24 February 2006

Baldylocks and the three hairs.

I am not a morning person. I prefer to arise at the crack of noon, so my usual morning ablution ritual includes much frenetic scampering and profanity.

Today is no different. I end up half an hour behind schedule; brushing my teeth whilst drinking coffee. Sometimes this makes my coffee minty fresh if I place the toothbrush in the coffee rather than the proper cup; but that’s a small price to pay for regularity.

Today, I notice that a tuft of hair is sticking out of the side of my head, fully one half inch further than the rest of my hair. I pull out the dog clippers.

Why do I use dog clippers you ask? Well, I’m sick of spending $30 a clip for a haircut from “Armand” who, despite living in this country for twenty odd years, is still confused about the whole American “Good /Bad touch” concept.

No thank you Armand. I do not need a backrub; besides, even in gayest Pareé they are aware that that is not my back.

Dog clippers, on the other hand, cost less than a single Armand haircut, and don’t squeal nearly as much when I hold their heads underwater (just joking, of course. It would be a very foolish act to immerse a set of electrically live dog clippers in water).

So, while brushing my teeth, I take a swipe at the offending tuft and am rewarded with a decent sized clump of hair in the sink. I take another couple of swipes to even it out when it finally occurs to me that the clumps of hair in the sink represent far more hair than the misbehaving tuft. The plastic guard has fallen off the clippers, and I now have a four inch square supplemental bald spot on the side of my head.

Hmm. There is a fake scar kit leftover from Halloween. I can put it on the shaved region and pretend that I have been lobotomized into upper management. Brains! Braiiins!

Alas, the boys have shaved the cat’s rear and have used all the scar putty to make a very angry FrankenKitty.

I try for the tonsured look, but I simply do not make a convincing monk. It all has to go.

Later, at work, I am the butt of much weak humour. Irish Bob, in particular, has a field day.

Yuck it up, Bob. You have brought in raisins as a snack; just handing me the bet.

Just one more bug, and I’ll be drinking my free pint of stout.

23 February 2006

Three down, two to go...

Irish Bob comes into my office and closes the door.

“Did you toss a bug in my mouth yesterday?” he asks in an ominous tone.

“And they say I’m the loonie one! What the blazes are you talking about?” I respond incredulously, casually covering the insect carcasses on my desk with a TPS report.

“Something flew, or was tossed into my mouth during yesterday’s meeting.”

“Well, Bob, if I could control insects, I’d send a bee into Butt-Crack Joe’s bum cleavage.” It is an intriguing thought.

Joe is one of our larger technicians and refuses to wear a belt. He was bending over a floor mounted chiller this morning and fairly put me off my iced coffee. Luckily, he simultaneously provided a convenient drain for said frosty beverage, if you catch my drift.

Bob continues to give me the hairy eye-ball. He is not convinced, but it is time to go to today’s meetings where we shall have to explain the financial minutia of the Cap tables. I scoop up the TPS report and the pile o’ critters concealed below.

I have made a bet with wheezing Fred that I can make Bob eat 5 bugs this week. I have two left and stand to gain a pint of my choice, so this is very important.

Outside of the conference room, we pass a rather surly tech who is now wearing a jumpsuit.


22 February 2006


Okay, I owe you a post and I owe Kim about a dozen comics but let’s face it; I’m lazy (true, actually. I was once trapped for an hour on an escalator when the power failed) and I’m talking to three lawyers (they think I’m taking notes). I have no time to post. Get over it.

One of said lawyers is giving a presentation and the other two are tapping away on their lap tops. The presentation is slathered so deep with legalese, that Jimmy Hoffa may well be buried within. I need a break.

The presenting lawyer has his fly open and Irish Bob is snoring away in front of him; mouth open with a strand of drool running down his right cheek. On the window sill beside me is a dead fly. I flick it and am rewarded with a frantic gagging cough.

It appears that Irish Bob has rejoined us. He swallows.

“Umm, something went down the wrong way. Now, what again are our legal responsibilities vis-à-vis our South West sales rep agreement?” Bob manages in his best, if raspy, suck-up voice. He tries to drink from his soda cup, but there is naught left but ice. He fishes out a cube and sucks on it.

The lawyer drones on. He is wearing silk boxers with bunnies on it. I casually fish out an ice cube and ‘flick’! The lawyer dances back and glares at Bob. “What the hell did you do that for?” He demands.

