before entering, insert two handfuls of fresh sod into your mouth. Begin to chew. Pass extra grass to your family and insist they chew it, too.
Chew it good, grind it down, mashing it with your molars until there's a big clump of grass resting on your back teeth. Then walk up to the harried restaurant host.
And when he or she tells you that it will take an hour for your table even though you made a reservation, repeat the following:
"Mooooooo!"
Or, "Baaa-baaaa."
Because if you go out for brunch on Mother's Day, you're nothing but livestock being herded halfway to hell. How long will you wait for a table? Oh, figure eternity plus one.
Observe the other livestock. Your fellow cows will argue that they've been waiting for an hour and why isn't there a table for seven? The sheep will scream and stampede from the holding pen and stubbornly make for the corner booth as the wait staff chases them with cattle prods. Do nothing. Chew your cud. Relax.
The moms around you are upset because they had to hurry to get the kids ready and now the kids are hungry and sweaty and so are you as everybody starts to whine. Your wife grits her teeth into a hard smile. "Happy Mother's Day," she says, quietly, to no one.
My suggestion? Learn how to cook, guys. Do it yourself, and involve the kids. Stay at home. Be with your family. Shower her with love and relaxation. Even if you screw the meal up, she'll be thrilled with the fact that you and the kids screwed it up just for her. Yes, you do get points for effort.
The alternative? Going out. To a restaurant staffed with people who would rather be with their mothers, wives, children and husbands (Yes, by going out, you can rest assured that you are making mothers work on Mother's Day. Believe me, I know. My chef is a mother and you better believe she worked today...); just about anywhere else but cooking and serving food to you.
So. Since I became aware of David Bowie back in 1974 or '75, I've been singing along with the song, Ziggy Stardust.
I always loved this part:
Making love with his ego, Ziggy sucked up into his mind
Like a leather messiah
When the kids had killed the man I had to break up the band
One problem. I've been screwing it up for the last 32 years. The Lady pointed out to me that it's:
Like a leper messiah
Boy, was I mortified. 32 years of thinking how deep the concept of leather messiah was, and a few moments of lyric searching on the 'net blows it away.
Makes me wonder what else I've been screwing up, lyric wise...
Via Instapundit:
Stem-Cell Fast Food: From NASA to Nourishment
Who needs animals? It's only a matter of time before lab-grown meat turns into the oink-less BLT.
BY Ian Christe
It sounds like a sci-fi nightmare: giant sheets of grayish meat grown on factory racks for human consumption. But it's for real. Using pig stem cells, scientists have been growing lab meat for years, and it could be hitting deli counters sooner than you think.
(…)
One technical challenge: Muscle tissue that has never been flexed is a gooey mass, unlike the grained texture of meat from an animal that once lived. The solution is to stretch the tissue mechanically, growing cells on a scaffold that expands and contracts. This would allow factories to tone the flaccid flesh with a controlled workout.
Uh. Well. I'm off two minds about this.
The chef part of me wants to run away screaming from the coming freakshow.
Another part of me is absolutely amazed that I've lived to see things like this happen in my lifetime.
But, the chef part of me is not amused...
 |
My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Duke Karl the Formidable of Westley Waterless Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title |
(tip 'o' the hat: Llamabutchers)
UPDATE:
Oh, my. It seems I'm married to
|
My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Her Royal Highness Tamara the Lachrymose of London by the Bow Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title |
November 26
Today I made a Black Forest cake out of five pounds of cherries and a live beaver, challenging the very definition of the word "cake." I was very pleased. Malraux said he admired it greatly, but could not stay for dessert. Still, I feel that this may be my most profound achievement yet, and have resolved to enter it in the Betty Crocker Bake-Off.
Priceless. Read the whole thing to fill your existential void.
(tip 'o' the hat: Instapundit)
Today I was sampling a little moonshine.
Now, that's a loaded sentence.
Anyway. I have in my possession a number of quarts of moonshine from counties west of here. They're all distilled from peach wine and they are all quite good. Very smooth. I know that 'shine has a reputation for being rotgut nasty - and I'm sure there is some pretty bad stuff out there - but I must have pleased the right people, because over the last 5 years or so, I keep getting some real nice illegal liquor from various sources for no real reason at all that I can think of.
