30 November 2005

So many morons, so few comets.

“Would you like to take a free personality test?” Asked the Chipper Young Thing™.

If you ask me, Chipper Young Things™ deserve to be made mulch with a wood chipper, if they impede my morning hunt for the nearest coffee. I grunted and tried to juke past it, but it deftly blocked my path.

“Sir-this-test-is-free-and-will-only-take-a-few-minutes-and-will-make-your-mind-visible!” It blurted.

I briefly thought about making its brain visible, but there was a policeman not too far away.

Plan B; torture.

“This is that diuretics thing?” I asked.

Dianetics Sir, You see it’s the science of freeing the mind…”

“You people are the ones that worship Xena Warrior Princess, right? I must say that your goddess is well endowed topside.” I interrupted. You gotta keep them off track, or they’ll finish their spiel.

Xenu, Sir” It said with an earnest frown. “And we don’t worship him; Xenu is the root of all evil!”


People were starting to stare, and sweat beaded the CYT’s forehead.

“No, you see, Xenu is an evil entity and he chained these spirits to a volcano, and… Well that’s not important, about the test…”

“Say, isn’t this the test where you get classified as ENTJ, INTQ, SMTP SLUT and whatnot?” I interjected.

“Er, yes.”

“Oh, I’ve taken that test.”

“Ah, I see.” It replied. “And what did it say you were?”


Absolutely Cueless

It has been pouring all day, so there was not much sense in working on the porch. Instead, wheezing Fred and I decided to go to the local and play some pool.

As a change of pace, we decided to have a drink or two. We received our sustenance from the barkeep, and placed our quarters walked to the pool tables to play the winner. Some slick looking youngster with a custom cue was playing an elderly lady with a cigar stuck in her mouth. “This shouldn’t take long.”, muttered Fred.

It didn’t. She ran the table and sank the eight neatly. “One of you boys up next?” She asked. Fred acknowledged. “Play for shots?” She said.

Sure, why not?

Fred racked. She broke; and ran the table.

Damn. Just, damn!

She slugged down an Ezra Brooks and raised her eyebrow to me. I nodded and racked,

“Don’t see too many women that can stomach Ezra neat.” I said.

“Yeah,” She said, eyeing the break. “Been drinking straight corn liquor for nigh on 70 years. No sense in diluting it with ice and what-not.” She broke and sank the two.

“Or, smoke a cheroot.” I added, trying to distract her. She puffed smoke at me.

“Been smoking since I was a little girl. Six in the corner.” She neatly slid the six into the pocket, Englishing it around my blocking stripes. Damn.

“Say, what’s that tattoo I see on your forearm?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s the tail of a dragon. It’s coiled around me. I got it when I was a welder in the shipyards during the war. Four off the one.” She made it.

“Damn!” I said admiringly. “You’re one tough lady. Have you ever been picked up by the fuzz?”

She considered the table. Of the solids, only the eight ball remained. She tapped the side pocket with her cue tip.

“Noooo,” She replied. “Can’t say as I have.”

She sank the eight and turned to look me in the eye.

“But I have been swung about by my nipple-rings.”

29 November 2005


It all started Thursday night, when I said the Wrong Thing™ and thus was encouraged to take the evening air. So, there I stood on the porch, with cigar and Jesus-juice in hand (a legacy of my Irish heritage: "…Take this and drink, for this is my blood, which, the freaking Oirish will go and distill, no doubt".) and watched the town rise slowly about me.

Fuzzily, I realized that towns don’t rise, and that I must be sinking, but alas, too late. A man of lesser girth may not have broken through the rotten wood, and he certainly wouldn’t have gotten stuck. Eventually, my cries for help were answered, but only long after my supplies were gone. Sober, I returned indoors. Honor demanded that I wreak gratuitous and bloody vewngeance upon the porch.

It was going down.


The dumpster arrived at 7:00AM, and soon thereafter I was hacking and bashing at the porch. Wheezing Fred soon showed up with a Sawzall, anxious for an excuse to avoid “Black Friday” shopping with his Missus and consume my beer. He was welcome.

Not so welcome was Ray, who is still in my bad graces for wrecking my truck. He came for the same reasons.

Now, Ray isn’t the brightest candle on the cake, but he brought his son Mike, who while only eight, shoots at a tenth grade level, and his extortion skills would put many college students to shame. I like that kid.

Mike spent most of the time with a sledge hammer, helping with demolition and keeping the lemming population down.

What? It’s not sick; the damn lemmings are probably all Norwegian spies and besides, it’s therapeutic for stress.

Lemmings are nature’s bubble wrap.

Anyhoo, with the four of us bashing and hacking away, my worst fears were soon confirmed. The porch was rotten from one end to the other. The previous owners had effected some repairs by nailing good boards to rotten ones, and backfilling earth against the sill plates. The support posts all floated on rotten plywood, cantilevered several inches out from the foundation. Why the roof hadn’t collapsed, is a mystery. We shook our heads and filled the dumpster.


Saturday was just plain cold. The temperature stayed well below freezing, making each hammer blow to the thumbnail hurt that much more. By four in the afternoon, Ray was pretty oiled and tripped while handing me the nail gun. For the second time in three days, I was stuck to my porch.

Ray decided that it was time to go home while I was pulling the nail. Luckily, it went between toes, so that all I got was a bloody sock and an interesting bruise.

I’ll let Ray live.