Bob expresses innocence convincingly, but before the circle of guilt can expand, the laptops of both seated lawyers announce: “You are trying to access a blocked porn site!”

They are using my wireless connection and have foolishly allowed me to set it up for them.

“Don’t worry,” I say to the senior partner with the dampish groin. “We get lawyers trying to porn surf on our network all the time. Then they have the temerity to charge us for the time as if they were actually working...” He glares at me, but their IE6 browser history proves me correct, despite his flunkies’ protests. He grimly returns to his presentation and is finished in record time, saving us about $5000 and 30 IQ points.

The lawyers leave and two accountants file in. Their pants are firmly zipped as they have been here before.

Bob settles back in his seat and closes his eyes. He is asleep before the accountant can bring up the power point first slide.

There is a dead woodlouse on the windowsill beside me. Flick!

Mmmm, crunchy!

UPDATE! The lawyers are on to my little game and I must flee to Florida, Hollywood or some such third world, law-suit free place.

21 February 2006


It has come to my attention that Ivan the Terrible has a new blog and it's quite a bit funnier than mine.

Well, poo.

20 February 2006

“What’s that smell?

I ignore the question as I am a man and really do not care. It could be sewer work, animal related, some bad cheese that I have carelessly stored behind the icebox, or indeed, me.

“It’s revolting!” She adds. Again, I ignore.

Watch and see how little I care. Observe me in the state of blissful ambivalence. I am man, uncaring and unbound.

Besides, I am congested, on some wonnerful prescription drugs and engrossed in my latest project.

I am filming my remake of “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers” as performed by rabbits. In my version there is only one brother and I have fed him a strict diet of amphetamines and Viagra.

Despite what the protesting PETA activists claim, he seems quite happy.

“It’s your tennis shoes!” She waves them back and forth like an incense censer.

Did Bucky Fellini ever have to put up with such interruptions? Was Hitchcock ever accosted with ripe sneakers?

“Bung ‘em into the washer, then.” As you can see, I’m no ordinary PhD, but a true problem solver. I return to my directorial duties. This buck is not a natural actor, like Sir Laurence Olivier, Sir Alec Guinness or Ron Jeremy, but rather a method actor.

Despite his shortcomings, he’s really getting into the role. I smell an Oscar.

Upon further reflection, I smell the shoes that have been thrust under my nose.

“Wash them? Honestly, Evil, they’re falling apart. Go get some new ones!”

And that’s the crux of the problem. I’d like to buy some normal, white tennis shoes. Now they come in any colour but white. I do not wish to look like I graduated from Clown College as this would limit my chances of taking over the world. Who would fear a dictator in lime green shoes? (Other than Richard Simmons.)

Secondly, I wear a size 11E (14 in the UK and 76 in terms of the Godless, metric Euro-hippy sandal sizes). When I ask for such a size, I am given some sort of high tech plastic thingy that is as long as my foot but a third of the width. This is decidedly uncomfortable, and if I am forced to wear these things I shall hunt down the designers and kick them in the rump. Considering how narrow the damned things are, the designers would end up sitting on my knee.

Listen, Nike, your shoes already cost more than the GDP of Iceland. Could you not splurge and add the 3 pennies worth of Nylon that would make your shoes actually wearable by human beings? Or must you deprive the world of my gift to independent cinema just because you are greedy, heartless, foot-crushing swine?

Ps, Nike, if you would find it in your hearts to make a wearable shoe, I would, in gratitude, send you a cute, fluffy bunny, or twenty, as a gift. It seems that I currently have some spares.

UPDATE!! El Barbudo points out: 'there's a great fucking line from British comedian Jeremy Hardy that goes something like; "My daughter asked me for a pair of Nike trainers the other day. I told her 'You're eleven - you're old enough to make them yourself!'" '

16 February 2006

I am ill.

I have brought home a doctor’s note and a very expensive and almost medieval prescription to prove it. It involves large pills, unguents, salves and plasters, some needles and, I think, leeches for maximum pity points.

“People have been known to die from pneumonia you know” I mention casually in passing and not more than a few dozen times.

For once, my native indolence is encouraged and the menagerie/offspring have been sternly admonished by the only one that they listen to (not me) to refrain from the usual ballistic Greco-Roman wrestling greeting and to keep the inter-sibling mayhem to a muted level such that the noise damage is restricted to a five mile radius.