Sometimes it's in the form of red table grapes covered in corn liquor. The jars are buried for a year or so. The resulting liquor takes one the grape character and the grapes... Well. They become fruity alcohol time release capsules that wind their way through you, popping off a little hit of high proof liquor every now and then. It's a nice sensation.
But, I must say, the peach 'shine is my favorite. It still has a peach flavor, but not like peach schnapps or the like. This had a serious kick to it, but it's quite mellow. Nice balance of taste and intensity. I would compare it with a very nice Italian grappa or Norman marc.
It's nice to know that there are still moonshiners out there with an eye and taste for quality liquor, as well as the art that goes into making it.
Huzzah!
So, over at Daily Pundit, I post my Weekend Cooking Thread. It's a special election edition; all about food and politics. Well, DB posted a comment dealing with John Kerry's infamous Philly Cheesesteak Debacle during the '04 campaign, along with this classic photo of Kerry attempting to eat a cheesesteak with lettuce, tomato and freakin' swiss cheese. Everyone knows that you order a cheesesteak, "wiz wit;" that is, with Cheese Whiz and onions.
Kerry just didn't get it.
But, y'know? Something's been bothering me about that Kerry photo for ages. It just hit me; I've seen it before.
In Madrid, Spain. In the Prado.
Goya. Saturn Devouring His Son.
Perfect. Just perfect. See? Food and politics!
January 22, 1939
Assistant Professor Henry "Indiana" Jones Jr.
Department of Anthropology
Chapman Hall 227B
Marshall CollegeDr. Jones:
As chairman of the Committee on Promotion and Tenure, I regret to inform you that your recent application for tenure has been denied by a vote of 6 to 1. Following past policies and procedures, proceedings from the committee's deliberations that were pertinent to our decision have been summarized below according to the assessment criteria.
That's right. A denial-of-tenure letter for Dr. Jones. And is it any wonder?
Moreover, no one on the committee can identify who or what instilled Dr. Jones with the belief that an archaeologist's tool kit should consist solely of a bullwhip and a revolver.
Priceless...
(tip 'o' the hat: Instapundit)
Y'know, I love Ken Burns documentries. I thought The Civil War was incredible. Groundbreaking stuff. But it gets so you can spot a Burns film a mile away, and someone else has noticed it, too.
For your enjoyment: The Not-A-Ken-Burns mockumentry, The Old Negro Space Program. Absolutely spot on satire of Ken Burns.
Courtesy of Laura, comes this news from Afghanistan, where Canadian troops are battling... 10 foot tall pot plants.
General Rick Hillier, chief of the Canadian defense staff, said on Thursday that Taliban fighters were using the forests as cover. In response, the crew of at least one armored car had camouflaged their vehicle with marijuana.
"The challenge is that marijuana plants absorb energy, heat very readily. It's very difficult to penetrate with thermal devices ... and as a result you really have to be careful that the Taliban don't dodge in and out of those marijuana forests," he said in a speech in Ottawa.
Turns out that marijuana has wonderful camoflauge and armor properties. The photo with the article is a keeper.
(crossposted at Daily Pundit)
Just took this nifty online test! Man, this really makes my day...
The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Third Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
| Level | Score |
|---|---|
| Purgatory (Repenting Believers) | Very Low |
| Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers) | Very Low |
| Level 2 (Lustful) | High |
| Level 3 (Gluttonous) | Very High |
| Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious) | High |
| Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) | Very High |
| Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics) | Very High |
| Level 7 (Violent) | Very High |
| Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers) | High |
| Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous) | High |
Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test
I just saw this photo at WaPo, showing a bunch of Sadr's Mahdi Army freaks on parade.
Something about it bothered me, but I couldn't figure out why.
Then it hit me. The guy in the lower middle? The one with the beard and the white bib? He's wielding a sword. Now that's not exceptional, given that crazies in that part of the world run around brandishing swords and letting their inner Saladin out for the chicks to dig on. But I got a closer look at the sword. It's not your typical Arabic scimitar. Nope. Not for this guy. He's got the bad ass sword of all bad ass swords: Ramirez's ivory hilted katana from Highlander.