Things went much more smoothly without Ray. Mike spent the day with Fred and me, bringing us beers and gathering up the many nests of dormant wasps. He said he had a use for them at school. I didn’t ask, preferring to read the police report at a later date. He’s been bugging his parents for a death ray. I think I’ll give him one for Christmas.

By the end of the day, the plumbing and wiring was roughed in, and all the doors and windows hung. I’ll finish the sheathing this week, and I can then finish the interior at my leisure.

Monday, I slept.


Ray came to my house last night in a tiff. It seems that Sunday night when Mike returned home, His mom asked if he learned anything while he was here. He said, "Yes ma’am!"

She asked what and he replied, "Well, I learned that the damn door don't hang that way it goes the other way, and the dumpster doesn't go there, the son of a bitch goes over there, and the lumber yard delivered the wrong f@#$ing windows."

His mom immediately told him to go to his room until his father comes home. Later, Ray came home and after the mother informing him of what took place, he called him down and asked what he said.

"I told mom that the damn door don't hang that way, it goes the other way. And that the dumpster doesn't go there, the son of a bitch goes over there, and the lumber yard delivered the wrong f@#$ing windows."

Ray was very upset. He explained that they didn't use that kind of language in the house. He told Mike to march outside and get a switch.

Little Mike turned to his dad.

"Screw you!” He said. “That's the electrician's job!"

24 November 2005

An homage to that most iconic of holiday fowl; the tofurkey.

“Let’s try something new.” She said. This is usually my queue to become alarmed, like a tsunami warning on a beach or teeth and clumps of hair falling out; but I was watching football.

”Fooball!” I grunted, waving a paw in the vague direction of the TV. Surely, I am the very reincarnation of the immortal bard. Eh, gentlemen?

After all, "fooball!"

I believed I’d made myself abundantly clear. I drank some beer and settled deeper into the couch.

Bathroom … later.

“Honey, remember what the Doctor said about your cholesterol?” Well, no, not right then, I didn’t.

“I got a tofurkey!” She said, beaming. “You see, it’s this flavoured tofu, pressed into the form of a turkey, and it can be roasted.”

“I…” My beetle brow knotted in ferocious concentration. This seemed wrong. I was prepared to cook the turkey that I had stalked and cornered in the grocer’s freezer just yesterday. I have the tools to either smoke it, or deep fry it. My cunning plan was to smoke it a bit, then fry it. I had not decided on the type of dressing yet, save that it would involve some form of pig. The ghost of Julia Child moaned in the wind and wound its way around the house like a begging cat between its servants legs.


“No.” I managed to croak.

“It’ll be deep fried.” She wheedled. My left eyebrows twitched upward.

“In lard!” Well, alright then. My eyes glazed over, and I returned to the game.

Well, of course she didn’t fry it; it was roasted to a particularly unappealing streaky brown color. I tried it, then surreptitiously slipped it to the dog.

Shadow, the Dog-That-Eats-Anything-Even-Tootsie-Rolls-From-The-Cat-Box, turned up her nose and slunk away. I toed the gelatinous lump under the radiator.

“Mmmmm” I said appreciatingly. “Delicious!” I refilled her wine glass.

“Don’t!” She exclaimed. “It’ll go right to my head, and I’ll fall asleep!”

“But honey, wine helps reduce bad cholesterol!” I smiled, we drank, and I refilled her glass. Twenty minutes later, she was snoring on the sofa, and I was headed up to wheezing Fred’s. I pounded on the door.

“You’ve got to help me, mate.” I said. “I’m famished!”

“No problem.” He said. “I’ve got a large traditional thanksgiving meal here.” He gave me a beer and motioned me towards the football game. I happily settled into his couch.

“Do ya want a slice of pepperoni, or mushroom and sausage?” He shouted from the kitchen.

Ahhh, fooball!

23 November 2005

D’oh, a Deer!

A female deer,
Ray, done bashed it with my truck,
Me, he phoned to ‘splain himself:
“Feh, I’s aiming for the buck!”
So, I called up wheezing Fred,
Lah, we gutted out the doe,
Then, I had to fix my truck
Now Ray wants the bleeding doe! D’oh, d’oh, d’oh….

Well, he isn't getting it, but I'm not surprised that he hit the stupid thing. Darkest
Pennsyltucky has the highest incidence of deer collisions in the States. Apparently, it’s not so much a product of our school system as it is that the place is literally crawling with deer.

And drunks.

The situation is exacerbated by the fact that the mating season is at the same time as hunting season. Imagine how jumpy you’d be if you had three weeks a year to mate, were in a club chatting up some lady, and Elmer Fudd pops a cap in your arse.

Bloody disquieting, it would be. You might not even look both ways before crossing the street in a situation like that.

I know I didn't, and I have the scars to prove it.

22 November 2005

The first hint of winter

It’s cold as a brass monkey’s balls, especially at home. Apparently, I’ve forgotten some bloody anniversary, birthday or critical event.

Since there’s no sense in going home right now, I stopped at a new bar. I thought I’d like the place. As I walked in, the bartender poured a beer and a whiskey and placed it in a vacant spot.

I grabbed the beer and took a long pull. “Cold as a tax collectors heart out there.” I said to the fellow on my right.

He just grunted. I took another long swallow.

“It’s the damn jet stream coming down from Canada….” He looked at me like I’m some sort of alien. I finished the beer.