Life is good.

I shiver on the couch and the fire is turned on. Feed a fever, isn’t it? I am brought a large bloody steak, with mushrooms, mashed potatoes and gravy (nothing green and healthy; I must keep my strength up).

I mention that a cup of tea would help loosen the phlegm and am immediately brought a steaming pot, steeping nicely under a stocking cap.

(The cozy, no doubt, is fulfilling a vastly more important role as Skeletor’s fortress. Skeletor's igloo fortress. Skeletor’s red igloo fortress with shocking green and yellow flowers; emblazoned with the words “Greetings from Bognor-Regis 1972!” That, or it’s being used as a bed for a skunk/rabid/poisonous creature that the kids are nursing back to health from a state of advanced decomposition. I’d go get it, but sometimes it’s simply better to buy a new one.)

My aching feet are rubbed and my brow is cooled with a damp wash cloth. Apparently, nothing is too much effort to nurse the stricken patriarch back to health.

“I have read a paper in the most recent Lancet,” I wheeze in laboured Cheyne-Stokes breaths, “that artificial respiration performed on an alternative and somewhat lower mucous membrane, can force the fluids out of the lungs and save the patient’s life…”

I look at her entreatingly, with the biggest, pathetic, puppy eyes I can muster.

She smiles sweetly and pats my bald pate. “Don't worry, Honey.” She says soothingly, “I’ll go borrow the Kauffman’s backhoe and dig you a really nice grave under the apple tree!”

Oh, leave Cheney be, and other fever derived thoughts.

Listen, he’s not exactly my favorite person on the planet, but for crying out loud, if I had to alert the press every time I shot a lawyer, I’d never get anything accomplished.

The press corpse (sick)(sic) should leave him alone so that he can get back to the important work of a VP, (whatever the heck that is) and simply mock him for using bird shot when buckshot or slugs are the preferred load for lawyers.

I read this headline and immediately thought of Twenty Major. Three million sprogs? The lad gets around a bit, doesn’t he?

Look folks, having eaten at MickeyD’s and suffered the inevitable gastro-intestinal spasms, I can sympathize, but watch where you put that pervy bastard Ronald McDonald’s head.

I mean, just look at the sleazy clowan scum. He’s staring up your tunic at your crotchal vicinity and he’s got a hell of a smirk going.

I am never drinking another Pepsi again. First, they start advertising “Brownandbubbly.com” which brings to mind the aforementioned McDonald’s induced GI distress, and then they go totally beyond the pale with this.

I think an angry, torch-bearing mob is in order, and since one is assembled outside my house, I would appreciate a hand in turning them in the right direction.

13 February 2006

A freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.

I am a rock.

I am a moooooron.

And this rock now feels pain.

And a moron forgets to raise the windows of her car before a blizzard.

11 February 2006

Pandora’s Box

Pandora, like Eve, takes all the heat in this legend, making me believe that the story was written by the antediluvian equivalent of a programmer lacking the social skills to even talk to a woman, let alone marrying one, having 1.5 children and a mortgage on a nice mud hut in the suburbs.

But even if the facts were more or less true, is she really the villain of the piece? Let us re-examine the tale:

“Jupiter had malignantly crammed into this box all the diseases, sorrows, vices, and crimes that afflict poor humanity, like lawyers, meter maids and Michael Flately and his River-Dancing ilk. No sooner was the box opened, than all these ills flew out, in the guise of horrid little brown-winged creatures (Except for Flately who came out dressed for dancing, because that image is horrible enough), closely resembling moths. These little insects fluttered about, alighting, some upon Pandora’s main squeeze Epimetheus, who had just entered, and some upon Pandora, pricking, stinging, filling injunctions, booting their chariot, and tap dancing most unmercifully. Epimetheus and Pandora had never before experienced the faintest sensation of pain or anger; but, as soon as these winged evil spirits had stung them, they began to weep, and, alas, quarrelled for the first time in their lives. Epimetheus reproached his wife in bitterest terms for her thoughtless action; calling her as “Stupid bint” and she him an “utter poxy cunt” but in the very midst of their vituperation they suddenly heard a sweet little voice entreat for freedom. The sound proceeded from the unfortunate box, whose cover Pandora had dropped again, in the first moment of her surprise and pain. “Open, open, and I will heal your wounds, or at least wreak vengeance! Please let me out! “it pleaded.