And if it's the one I think it is, a half decent Toledo Carlos V knockoff would shear through it like butter. Boy, if white beard actually decides to use the thing, he's in for a nasty suprise.
UPDATE: Bonus! I see that the WaPo used this photo as it's splash front page photo. The sword is much clearer in that pic. Yep, that's the one!
I'm glad there there are people out there in the æther who have more time on their hands than they know what to do with. Otherwise there would not exist such things as this: The Big Lebowski Lexicon. Thanks to the folks at CAMPHEATWOLE, I can always have this fine resource at my fingertips, especially when the world has peed on my f&$king rug.
"What do you think you're looking at, sugar tits?"
Yep. That's what Mel Gibson is alleged to have said while noticing a female police seargent looking at him as he had a complete self destructive meltdown during his DUI stop and arrest.
And that's not the worst of it. How 'bout this?
The report says Gibson then launched into a barrage of anti-Semitic statements: "F*****g Jews... The Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world." Gibson then asked the deputy, "Are you a Jew?"
Oh my.
Mel, my man, you are in some deep very deep kimchee if you actually uttered those words. You could, indeed be well and truly "f***ed." Check the whole story.
As The Lady says, "Nice goin' Mel!"
(tip 'o' the hat: Ace)
Presented without further comment...
Here's an email from John that just sort of says it all. It's got me all verklempt. Sigh.
Here's a little inspiration from one of the Savannah Brewers' League club members. I find it quite comforting...
Subject: Fw: Message of Hope
I believe in these difficult and mean-spirited times in which we live there needs to be a message of hope. Just a single image that speaks to us of love, harmony, peace and joy. An image that suggests the universal brotherhood of man. I have found that image, and I ask that all of you take a moment to be inspired by it.
Dude. That is so deep.
Rock ON!
I am bewy, bewy unhappy. It is not wike it is wocket sciwence. Oh. That's wight. It is wocket sciwence.
Wet the shootings commence.
During lunch service today, my waiter, Steph, comes into the kitchen shaking her head. I ask her what's up.
Seems the 1:00 pm deuce showed up early, took a look at the menu and canceled their reservation. Just walked out in a huff.
Why, asks I?
Seems they couldn't find anything on the menu they liked. Oh. And we didn't serve Diet Pepsi.
Dios mio, man. What's up with that? No Diet Pepsi? Hey, like there's a Mickey-Ds a half mile away, ok? Check it.
Like the song says, "O, sweet nuthin', she ain't got nothing at all."
In Florida, they've got 'gators. In Bluffton, South Carolina, they've got sly 'gators that just casually waltz up the front walk, stand up and knock on the door.
No. Really.
(tip 'o' the hat: Ace)
UPDATE: Observation from The Lady: Say, Laura, that kinda looks like your door...
...If England means as much to you as England means to me!
Well, that bites. The USA ends a dismal run at the World Cup with a 2-1 loss to Ghana, which means I'm retreating to my fallback position: I'm supporting the gallant bearers of the Cross of St. George!
Via Roger Simon comes this very pertinent question:
Can someone please explain to me why people actually spend twenty bucks to buy books by Ann Coulter or Al Franken. You could get a couple of pieces of sushi for that.
Unfortunately, I have no answer.
Last weekend, The Lady and I ventured into DC with The Lady's family. We headed to the National Museum of the American Indian. I'll probably post more on that later. It was one of the most fantastic museums I've ever been to. One of the amazing aspects is that you step from an urban environment into a space where you have this incredible organic structure surrounded by by what is essentially a Maryland/Virginia wetlands environment, complete with various crops. Included is tobacco.
And that's where I got this absolute jewel of a photo...
Well, this was just too good to pass up.
In West Milford, New Jersey, an orange tabby cat named Jack chased a black bear up a tree.
This is Jack. Now, granted, Jack weighs 15 pounds, so he's a formidable house cat. On the other hand, so to speak, he is lacking in claws. So how did he manage pull this stunt?
