Well, sort of.
Bless these players.
Though the NHL has attempted to 'frown upon' such theatrics, there is no denying that both the players and fans alike enjoy this spectacle.
There is, as they say, no school like the old school.
It should make for an interesting rematch tonight.
I love bloodthirst.
22.2.07
Methuselah's Revenge
When I perish, (and hopefully that won't be until the 2112 Milwaukee Summer Olympics) my wife's got explicit instructions to dispose of my body on garbage day. 
host Carol from Feeling Peevish wonders what it'd be like if society had a large population of 158 year olds who just keep on ticking.
Well, for one thing you wouldn't be able to keep Depends™ in stock.
Outro:
You know I'm born to lose, and gambling's for fools,
But that's the way I like it baby,
I don't wanna live for ever,
And don't forget the joker!
host Carol from Feeling Peevish wonders what it'd be like if society had a large population of 158 year olds who just keep on ticking.Well, for one thing you wouldn't be able to keep Depends™ in stock.
Outro:
You know I'm born to lose, and gambling's for fools,
But that's the way I like it baby,
I don't wanna live for ever,
And don't forget the joker!
19.2.07
17.2.07
Peter Pan - Now Chunkier
Thanks to Kevin J. Hosey at Buffalo Roots, I'm a couple miles closer to that Pulitzer. This is more Prego style:
16.2.07
Culture Schlock
John Sadowski laments that we are fresh out if ideas when it comes to creating culture. I'll have to say I agree. True, it's difficult to assess when you're living the moment. The stinky hippies of the 60s didn't think they were going to leave a legacy. Little did we know our children would co-opt those horrible 4th grade 1970's hairdos. Even counter-culture movements such as punk rock has been re-hashed, so that it's not unusual for an eighth grader to paint their hair green for no apparent reason.
Regardless, what do you think will be the enduring image of the "Aughts" decade? John wants to know.
14.2.07
8.2.07
...Take Me Away
Nothing budged my adolescent pecker more than the sight of a frustrated haüsfraü rubbing her temples as her family drives her nuts.
"Calgon, take me away," she cries as she plops her voluptuous rump in a sudsy tub.
Ahhh... yeah. That's right, baby. No-no-no... wait. Don't reach for that towel.
The lovely Suzanne of Perfecting the Fine Art of Procrastination stirred those memories. No. Unfortunately I didn't get a bathtub shot. Instead hosts the this week. She queries: what floats your boat?
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to do a YouTube scan for... uh... mmm...
"Calgon, take me away," she cries as she plops her voluptuous rump in a sudsy tub.
Ahhh... yeah. That's right, baby. No-no-no... wait. Don't reach for that towel.
The lovely Suzanne of Perfecting the Fine Art of Procrastination stirred those memories. No. Unfortunately I didn't get a bathtub shot. Instead hosts the
this week. She queries: what floats your boat?Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to do a YouTube scan for... uh... mmm...
6.2.07
Ask and Ye Shall Receive
A couple of weeks ago I wrote a post in hopes of finding my missing friend, Winter. Well, I just thought everyone should know that he's been found safe, though authorities suspect he was abused during his absence. My guess is that he was, because his disposition has been surly at best.As he plummets temperatures into the single digits and throws a frigid white mantle on our homes, he's chain smoking and sneaking Old Granddad from his mother's liquor cabinet. In other words, he's kind of pissed.
This weekend we took the hellions to that chafe called "Sesame Street Live" with my sister and her family. As Mrs. P hands the parking lot attendant a $20 bill, the gentleman removes his glove. Winter immediately starts pummeling the poor man's digits with an ice mallet. As an emergency measure, the attendant puts his hand up to our sh*twagon's sputtering heater.
Mrs. P: Um.... Are your hands cold?
Parking Lot Guy: Mmnnnn.... Yeah. Everybody's paying with twenties.
Mrs. P: Oh... I'm sorry. I have a five, but I'm paying for the car behind me. Here..
Heat: Fwwwwwwwwwooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...
Parking Lot Guy: Aw... Thanks. (Wiggles his fingers... hands Mrs. P her change.)
Mrs. P: You need some more?
Parking Lot Guy: Yeah, sure...
(She cranks the dial on the heater and adjusts the vent.)
Heat: Fwwwwwwwooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...
Parking Lot Guy: Ohhhhhhhhhh.... Thanks.
Yeah. Winter's back, but a bit churlish. You might see him on Dr.
2.2.07
Outstanding Visual of the Week
No, it wasn't a tired old thong.
(Actually, I wish it had been.)
I took the O-Dog to school on Wednesday and, as we approached, we saw the familiar faces of Mr. G and Ms. M greeting kids out in front. There was an unfamiliar figure coming up the street. What's cool about my neighbourhood is that once you walk south on Elmwood Avenue and pass Bryant Street you start seeing more and more people with missing limbs and teeth and sh*t. It's quite entertaining. Most of them are regular fixtures. This guy wasn't.