The tearful couple viewed each other inquiringly, and listened again. Once more they heard the same pitiful accents; and Epimetheus bade his wife open the box and set the speaker free, adding very amiably, that she had already done so much harm by her ill-fated curiosity, that it would be “difficult to add materially to its evil consequences, you daft cow”, and that, “perchance, the box contained some good spirit, whose ministrations might prove beneficial and maybe I could shack up with her.”

“Pound sand up your arse, you useless twat. Who is stupid here? What about the time you pissed on the electric fence?” Pandora replied, but she did eventually open the box.It was well for Pandora that she opened the box a second time, for the gods, with a sudden impulse of compassion, had concealed among the evil spirits a high quality German sub machine gun, whose mission was to heal the wounds inflicted by its former box mates, by making gaping holes in them.

Thus, according to the ancients”

Well, there you have it. Pandora is actually the heroine of the piece, as she brought us the modern submachine gun which has proved a blessing and a boon to all those who have been passed at warp speed only to have the inconsiderate bastard slow down forcing us to brake just as soon as passing is no longer possible, as well as those that hate Michael Flately.

10 February 2006

Sorry, no post today.

We are in the midst of being acquired, (erm, hopefully…) and as I am buried in minutia and visitors as part of their due diligence, so there will be no posts today other than this one; which really can not be counted as a post, although Blogspot certainly will.

Now, I for one, welcome our new corporate overlords, as they shall be bringing wheel barrows full of money that we’re not supposed to ask any questions about and a large Sicilian named Thuggio to expedite our transition to their accounting methods.

I should be able to post summat Saturday, if Thuggio doesn’t take me fishing like he promised.

Don’t wait up.

08 February 2006

Deep in the Heart of Taxes

It is all arrayed about me. All the tools I need. The “PhotoShop for Total Idiots: No, We’re not Joking Here, You’re A Total Jackass” book. A bottle of whiskey. Earphones to drown out any unreasonable demands. I settle down to learn layering.

A unshelled walnut bounces of the screen. I ignore it, but she soon finds my range and I am forced to remove the earphones.

“Have you got the taxes done?” She asks.

“Erm, no. I’m drinking here.”

“You always do better on our taxes when you’re drunk.” She replies.

Damnation. The woman. simply. will. not. leave! It’s like she lives here or something.

I put my earphones back on and get back to the task at hand.

I am making a cartoon. It is funny. I have no time for taxes.

An unshelled walnut bounces of my skull and this time she put English on it.

“TAXES!” She bellows.

I tax.

Now, the trick to getting the most out of one’s return is to divorce oneself entirely from reality. Not lying, of course, the IRS can figure that out; but pure, unadulterated lunacy. It confuses them, making them think you could be a lawyer, or worse, congresscritter.

Ethanol helps achieve this state, as do antipsychotics. My favorite combination is 5ml of Inapsine IM, followed by a fifth of Jameson’s. I jab, and drink.

By two in the morning I am finished, and by my calculations the IRS owes me New Jersey. I file the return electronically and go to bed.

The next morning is painful, but I get up and check to see if the IRS has accepted my return.

“You’ve got Jail!” announces the computer cheerily. Apparently, the IRS has a few piffling little quibbles vis-à-vis my return. It turns out that I cannot count my collection of inflatable ladies as dependents because A)They are not, in fact, people, and B). They are actually stolen form the Kinsey Sex Museum and therefore not technically mine.

So rather than actually receiving a Jersey sized refund, we owe a fair amount and I must file for an extension.

“Get a tax attorney to handle your extension.” Demands Gretchen.

“That’ll cost a fortune!” I reply. “Last week Irish Bob got a hooker to handle his extension for only fifty bucks. I’m going to try that!

This time the walnut gets me right between the eyes.

07 February 2006

Of Mice and Pets

I live in what for Americans, is an old house. Time, sloppy building and the semi-annual fusillade of ordnance explain why we enjoy the occasional rodent visitation.

And when I say “we”, I mean the cats. I certainly don’t enjoy awakening to find an eviscerated rodent placed lovingly on my pillow. Gretchen has not said so much in words, but the violent thumping that I received after switching pillows with her when she went to the bathroom, inclines me to believe that she concurs.

My sister and her family, on the other hand, enjoy a modern, well built home that would be rodent free had not the builders left large rodent sized gaps where the plumbing enters the house.

Once inside the house, the rodents make a bee-line to the most rodent friendly place in the house; my nephew’s bedroom.

According to Sis, since he is male, he doesn’t so much use his bedroom like a “normal” (she means “female”) person would, but sort of “nests” therein. She further posits that it would be safer on the psyche to periodically set fire to it; letting nature renew the ecosystem, than to clean it and run the risk of discovering what it is, in fact, made of.

However, she is a woman of principles, and armed with a shock collar and megaphone, goads the lad into a weekly half-hearted rear-guard action in the defense of sanitation.

It was in the midst one of these marathon slash and burn sessions that his voice summoned her to his bedroom.

MOM!” He yelled. “There’s a MOUSE in my room!”

Indeed there was. He was sitting in the middle of a half eaten bag of sunflower seeds from ancient days of yore; calmly observing the lad’s attempt at “cleaning”.

Sis, being a no-nonsense type of person, told him to whack it and pitch the body outside. The lad interprets this as “I should bring in one of the large dogs and let him chase it in a confined room filled with breakable objects.

In the boy’s defense, that would have been my decision too. Unfortunately, the dog, named “Tiny”, weighing in at well north of 50 kg, saw the mouse, squealed, jumped onto the bed and backed as far as he could into the corner. Now, in the dog’s defense, after a trip to the vet’s, there was no tissue of hormonic functionality left in the scrotal region and it had stayed up late with the boy, watching “Aliens”.

Disgusted, the lad got their other dog, Satchel, which masses in at a mere 60kg, and has been know to eat motorcycles. This dog, seeing the mouse, goes into a perfect point; tail extended, right foreleg lifted and bent at the knee, muzzle pointed at the prey.

“There it is!” He seemed to be saying. “When it bursts into flight, blast it with your shotgun and I shall recover its lifeless body from the swamp.”

The other whimpering mastiff came to the conclusion that it could back up another few centimeters, if only its bladder wasn’t so full.

So, back up it did.

The mouse kept eating, enjoying the floor show.

So then it was the cat’s turn. The cat pounced on the mouse, bit it, then spat it out. It turns out that on the feline culinary scales, a mouse rates somewhat below Brussel sprouts in a liver hollandaise sauce. He joined the whimpering Tiny on the bed and proceeded to cleanse his palate with a vigorous rump licking.

Finally, Sis interceded and brought in the one thing that all animals fear; the vacuum cleaner. With the explosive scattering of the household pets, it was an easy task to capture the indignant, cat saliva-slathered mouse.

Thus trapped humanely, the mouse was borne to the open window of a much disliked neighbor and there released, to safely frolic and flourish, and most importantly; bear and raise its many, many young.

06 February 2006

Flight of the Wheelie Bin

“Where’s the wheelie bin?” Asks Gretchen.

This question has been pondered by better minds than mine. “If the wheelie bin truly exists, does it really care about us? Now, that’s the real question.

I grunt.

This deeply philosophical question is posed at an inopportune time; three hours, four beers and a bag of chemical cheese puffs into the important 14 hour Superbowl pre-game show.

Yes, it is important; I’ve installed television monitors above the commode and kegerator. I wouldn’t do that for “Dancing with the Tards” or “American Idle”.

The grunt, apparently, is not considered a proper answer and the question is re-submitted; this time with the accusatory suffix “You left it by the kerb Friday, didn’t you?”

This is unfair! I distinctly remember putting it back in it’s proper place and sorting junk mail (unwanted bills, correspondence from the IRS or worse, Gretchen’s relatives, etc.,) directly into it.

“There was a pack of gypsies camped on Fiddler’s Green last night. They must have nipped it in the wee hours.” I reply, trying to look around her at the TV. Even though it was a commercial, it might be a funny one.

That was a funeral procession!”

Hmmph. Dead people. Even more useless than gypsies, if you ask me. I squirm in my chair trying to peer around the other side. No luck; total eclipse of the TV.

“Alright, I’ll buy a new one tomorrow.” With this offering to the moon spirits, the vast, bulky moon should unswallow the TV, allowing it to bathe me, once again, in its life giving warmth. No such luck.

“No, go look for it, NOW!” Apparently, garbage cannot survive for one day outside of its proper home.