“A lot of moisture is coming up the coast; it looks like we’re in for a Nor’-Easter. A bit early for that.” I said, trying to draw a spark. Nothing.

Screw him, then. I wasn’t about to hang out with the unfriendly prick. I whacked the shot and left.

As I walked towards the door, someone took my vacant seat.

“Who was that guy you were talking to?” He asked the grump.

“Hell if I know.” Was the answer. “But the bastard drank your f#$%ing booze!”

21 November 2005

Pre-slimed bog paper. Now that's a grand idea....

With Aloe and vitamin E lotion? I’m all for a soft, clean wipe; after all, no one wants to use that abrasive, yet water soluble, brownish prison bum wipe. So if the bog paper giants want to get into a multi-layer/softness war, I’m all for it.

But, lotion? No. I don’t want my paper pre-slimed. If anyone is going to slime it, it’s going to be me, a few sheets at a time.

I suppose that the vitamin E would keep one’s ring piece soft and lovely. Maybe there is a bungalow-beauty pageant circuit, or perhaps third-eye catalog models who need this treatment, but I can’t see that being a huge market.

So, what about the Aloe?

Let’s face it, Aloe is for burns. If you feel the need for Aloe, you are wiping way too fast. Slow down, sparky! Only you can prevent fur-ass fires.

Beides, if you do smell smoke, you are sitting scant inches above a pool of cool, cool water. Physician, dunk thyself.

20 November 2005

Rectum? Damn near killed him!

My youth was somewhat aimless. For years, I wandered through a series of jobs trying to find my life’s niche.

I would have to say, the poorest fit was traffic warden. This was after my freshman year, during which I had earned an impressive GPA of 1.19, and was invited by the university to “Expand my horizons… elsewhere”.

Amazingly, very few people were willing to hire a lazy 18 year old smart-arse, so I took a job as a traffic warden.

I was given a day of training, issued an orange vest, booking pad and armed with a police whistle and a red coned plastic torch. We we’re to whistle at the motoring evil-doers and use our lit "batons" to pull them over for a ticket. Yes. It worked about as well as you would imagine.

Now, being somewhat less motivated than the average teenager, I soon earned the enmity of my supervisor, one Sergeant Cafferty. He’d been on the “force” for almost 20 years and had heaved his bulk up through the ranks to his exalted position. “Evil,” He said to me “I’m putting you on the night shift, next to me so I can watch you. You are not going to sully my beloved Traffic Safety Corps!” Tosser.

So there I was, one chill, foggy night when a black beemer bore down on me at high speed. I whistled, and indicated him to pull over, and was rather surprised when he did so. I walked up to the car as the tinted window slid down. It was then that I noticed the shotgun. It was huge and pointed at my groin.

“You are going to take that damn whistle and shove it up your arse!”

No way! Was he serious? Well, yes, it turns out he was.

When he was satisfied with the insertion, he tore off to the north towards Sgt. Cafferty’s post.

Sod it. I didn’t need the job that badly. I radioed ahead to the fat bastard.

“Sergeant!” I said. “There’s a fellow in a black BMW driving like a maniac towards you. Don’t try and whistle him to a stop; he won’t listen. Use your baton.” He grunted acknowledgement.

The chill night air carried a ghost of his indignant bellow, and then a hint of sobbing. He loved that baton. I listened for a moment before abandoning my post, and turning in the balance of my gear at the station.

I walked home that night, if not with a jaunty step, then at least with a whistle.

18 November 2005

What the Hell do people see in Bond?

“Who’d you rather be at a party with?” I ask. “James Bond, or an Evil Scientist?”

“Bond!” Is the inevitable reply, from both women and men (and not necessarily gay men either. Sheesh!)

Gentlemen, do you notice how all the ladies are flocking around him? What’s left for you? Ooo, the vegetable tray?* How about another light beer, you lonely loser, hmmmm?

Ladies, he’s slept with more women than Genghis Khan. He’s like a dog with two peckers. For Pete’s sake, when you Google “STD vectors” he’s on the top of the damn list! Do you have to worry about catching the clap from Evil Scientists?

HELL, NO! Let’s face it, we are nerds and don’t get out much. We’re clean as a whistle. (Go ahead, give it a blow!)

Furthermore, the man’s a lush. “Vodka Martini, dry, shaken, not stirred.” Jesus wept! Why doesn’t he just do a grain alcohol enema? How often do you see Evil Scientists getting obnoxiously tanked and puking all over your stereo, hmmm? No more than three or four times a year, I assure you, and that’s usually at office parties.

Money; weellll, don’t get me started. He’s got a lousy civil service salary. We’ve got our own islands, space stations, third world countries and extinct volcanoes. Who’s going to be able to by you diamonds,hmmmm, ladies? Not “Pretty boy”, that’s for sure!

Guns? We’ve got orbital death rays and machine gun wielding goons, he’s got a lousy Walther PPK .380 poodle shooter. To hell with the thrice-damned, ammunitionally challenged, slattern hounding, poverty stricken, arse-fiddling wanker!

Uh, right. Well. I’m, ah, glad we sorted that out.

Um, er…

I, ah, seem to have both weekend nights free.

So, does anyone know of a party?

(*No, I was not referring to Karen Ann Quinlan, you sick bastards.)

Sinus headache

Apparently, there are little elves that live in my sinuses. Today, they broke into a liquor store, drank all the tequila and are now clog dancing.

I hate elves and all their little ilk.


“FLUMP!” A stack of folders hits my desk.

“What’s this?” I growl. My head still hurts. The only reason I am here, is that we have a tool down at Texas Instruments, and I am walking my field engineers through the diagnostics. Honestly, if this was not an emergency, I’d be home abed, or more likely on a sick bar-stool.

Stout is champion for curing sinus headaches.

“Employee reviews.” The Human Resources drone answers back.

“Listen” I say. “I’ve a splitting headache. Do you really think this is the best time for me to be doing employee reviews?”

“Yes.” She replies. “It’s the perfect time. I hate engineers.”

Good grief, what an evil bitch!

First thing Monday, I’m moving her to the I.T. department, where her skills will be put to better use.

16 November 2005

Poetry Day!

Well, for lack of anything better, and the fact that I probably will have to wend my way south (waaaay south; deep in the Heart of Texas!) tomorrow, I am declaring today and probably tomorrow, “Poetry Day” Please submit your humorous, ribald, or flat out scary poems, haikus or limericks. Subject matter may include Hippies, Clowns (Clowans, if you need the extra syllable), Evil science and/or Rednecks.

Extra points will be given to rhyming use of “Orange”, “Purple” or “Chimney”. And don’t claim it isn’t possible:

Says she; naught rhymes with Purple and Orange,
So I brought up my latest crack-whore binge,
She gave a hard fur-pull,
That turned my knob purple,
As if it was caught in a door hinge.

See? It can be done, and it only took me four beers. You English majors should be able to do it in no more than two. And light beers at that.

First prize will be a “Port Matilda 43rd annual Hard Liquor and Handgun Night”, “Crazy Enough to Work in the Post Office” T-shirt. We’ll vote on the thing, if I get more than one entry.

And no fair cribbing off this guy, for redneck haikus.

15 November 2005

For once, these online quiz thingies are accurate

Which Horrible Affliction are you?

I am Syphilis. Don't Screw With Me, Or I'll Give You Dementia.

A Rum and Monkey disease.

Where late the sweet birds sang

The writing is on the wall. Our firm is decidedly infirm, and the chances of achieving employment in this area are slim, if I wish to exclude jobs involving pig manure.

So, I must get off my lazy rump, prepare the Slanty Shanty for sale and move to a more upscale regions; where the jobs may involve; oh, I don’t know, cow manure, maybe.

Well I can dream, can’t I?.

The clean-up and repairs are more daunting than one might expect. It’s not that the structure is ancient; the oldest portion was built in 1882, but apparently the high tech tools of the day; squares, spirit levels and plumb-bobs, were unavailable to the builders.

To make matters worse, in 1972, the house was struck by a heavily laden truck that had lost its brakes coming down the mountain. Rather than using the insurance settlement to repair the structure, an addition was built-on to buttress the then seriously tilting house.

As a nod to traditionalists, the builders were true to their Victorian predecessors vision, and built the buttress with opposing tilts, bulges and non-square angles. Imagine M.C. Escher loaded to the gills on bad absinthe and mushrooms, wielding and axe with a murderous gleam in his eyes and I think you can picture the house.

I fell in love with it immediately.

So, now I am scraping and painting, replacing gutters, knocking down starling nests and pressure washing the siding, as starlings are not fussy about where they poo. A freshly washed vehicle, your beverage, picnic table or bald pate; it’s all the same to them.

And that is not the only reason why I hate them. They would alight in the wee hours on my satellite dish, degrading the porn signal and shrieking violently at each other. Apparently, none of them are happily married; they only stay together for the sake of the eggs. Of course, the eggs hatch and grow up in this unhappy environment and as a result, if there were an avian version of “COPS”, the starling clan would figure prominently.

So I do what I can to discourage them from staying in the area, but I’ve never been successful.

When I replaced some roof shingles, I figured out why; the roof vent for the garage was missing a portion of the wire guard. About were scattered starling feathers and other detritus.

I pulled out the ladder and a flashlight, and gingerly inspected the garage attic. The rafters hung stark in winter chill; bare ruin’d choirs, where late the “sweet” birds sang.

Below them lay mounds of guano.

I mean, this is a commercially valuable deposit. What the hell am I going to do with all this bird poo?

The only thing that comes to mind is to build a catapult and go visit the tax office.

14 November 2005

The Lemming Peril

Now, you all know that lemmings don’t really commit suicide, that’s just a myth, put forward by those masters of intrigue and mayhem, the Norwegians, in order to cover up the real story.

The Norwegians are training their lemmings to swim out the North Sea oil platforms and seize control of that sweet, sweet Brent crude.

Well, I am not standing for it. Lemmings have no natural enemies, except for the mallet and cider press, but domestic cats have been holding down the populations in recent centuries. Therefore, in the interest of keeping the North Sea British and the fact that one of the little bastards had peed on the comforter, I decided to do my duty and train my cats in naval special-ops.

First stop, the pool. I had to get them over their natural aversion to water. This was accomplished by an underhand lobbing technique, rather like a slow softball pitch. Once in the water, they were surprisingly adept at swimming and would paddle their way to the opposite side of the pool, there I would help them out and we'd work on their diving technique.

After all, the gentle underarm lob was not sufficient to dislodge the yowling cats from my arms; I had to use a googly.

After a dozen or so laps and the loss of a pint of blood, I was satisfied with both their swimming and fighting skills. If they were prepared to eat a chunk of my skull, just think of what they’d do to an amphibious lemming assault group.

Are you Norwegians listening? Good.

Oh, and would anyone like to buy a comforter?

(No, I didn't actually throw them into a pool, but they did get flea baths, and the effect on my epidermis and skull were identical) .

13 November 2005

I could have answered this in the comments, but I didn't have a post ready for today, so....

The good Dr. Pak (Medical Doctor, he actually had to work in school, at his boards, internship and residency. Since I was not prepared to do this, I beat my Doctorate out of my committee. I heartily recommend this approach to the rest of you lazy buggers) asks:

Dr Evil, I can only find posts about you back up to May. Nothing before that. Do you have archives anywhere else?

Sadly, no, Dr. Pak. Two years ago I was working in the quality control department of a manufacturer of recreational pharmaceuticals. After a particularly severe bout of hallucinations, I found that I had been hired as one Alan Greenspan’s chief economists and was sent to Brussels. There I spent my days extorting money from my European colleagues and suggesting helpful passages to the proposed EU constitution (the bit about EU representatives being forced to drive Ford Pintos with defective 8track players that continuously loop “It’s a small world after all!” is my work).

After my term was over, I returned to the States with my loot but tragically lost it all when the bottom dropped out of the “Beanie Baby” market. I was forced to start this blog in May of this year to put food on the table.

This blog, and a few bank robberies has seen us through some trying times.

11 November 2005

How does he know all my plans?

I'm not sure how I missed this, but I'd sure like to know how he knew my plans.

Oh yeah, take a gander at
this. The caption is brilliant.

On the dole again, I just can't wait to get on the dole again...

Well, doodies. It appears that our critics were correct. A small minnow of a start-up cannot long compete with the sharks of the semiconductor industry, no matter how useful and advanced our technology is. My dreams of selling my stock off and retiring to some place where I could sneer at the peasants, have been shattered. Why do bad things happen to evil people?

In reality, things aren’t really all that grim. We’ve been at this for ten years now and have had a damn good run. Besides, I can get another job quite easily, gather dirt on my new unsuspecting bosses, and before long everything will be back to normal.

Believe me, leaving a job this way is far less traumatic than the spectacular way I had once achieved the noble state of unemployment.

Way back in the murky past, when I still had a liver and the cold war had fizzled to a close, the Navy decided that funding 20 identical research programs for developing turbomachinery flow and noise solvers was a slight waste of money.

The Navy was willing to waste money on two identical projects (the hoary spendthrift traditions of the DoD must be held sacrosanct, after all) and decided that if there could only be two, they wanted the ones whose results actually came closest to reality.

Yes, I agree. Spoilsports.

In any event, it was decided that Lincoln labs at MIT would measure the flow field and resulting radiated sound from flap foil wakes impinging on a control surface. We were given the geometries, inlet and outflow boundary conditions and were told to go to it.

Long story made bearable, (nerdy bits removed) we saw a feature that our boss told us could not occur. Basic physics, we argued back, proved that it should.

“This is all wrrrong! You are the worst graduate students I have ever seen! Your code is crap!” Replied our boss. “The sponsors are very unhappy!”

Now, this was very unfair to the other grad student, who was actually conscientious. I, on the other hand, fit the label fairly well. I spent most of my time on schemes like filling his car with expanding foam, putting butyric acid in his air ducts and lubricating the soles of his boots.

He was an easy man to hate.

Still, we stuck to our guns, and eventually we submitted the data at the deadline. We arrived in Carderock after an unpleasant four hour trip during we were berated for our stupidity. Lo and behold, the feature was real, and we were the only ones to capture it. The Bossman decided that he would present our results, after all.

So there he stood at the podium, smirking. His audience included all of the luminaries of the incompressible flow / hydroacoustics field, a few Navy four-stripers and an admiral.

“You are to be congratulated.” Said one of the Professors “The cogent question is, what did your group do to capture the effect that the rest of us missed?

The Bossman, having no clue, answered. “My code’s just better than all of yours, that’s why!”

There was stunned silence. This from a man who couldn’t turn on a pc. I leaned over to the other grad student and whispered “What an asshole. Two hours ago, we couldn’t even convince him that was real.”

Stifled chuckles revealed that my voice had carried further than I intended.

I looked up at the Bossman, to see his knuckles white on the podium. A blood vessel in his left eye burst, giving him an ever more demonic aspect. I could hear his labored breathing from where I sat. I cast a panicked glance around the room, and my eyes happened to lock on those of the grinning admiral. “You are sooooo unemployed!” said his expression.

Well, eventually the meeting ended and his wife, who had come along to do some shopping, came to pick us up.

“How was your meeting, dears?” She asked. Why she married that turdball, I’ll never know.

“It went great!” Said the other grad student. “We got to say things that we’d wanted to say for a long time!”

Well, it was nice of him to try to take some of the heat, but it made for a very uncomfortable silent drive back.

When we returned, my belongings were in boxes stacked outside of the door that no longer bore my name.

The Bossman had called ahead.

10 November 2005

A fowl story

Here in darkest Pennsyltucky, one can not always rely on supermarkets for one’s food. This is especially true when the Sheriff’s department impounds your car for the piddling reason that it was stolen. Since I’d parked it in front of Reverend Steve’s house, he had to do the ‘splainin’, not me.

So, reduced to Shank’s mares, I walked to the local hardware store to get some chicken wire. As I left the store, one of the elderly locals called out from the bench on the porch.

“Hey, boy!” He said with a spit of tobacco juice. “Where ya going with that wire?”

“Well, Sir, this is chicken wire. I’m going to catch some chickens.” I replied.

“You can’t catch chickens with chicken wire.” He said shaking his head. “That’s for fencing, ijit!”

I ignored him and walked down to the ADM poultry farm. I made a crude cage, stuffed some hens in and carried it back home. The old fellow just shook his head when I walked by.

A day or two later, deterred by the increased security at ADM, I decided to try something else. This time, I bought some duck tape.

“Hey BOY!” The old coot called out. “Where you going with that tape?”

“Well, Old timer, this is no ordinary tape, this is Duck tape, and I am going down to the creek to get some ducks.”

Again, he was incredulous. “You can’t catch ducks with Duck tape.” He said. “Yer about ignernt! Duck tape is fer fixin’ trucks!”

“Watch me, Gramps.”

I made a sticky net out of the tape, deployed it across the draw and yelled like a heathen as I ran towards it. Net result, four mallards, two Canada geese and one particularly dim toy poodle. Reluctantly, I let the ankle biter go. (Poodles just aren’t good eating).

The old fart couldn’t believe it when I walked past him with my catch.

Later that week, I was sent to the flower shop to pick up some things for one of Gretchen’s dried floral arrangements.

As I passed the hardware store, he called out to me.

“Boy, where you going with them twigs?”

“For crying out loud, Methuselah; these aren’t twigs, these are pussy willows.”

A sickly hunger burned through his usual languorous gaze.

“You just wait right here, boy.” He said, jumping up. “I’ll go get my hat!”

09 November 2005

Microsoft Evil? Naaaw...

Much has been made of Microsoft being an evil conglomerate, on the order of Starbucks or MacDonald's. Yet Bill Gates, whom some have branded the Beelzebub of operating system software, gives billions of his fortune away in charity each year.

Apparently, getting some nookie has mellowed his nerdish evil tendencies.

No, if you want evil, you need a frustrated evil genius as a CEO. Someone like me.


The Blogosphere in 2010. Dr. Scientist has run Microsoft since a hostile takeover (tanks, artillery and attack aircraft, I spare no expense) in 2006.

A blogger writes a post using the lastest MS bundled operating system/office software/web browser/media center/blogging software; "Windows XPensive."

"My eyes were locked, tracking the movement of the whiskey bottle, like a dingo would a baby."

"Yeah, Why not? Just go away would you?"

"So what? Are you descended from convicts or sheep shaggers? GO AWAY!"

"Ooo, what you gonna do, wire boy? Clip me to death? Now how do I turn off this feature..."

"Hey! Cntrl Z, Cntrl-Alt-Del, what the HELL! Yeah I want to exit Windows, NOW! Crap, where's my gun..."


Just thank your lucky stars, people.

08 November 2005

Male call

Autumn is here, heralding an end to the yard work. The storm windows are up, the leaves have been raked, and a few good hard frosts have killed off the last of the hippies, so I could gather up their lifeless husks and throw them onto the burn pile. They burn well when dried and the pungent smoke is a great repellent.

Yes, I know they are perennials and will be back to infest my marijuana garden in the spring, but nothing short of irradiating the earth will kill hippy seeds. I’ll just have to be content with whacking them with hoes when they sprout. That doesn’t sound quite right, but you know what I mean.

Since I now have plenty of time on the weekends to nap and watch football, this frees up my weekdays considerably. I can now play so-du-ko online and answer six months of backed-up hate mail. So here goes.

Jimmy Platelet, ostensibly of Mrs. Grendel’s third grade class writes:

Deer Doc Evil,

How come you nevar rite aboat yor plans to rule the world?

Jimmy P.

Nice try, Mr. Bond. Piss off.

The law offices of Dewey, Cheatham, & Howe, LLC, write:

Dr. E. Scientist,

This letter is to inform you that we are bringing civil suit against you regarding the incident if 18 August 2004, in which you sprayed hormones mimicking elephant estrus on the seats of Barnum and Baileys clown pants. Barnum and Bailey is looking for $2.5M in damages to cover the corrective surgery, and the care for resulting baby clowephants.

Everett Cheatham.

My dearest Mr. Cheatham.

I weren’t me, it were Mr. Arlington Copley Hynes. Sue him. He’s from Boston, and thus has lots of money.

Yours in poverty,

Brian Buckler of Omaha, Nebraska wishes to remain anonymous, but did a poor job of masking his IP address. He writes:

Dear Evil;

May I call you Evil? Anyway, I notice that you are frequently writing about women. How do you get all these women since you are a fat, balding nerd? Are you lying?


Dear Brian.

No, you may not call me Evil. And I am not lying. Blogospherical etiquette does not permit falsehood, except in blogs run by politicians and policemen. Oh, and judges too; they are the worst.

What you see here is what you get. I am surrounded by women who are eiter A) Attracted to my massive brain power, B) Trying to collect child support, or C) Have just succumbed to the pheromones that I use daily.

If you would like a sample bottle, I have a new formulation, inspired by the Finest French perfume, called “Cocquèroachés”. Send me $100, and I guaranty you’ll be surrounded by females!

Dr. Evil Scientist, phD.

Well, that’s all I have time for today. Got to grease the wheels of commerce you know, download porn, torment investors...

Besides, it's beer o'clock.

07 November 2005

Off my meds, again.

Life isn’t all just corporate brigandage and rapine, you know. Sometimes one must knuckle down, grit one’s teeth and go to a piss-up. This weekend, however, was not one of those times. I had not mown the lawn in over a month and had received “The Look” ™; you know,the one that says: “A) I have pinking shears, and B) I Know where you keep your willie.”

Since I had to mow, shear, trim, dig and blast all weekend long, nothing exciting happened, so I am forced to dredge up mouldy stories.

It has occurred to me on many occasions that British football hooligans could be vastly more effective if they were to adopt the American habit of tailgating. I know we are certainly more likely to eat the opposing team’s mascot when we have just consumed a truck load of alcohol and grub.

Besides, it is a perfect chance for evil one-upsmanship. Flaunting filet mignon with boursin, lobster, coquille St. Jacques mornay, asparagus Normandie and a two keg beer delivery system, makes the usual light beer and hotdog affair seem flaccid. If we weren’t such terrible nerds, it would be a tremendous chick magnet.

So that is why I built the 20 gallon piña colada maker.

Things started out well. There was a chilly breeze, and being “gentlemen” we leant our coats to the ladies. Besides, I was quite warm next to the grill and lobster cooker. Then, buttery disaster struck.

A charming young lady, wearing Putz’s jacket, displays the lobstaah for the cameras. Note how the liter of clarified butter that I had poured over them is draining into the right sleeve. Also, note the blurry image of the Putz on the right, as he dashes in, in a doomed attempt to salvage his jacket.
<Homer Drool> Mmmm, Rich, buttery, jacket </Homer Drool>

“Think on the good side, Putz, you’ve been packing it on, and your jacket is getting rather tight. Think how easy it will be to slide into now.”

He gave me “The Look” ™.

I didn’t know that it was possible for men to give “The Look” ™. I decided to change the subject.

“Why don’t I fire up the Coladatron? You look like you could use a drink.”

The Coladatron is nothing more than a giant blender, manufactured from the compressor stage of an old Allison turboprop; powered by a 6.5 HP lawn mower engine.

For you Continental types out there, I’m not sure what that comes out to in terms metric Cod Power units. (Of course I am joking; as a scientist, I use the SI system. One Horse Power is the equivalent of 32 Cod Power. The Euro-folk have damn powerful cod, and quite frankly, I fear them.)

Flash poured in six bags of ice, four bottles of piña colada mix and enough rum to feed my family for a fortnight. “Fire it up!” exclaimed Flash. I did so.
“It’s binding. More power!” shouted Flash.

I cranked the throttle fully. The ice started to move sluggishly.

“More power!”

I cranked open the valve to the nitrous oxide cylinder. The trick to getting nitrous is knowing where a dentist’s office is, and having a brick.

The damn thing worked! Briefly.

Without having balanced the compressor dynamically, the tip gap became negative, and the coladatron; well, it blew up.

Putz had been knocked back on his arse. He was covered with translucent, white piña cheese and was as pale as a ghost.

“Christ, Putz, are you okay?” I asked, jumping down to help him. He crab crawled away from me.

“Back off, monster!” He shouted. “You bevricidal maniac!”

04 November 2005

How many lawyers does it take to....

Now, some might think that a Criminal Lawyer is a redundancy, but in my line of work, they are a necessity.

A few years back, I’d accidentally disintegrated the vault wall of a local bank. I volunteered to pay for the damages, but due to a strange twist of fate, the amount of cash I had on me was identical to what the bank claimed was lost. Criminal charges were brought against me.

No worries, I thought. I’d just call up my lawyer. Unfortunately, he did a lot of contingency work for the mob, claiming half of the settlement. When his client got two shotgun barrels to his head, he got one. I needed a new lawyer.

I ended up with a short, disheveled fellow who I’ll refer to as “Frank” in the interest of maintaining my belongings.

I had some misgivings about him, but he reassured me.

“With all your money” He said, winking. “You are not going to prison!”

The trial was presided over by; and I am not making this up, one Judge Hanger. Frank’s strategy was sopophoric. He’d repeat the same points, over and over, changing the words slightly each time. “Juries are stupid.” He assured me. “You have to make the statement 7-10 times before it sinks in.”

The judge grew tired of Frank’s repetitious arguments, and made some rulings to speed things up. Frank bristled at the judge's orders, and tempers grew hot. I tried to hurry him along, but he just shushed me. “I know what I’m doing.” He said.

Finally, frustrated with another rendition of arguments we had heard many times before, the judge pointed to his ear and said, "Counselor, you should be aware that at this point, what you are saying is just going in one ear and out the other."

"Your honor," replied Frank, "That goes without saying. What is in there to prevent it?"

“Eeep!” I said, whilst trying to slide underneath the defense table while Frank and the Right Honorable Judge Hanger exchanged glares. At least the jury was enjoying the show.

After weeks of this, Frank finally gave his closing arguments. “I’ve got em right where I want em!” He assured me. The jury shuffled out of the court.

While the jury deliberated, Frank scrabbled furiously through a pile of documents. The jury returned after a scant half hour. Inevitably, the verdict was entered against me. Frank leapt to his feet, demanding that the case be reopened, saying: "I have new evidence that makes a huge difference in my client's defense."

Judge Hanger asked, "What new evidence could you possibly have?"