He seemed to have all his appendages intact.
All the visible ones, anyway.
Our 'hero' approaches the two teachers and asks Ms. M to hold his coffee. She politely complies, as our protagonist begins to pull up his shirt. I'm sure at this point she's thinking, "Aw, @*$#. He's going to take out his mangy, street-person unit and take a leak all over the side of the school building." But, no.
While the O-Dog and I came closer, I saw that the gentleman was in fact doing was 'tightening' a white fabric around his waist. I couldn't conceal my amusement as I walked past Mr. G and commented, "I love this town." Mr. G kept rubbing his face, looking off into the street to avoid laughing. I overheard the homes, saying something about losing weight and something about a belt.
I dropped the O-Dog off in his classroom and headed back outside, and our resourceful paragon of destitution had disappeared in the distance.
Prego: Sorry about that. I didn't make it any easier for you to keep a straight face.
Mr. G: That's all right. I wouldn't have been able to anyways.
Prego: What the heck was he using for a belt?
Ms. M: A sock.
Prego: That's rich. I was kind of hoping it was an extension cord.
I cinched the dog leash tightly around my waist and bid my adieu, as I headed to the dumpster to find my breakfast.
I love this town. Indeed.
(Actually, I wish it had been.)
I took the O-Dog to school on Wednesday and, as we approached, we saw the familiar faces of Mr. G and Ms. M greeting kids out in front. There was an unfamiliar figure coming up the street. What's cool about my neighbourhood is that once you walk south on Elmwood Avenue and pass Bryant Street you start seeing more and more people with missing limbs and teeth and sh*t. It's quite entertaining. Most of them are regular fixtures. This guy wasn't.
He seemed to have all his appendages intact.
All the visible ones, anyway.
Our 'hero' approaches the two teachers and asks Ms. M to hold his coffee. She politely complies, as our protagonist begins to pull up his shirt. I'm sure at this point she's thinking, "Aw, @*$#. He's going to take out his mangy, street-person unit and take a leak all over the side of the school building." But, no.
While the O-Dog and I came closer, I saw that the gentleman was in fact doing was 'tightening' a white fabric around his waist. I couldn't conceal my amusement as I walked past Mr. G and commented, "I love this town." Mr. G kept rubbing his face, looking off into the street to avoid laughing. I overheard the homes, saying something about losing weight and something about a belt.I dropped the O-Dog off in his classroom and headed back outside, and our resourceful paragon of destitution had disappeared in the distance.
Prego: Sorry about that. I didn't make it any easier for you to keep a straight face.
Mr. G: That's all right. I wouldn't have been able to anyways.
Prego: What the heck was he using for a belt?
Ms. M: A sock.
Prego: That's rich. I was kind of hoping it was an extension cord.
I cinched the dog leash tightly around my waist and bid my adieu, as I headed to the dumpster to find my breakfast.
I love this town. Indeed.
1.2.07
Bouche de Toilette
"Son of Beech. Sheeet."
Such was the response of some non-descript immigrant to Russell Ziskey in Stripes. An entire classload of English Language Learners duly replied in unison:
"Son of Beech. Sheeet."
Those of you who might have seen the film know that the lesson culminated in Zisky teaching them to sing "Da Doo Run-Run." That'd come in handy anywhere.
Steph Waller, the Incurable Insomniac hosts this week's
, paying homage to some choice colloquialisms around the world. This topic strikes close to home. When I moved here in 1984 from Venezuela, the first thing everybody wanted me to teach them was how to swear in Spanish.
I kept trying to explain that there is no equivalent for "f*ck" in the language... at least no direct translation. At the same time, I couldn't find the equivalent for "Coño de tu madre" in English, either. Languages are unique in their nuances and humour. Perhaps that's why I am unable to use my favourite of my mom's many refranes, "Maracucho pendejo muere chiquito," in conversation.
Pay the Insomniac a visit for some other worldly catchphrases.
Such was the response of some non-descript immigrant to Russell Ziskey in Stripes. An entire classload of English Language Learners duly replied in unison:
"Son of Beech. Sheeet."
Those of you who might have seen the film know that the lesson culminated in Zisky teaching them to sing "Da Doo Run-Run." That'd come in handy anywhere.
Steph Waller, the Incurable Insomniac hosts this week's
, paying homage to some choice colloquialisms around the world. This topic strikes close to home. When I moved here in 1984 from Venezuela, the first thing everybody wanted me to teach them was how to swear in Spanish.I kept trying to explain that there is no equivalent for "f*ck" in the language... at least no direct translation. At the same time, I couldn't find the equivalent for "Coño de tu madre" in English, either. Languages are unique in their nuances and humour. Perhaps that's why I am unable to use my favourite of my mom's many refranes, "Maracucho pendejo muere chiquito," in conversation.
Pay the Insomniac a visit for some other worldly catchphrases.
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