So, bundled against the swirling snow, I peek outside hopefully. Alas, Gretchen was right. The wheelie bin has gone walkabout; probably during the windstorm last night. I trudge downhill a fair piece before I see it.

I shall need a ladder as it is perched majestically in a tall pine, like Steve Irwin about to molest an eagle.

Now, in most small villages, the sight of a fat man, standing precariously on the top rung of a ladder laid against the upper boughs of a swaying pine, jabbing a wheelie bin with a 2x4 will attract a crowd representing the lower tail of the IQ bell curve, and believe me, my village is no exception.

“No, Jab it to the left, TO THE LEFT!” Roars wheezing Fred.

“Do you want me to get my shotgun and shoot it down?” Asks Ray, who is still on my shit list for deer hunting with my truck.

“Hook your belt around the bough for safety, Uncle Evil.” shouts the only sensible one; Ray’s eight year old son who was obviously switched at birth. I feel great pity for the other family when I consider Ray’s genetic legacy.

I buckle the belt around a bough and with one mighty heave, the wheelie bin and 2x4 both cartwheel to the ground.

Unfortunately, so does the ladder.

Overbalanced, I pitch forward and am left dangling head down about thirty feet above the cruel frozen earth and the now broken ladder. The belt has saved me, but the increased tension has exposed my own moons and truth be told, it’s a little chilly at that altitude.

“Grab ahold of the trunk, THE TRUNK!” Roars wheezing Fred.

“Do you want me to get my shotgun and shoot it down?” Asks Ray hopefully.

“Hang tight, Uncle Evil!” shouts the only sensible one. I’ve got just the thing!” and he dashes home.

So, with wind howling amongst my nethers, I am left to ponder. What will little Mike bring back? Crampons, rope, carabineers, an eight and a fudge-seat? A new ladder? The fire department?

I make out his tiny figure pelting back down the road with something small in his hand.

The little bastard got his camera.

02 February 2006

Dr. Evil Seuss, phD.

Alas, the wife is quite irate,
When yesterday I came home late:

“I found blond hair upon your collars
And in your coat some folded dollars,

"Talk, or I shall get the nippers,
Again, you’ve been amongst the strippers!”

“I haven’t seen a single stripper,
Whoever told you is a fibber!”

Did you tell them you were rich?”
(Oh, Crap, the bartender’s a snitch!)

“I did not tell them I was rich,
Leave me be, you crazy bitch!”

“And last week when you played the snooker,
You were drooling on a hooker!”

“There are no women where I play pool,
Whoever told you is a fool.”

“That info came from my dear mother!”
(Another witness I should smother!)

“My, dear, it’s true I did some tipple,
But I did not see a single nipple!”

“I’ll warn you now; forever stop it,
or I'll out-snip Lorena Bobbit!”

“I have not groped a single breast, *
So put this silly thing to rest!”

If there’s one thing that provokes my fears,
It’s Gretchen and her pinking shears.

“Trust me honey, I’ll be good,
Keep pointy things from my manhood…”

* (I did try once with Margaret Thatcher,
She’s damn quick though; I couldn’t catch her.)

01 February 2006

Where's Waldo Arlingnot?

I haven't heard a peep from Arlington in a few days. Let us hope he is not:

1) Trapped in a well, without Lassie to go get help.

2) Trapped under a large hooker, again, without Lassie to go get help.

3) Gainfully employed at a company with effective IT personnel. That could have a serious effect on my porn business' bottom line.

Hmmm: A business' "bottom line" is horizontal, yet a personal bottom line is vertical. This is borne out when I slide down a stair rail and do not make a flubbering sound, but just let IBM try that! Flubber, flubber, flubber!

I blame venture capitalists for this de-anthropomorphicitation of business. Bring back the corporate crack!


What do you say about a man that stands in a wading pool of mayonnaise screaming “YOU SHALL DRINK THE BLACK SPERM OF MY VENGEANCE!”

Well, other than “I wish I’d thought of that phrase...” and “Mark my words, some day that man shall be President!”

Seriously, who better to have their finger poised above the doomsday button?

Diplomacy, be damned, (er, more damned; sorry W) we’re talking some major respect here. There’s nothing like a mayo clad president to bring Kim Jung Il and his ilk to the bargaining table.

TonyT: Proving once again, that there’s more to him than just flogging sense into yoblets with cat-o’-nine tails and incomprehensible Aussie sports talk.

And that's the way I likes it.