"My client has an extra $100,000 in assets, and I just found out about it!"

I struggled with the bailiffs, anxious to get my hands on Frank. “You’re a bastard!” I yelled . “You’re a thief! You’ve strung me along for weeks just to pad your fee!”

”That’s gratitude,” Replied frank, looking very offended.. “And right after I named my new yacht after you.”

“You lying asshat! You promised you’d keep me out of prison!” I screamed.

“Doctor Scientist,” He replied frostily. “I simply remarked that you would not go to prison with all your money.”

One day, there’ll be bloody paybacks; mark my words, but he’s earned my grudging respect. The man is pure eeevil!.

03 November 2005

A Sticking Point.

“Slaby said O'Toole waited until he fell asleep and glued his penis to his stomach, glued his testicle to his leg and glued the cheeks of his buttocks together.

Then came the nail polish.”

This time, I had nothing to do with it. Honest, yer Honour!

It seems that this sort of thing is becoming quite trendy in our neck of the woods. What I’d really like to know, is how one can have one’s privy bits, both fore and aft, welded together, without awakening.

I know that if I were sleeping with a jealous ex-girlfriend, I would certainly keep a little better track of my genitalia.


More glue related mayhem. Have you ever seen anything like this before? Well, actually, I'm sure you have, but was it framed?

02 November 2005

Peemil Speaks!

With friends like these, who needs enemas?

And I can't even castigate him, lest he cuts off my access to tawdry, Korean porn. Oh, the horror!

Uncle Pat's Wake.

It wasn’t that we didn’t have plenty of warning about Uncle Patrick’s demise; he been telling us for years that he wanted to die. His wife of five decades, a wretched, dour harridan named Fiona had tormented his days with Götterdamerungish admonitions and a ferocious intolerance of ethanol. It was only his staunch Catholicism that kept him from committing murder, suicide, divorce, or indeed, the trifecta.

Since he and Aunt Fiona were without issue, he doted on us children; all the more so, since we would pilfer booze from our parent’s liquor cabinet to ease his pain. So when the call to attend his death bed came, we were quick to respond.

“Gather round the bed, you little bastards” He wheezed. “And put the bottles under me pillow.”

We did so; mine a little light from the cab ride over. I don’t think he noticed.

“Yer going to throw me a wake, Right?” Well, duh!

“And yer going to do me another favor.” He announced, with steel flashing in his rheumy eyes. We said nothing.

“I’ve left the old cacklebox enough money to live out her days, but I’ll be damned if she’ll get a penny more. I’m taking the rest with me.”

“Well how?" Iasked. "You know she’ll search the coffin when she finds the money gone.”

“Aye, so you’ll wait until they’re throwing the clods on the coffin an then you’ll bung these packages in.” He waved vaguely at three stuffed manila envelopes and made us swear an oath to follow his wishes.

Well, true to his words, he snuffed it that evening; the last of his liver washed away with our gifts of cheap booze. We decided to hold the wake at my place, since the house was pre-disastered, it would not suffer unduely from any wakely mayhem.

And I must say it went smashingly. The undertakers delivered Uncle Pat to the neighbor’s house, and it was a few hours before we noticed him gone. Luckily, the Bishoffs tend to dementia, and had spent the time pressing (literally) cakes and tea on the nice, if shy, "bed salesman". We got him back, propped him up on the saw horses, and picked up where we had left off.

Before too long, the suggestion was made that since he was already mucked up, we could save trips to the wheelie bin by loading up the coffin with empty drink cups and plates.

Well, the next morning came, as mornings after will. We struggled with our hang-overs, while the undertaker’s lads struggled with the coffin. We’d had to scrunch Uncle Pat’s legs up a bit to get all the trash in there, but we done it. I'd even managed to squeeze in a couple of dead car batteries and a worn out tyre. Now, I just had to get through the mass. Quite frankly, I envied Uncle Pat that morning.

For a change, mass wasn’t too bad. True, I fell asleep during the homily, and whilst quietly trying to relieve some cramps during silent prayer, I let out a six note bum-trumpet flourish that would not have been out of place in a John Phillips Souza march. Fortunately, I was standing next to Aunt Fiona, who is deaf and passed it off as her doing.

Eventually, we stood by the grave while the other mourners left. When Aunt Fiona finally took her leave, we threw the envelopes on top of the coffin and watched the grave diggers fill in the hole.

On the way home we stopped for a pint or two, drinking in silence. After ten minutes or so, my brother spoke.

“I’ve got something to confess.” He said guiltily. “I donated Uncle Patrick’s money to the Salvation Army. They do great life-saving work, and the money would have otherwise just rotted.” His eyes remained fixed on his beer.

Then Sis spoke up.

“I donated the contents of my envelope to the Shriner’s hospitals for children.” She confessed. “I hate to think of those poor, sick kids suffering. Besides. Uncle Pat won’t need it where he is going.”

I sat there stunned. I was absolutely appalled at my siblings' disdain for Uncle Pat’s last wishes.

I’d thrown in a check for the full amount.

01 November 2005

Well, just damn!

No "Trick-or-treaters" last night. The police had barricades in front of my house.

Apparently, a lot parents complained last year when I handed out Junior NRA memberships, ammunition and firecrackers.

There were a lot of disappointed kiddies this year, I can tell you.

And what the hell am I supposed to do with all these left over stink bombs?

And that's the way I likes it.