Check out Jack down there at the bottom for a sense of scale. That bear is way up there.
Me? I figure Jack's been watching too many episodes of 24 in the family room. I think he's come to associate the name "Jack" with being the baddest mutha walking and decided to flash his mojo at a freakin' black bear.
And what the hell is a black bear doing running around West Milford, New Jersey?
Well, no matter. We can all sleep safe knowing Jack is on the case.
So, I walk up to an overnight guest at breakfast yesterday to offer her some quiche.
She says, "I'm vegetarian. I eat some fish, but I don't eat eggs. I'm fine with the meusli and yogurt."
Sometimes, vegetarians make my eyebrows hurt.
Wonderful. This means that I only have to hear my staff going on about American Idol for one more day. As in, "omigod, Chef! You don't know what you're missing! It's soooo suspenseful!"
On the other hand, because Taylor beat out that "unworthy, posing Ella-Fitzgerald-mangling bitch Katherine", the threatened boycott of next season by Steph won't happen and I'll have to go through all this again.
Heaven help me.
Looking forward to Savannah in July and August!
Sex Pistols. Anarchy In The UK. Play it loud.
(tip 'o' the hat: INDC)
Obviously, this is the cover of the first Vanity Fair Green Issue. The only thing that really comes to mind is absinthe. Annie Leibowitz outdoes herself. The over-all green hue. Julia Roberts as the Green Fairy. The guys at her feet looking aggressively stoned on la feé verte. Al Gore, especially. Clooney and Kennedy look, "let's head over to the Moulin Rouge and pick up chicks," sort of stoned. Al looks full blown glazed-eyed death-of-the-soul Rimbaud stoned. Reminds me of this guy:
Today is the day. The most ass-kickingest sporting event of the year!
That's right, folks. It's the annual Annapolis Cup Croquet Match between St. John's College and the United States Naval Academy, and this year the Mids are going to get serious. No, really. They've got a coach, new equipment and a great desire to grind the Johnnies into their lawn.
It's going to be rough and ugly.
Get 'em, Goats!
UPDATE: Johnnies beat Mids, 5-0.
Damn commie hippies.
Microwave Panini. From Stouffer's. It grills in the microwave. Comes in four flavors: Southwestern Style Chicken, Philly-Style Steak & Cheese, Smoked Turkey Club and Grilled Chicken Italian.
It is to weep.
This is Maryscott O'Connor. She suffers from Bush Derangement Syndrome. She's very angry.
She smokes a cigarette. Should it be about Bush, whom she considers "malevolent," a "sociopath" and "the Antichrist"? She smokes another cigarette. Should it be about Vice President Cheney, whom she thinks of as "Satan," or about Karl Rove, "the devil"? Should it be about the "evil" Republican Party, or the "weaselly, capitulating, self-aggrandizing, self-serving" Democrats, or the Catholic Church, for which she says "I have a special place in my heart... a burning, sizzling, putrescent place where the guilty suffer the tortures of the damned?"
Yikes.
Y'know, the Democrats have a real problem. Folks like me are looking for a reasonable alternative, and then we see this silly yahoo bouncing up and down in her chair, emitting her "[O]ne long, sustained scream," spit flying at her computer screen, and we think, "Well, the Republicans don't seem that bad after all."
Here's a map I can deal with:
(click it!)
In my view, few things are more important than how one refers to one's carbonated beverage. It provides a wealth of detail as to where one is from, as well as one's cultural proclivities.
Me? Coke. That's all carbonated beverages. However a "Coke" is a "Co'cola."Y'all clear on that?
(tip 'o' the hat: Derb at NRO)
So, if you could arange a Steel Cage Deathmatch between Katie Couric and Rachel Ray, who would win?
Not that it would matter, because at the end of the match, whoever is left standing in my ideal Deathmatch gets put into another steel cage full of poisonous snakes.
The world was bad enough with one Miss Perky. Two Miss Perkys are just unholy.
So. You're manning a security checkpoint in the US Capitol and this cruises past the checkpoint:
Yeah. I'd stop her, too. Real fast. Because that is looking a bit too much like this:
