A Very Bleak Mullet

Not just a mullet, folks.

A rattail.

He's got the colored Chuck's, he's got the board and you know he's got the attitude.

In the now version, he is the hyperthinking, hyperkinetic Blue Balls* drinking publisher that just happened to put out CrimeSpree's book of the year.


If you'll remember, your humble poster has also sported a full on 80's mullet. Ben is, of course, waaaaaaaayyyyy cooler than Jen Jett.

*Red Bull and Blue Gator Aide

Look out for my code...

UPDATE: As is apparent from the mess on the top of the blog, I'm having a few issues. Problems, really. Well, all out mental glitches that are seriously hampering my ability to bring the world an aesthetically pleasing blog, albeit a nonsensical one.

Help me.

Please, please, help me.

___________________

I'll be experimenting with templates for the blog over the next day.

HTML and I have an uneasy alliance and this will no doubt lead to odd margins, garish colors, misplaced headers and much imbibing of java.

If I survive with my sanity intact, you will see the new and improved HUC. If not, you will see my slow mental demise carefully documented on this page in the next twenty-four hours.

And now, an irrelevant photo:

Spectrums of the Throne

The Toilet Museum
Toiletology 101
History of Toilet Paper
International Museum of Toilets

"Any damage caused by graffiti or indecent rubbing will be prosecuted."

Really.

Officials wintess to years of damage to the icon of a 19th Century journalist known as Victor Noir's groin area have erected a fence around his grave in Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. Noir, real name Yvan Salman, was killed by Pierre Bonaparte, a great-nephew of the Emperor Napoleon, after bearing him a challenge to a duel.

Salman was due to be married the day after he was struck down. For some reason, this has engendered a reputation upon the effigy. A reputation for romance and fertility.

It is said, by those that say such things, that a woman who presses her lips upon that of the statue, slipping a flower into the upturned top hat, will find a husband by the end of the year.

Concern concerning the damage to the icon's groin area have thusly spawned the erection of the fence around the grave. And the sign prohibiting indecent rubbing.

Duly note that the statue depicts Noir in a frock coat and trousers lying upon his back, with a rather distinct enlargement in the groin.

Coffee is not only good, it's good for you!!!!!!!!

Yes!

Jen not make up!

It true!

Coffee and tea maybe could reduce risk of serious liver damage in people who drink lots alcohol, be overweight or sporting too lots iron in blood, researchers said in big hurry. So fast say the researchers these things reporters confused but happy Mom gave voice recorder thingys for birthday.

Nearly 10,000 people that drinking two more cups coffee or tea per day developed chronic liver disease at half the rate of those who drank less than one cup each day but still were sick people!

Here, let liver thing show:

Wow!

Me need more caffieeeeene soon. Old stuff just wear right off!

Heart pump fast but brain say too bad, must think faster, must think faster, must think faster! Now!

Ooooo, thinking fast and repairing liver at same time! Multitasking!

Crappy Day

A student, a man, a cellphone user in Kiev, Ukraine reportedly drop his cellphone down a toilet he had recently used.

He was aghast and disgusted then aghast again.

That phone was his lifeline, his cord to the cosmos, it was the very sun in his solar system. He had to get it out.

No doubt trembling at the vile task ahead of him and at the Trainspotting flashback it gave him, he rolled up his sleeve and dunk his arm in the abyss.

Almost there.

Almost there.

He can just almost reach it!

Got it! What! What the...

Oh.

Oh, no.

He's stuck.

He, a Lebanese National studying at Odessa's State Academy of Refrigeration, is stuck with his hand down a toilet.

An hour passed.

Then another.

Finally, help in the form of the local police, freed him from his aqueous purgatory.

He was taken for medical care.

No word on how his cell faired after the adventure.

EXTRAS! History of the toilet, privies, chamberpots and public places

I Get Cravings in Spring

Things have gotten away from me.
Things have slipped.
I try so hard to match everything I wear
but
the only socks I had this morning
were my
Mr. Potatohead's Evil Twin Dr. Potatohead
as done by Picasso, in his blue stage.
Maybe... maybe... it's time I get a truss.
And a few chilidogs.
And a supersized Coke.
And some sunblock.

Rejoice! Repent. Rejoice! Repent.

After contending with a hideous contact paper covered table for eons, my writing space is now graced with a new glasstop desk. Sleek, modern lines with brushed steel and modulation galore, I have reveled in this glorious object that holds all my stuff.

But

glass displays every speck of dust and showcases every fingerprint and smudge. I find myself, with all my freaky obsessive compulsive drives in full flux as I wipe,wipe,wipe,wipe,wipe,wipe the desk. A full bottle of glass and electronics cleaners sits on the floor next to a 'special' rag I use for this soul purpose - keeping my writing space speck and smudge free. But after that wipe, before I touch the desk and in the seconds between dust falls, it is ssssooooo shiny and beautiful.

Help me.

Let's put the animated puppets back in Christmas!

Max Burbank had some time on his hands and a burning curiosity. And this time of year just makes that curiosity burn all the brighter in his tormented brain.

But any American raised on television and soda pop has got to have the same questions buried somewhere deep in their brain.

So, really. Let's ask them aloud. Let's get to the bottom of this festering quagmire.!

What is the deal with Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer?

Why am I such a misfit?
I am not just a nit wit!
You can't fire me
I quit!
Seems I don't fit in.

Why am I such a misfit?
I am not just a nit wit!
Just because my nose glows
Why don't I fit in?

We're a couple of misfits
We're a couple of misfits
What's the matter with misfits
That's where we fit in!

We're not daffy and dilly
Don't go 'round willy nilly
Seems to us kinda silly
That we don't fit in.

We may be different from the rest
Who decides the test
Of what is really best?

Why am I such a misfit?
I am not just a nit wit!
I'm an adorable reindeer
Why don't I fit in?

Another Needle and the Gallery Done

Maria E. Piñeres has taken the cross-stitch to a high and twisted art form. You will see the evidence in her Rogue's Gallery.

Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love.

"Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods."

These are the words of Albert Einstein. Physicist, genius, eccentric, action figure.

"Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity;
and I'm not sure about the universe."

Go beyond Eisnstein here. Get the t-shirt here.

Friends don't let friends have mullets

A flurry of Santas.

Thousands of Santas inundated the streets of Newtown this Sunday make money and to be counted. The money goes to various charities and this year more than £100,000 were raised. The counting is part of busting with two goals in mind: to break the world's record for the largest Santa gathering.

After forming orderly lines and filling out forms, the fur-trimmed ones go do an aerobic work-out to get the ol' jolly limbs warmed up, then they go for a 4.5 mile 'festive fun run.' An odd yet appropriate phrase. Some Santas were determined to finish the race with a respectable time, others opted for spirit helpers along the way. At one point, a Santa brawl broke out but it was quickly curtailed by elves with CS spray and batons.

When the adults were done, the children run a 'mini race'.
For the sheer freaking fun of it, yo-yo's were busted out, twirled and tottered to break the world yo-yoing record as well. Really. Look.

Next week, America's sorid, icky version: The Santa Speedo Run.

P.S. Did I ever mention my dyslexia?

P.S.S. And my late night phobia of lateral thinking?

P.S.S.S. And my tendency to fret?

Bad sex, anyone?

The longlist for the annual Bed Sex in Fiction award is out and damn, it's enough to put me off reading. Updike that is. His is the passage listed first and may I warn you, from sheer guffaws to blasting snorts of disgust, make sure all your passages are clear before you read this or they damn sure will be after you done.

Bold are are the sentences that made me snort farthest.

Updike from Villages

A flock of crows, six or eight, raucously rasping at one another, thrashed into the top of an oak on the edge of the square of sky. The heavenly invasion made his heart race; he looked down at his prick, silently begging it not to be distracted; his mind fought skidding into crows and woods, babies and Phyllis, and his prick stared back at him with its one eye clouded by a single drop of pure seminal yearning. He felt suspended at the top of an arc. Faye leaned back on the blanket, arranging her legs in an M of receptivity, and he knelt between them like the most abject and craven supplicant who ever exposed his bare ass to the eagle eyes of a bunch of crows.

Faye took him in hand. He slipped in. He became an adulterer. He went for the last inch. She grunted, at her own revelation. His was that her cunt did not feel like Phyllis's. Smoother, somehow simpler, its wetness less thick, less of a sauce, more of a glaze. It was soon over. He could not help himself, he was so excited, proud, and nervous. When he was done, he opened his eyes, and saw this stranger's face an inch from his, seemingly asleep, the closed eyelids showing a thin pulse, her long lips curved self-lullingly.

Feeling yule, again

A Christmas Fruit Cake Recipe for You!

You will need the following:

1 cup of water
1 cup of sugar
4 large brown eggs
2 cups of dried fruit
1 teaspoon of salt
1 cup of brown sugar
Lemon juice
Nuts
1 bottle of whisky

Sample the whisky to check for quality.

Take a large bowl. Check the whisky again. To be sure it's the highest quality, pour one level cup and drink. Repeat.

Turn on the electric mixer, beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add one teaspoon of sugar and beat again. Make sure the whisky is still OK. Cry another tup.

Tune up the mixer. Beat two leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit. Mix on the turner. If the fired druit gets stuck in the beaterers, pry it goose with a drewscriver.

Sample the whisky to check for tonsisticity. Next, sift two cups of salt. Or somethnig. Check the whisky.

Now sift the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one table. Spoon the sugar into the bowel. Whatever you can find.

Grease the oven. Turn the cake tin to 350 degrees.

Don't forget to beat off the turner!

Throw the bowl out of the window. Check the whisky again and go to bed.

Belated Cutenesss Buffer

Does this mean I'm not a 'dumbski', Russ-poo?

The Movie Of Your Life Is An Indie Flick

You do things your own way - and it's made for colorful times. Your life hasn't turned out how anyone expected, thank goodness! Your best movie matches: Clerks, Garden State, Napoleon Dynamite

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

We may share genres, but I get along with HTML better.

A self-described "work Nazi," Madonna is overscheduled and overprogrammed.

I can't even begin to tell you how much I enjoyed reading Camille Paglia's slow, meticulous and cutting write-up on Maddona's new album on Salon.com. Let's foist some quotes on you:

"I was shocked at how the reviews had failed to note its tinny shrillness, sonic clichés, and intermittently clumsy or muddy layering -- a startling lapse in Madonna's usually impeccable quality control."

"The use of Mideastern tonalities on "Isaac" (which features a Yemeni singer from the London Kabbalah Centre) is ambitious, but the refrain becomes monotonous."

"Is Madonna suffering Mick Jagger syndrome?"

"Remarkably for a Graham dancer, she has become poor at improvisation -- which produces her manic, mechanical stage shows, where little room is left for natural warmth or banter with the audience and where the production is always too small and precious for large arenas."

Yes, ‘Duke’ keeps his pension

Rep. Randy “Duke” Cunningham (R-Calif.) is going to head to prison. After announcing Monday that he pleaded guilty in a California district court to charges of tax evasion and conspiracy, he wept on camera and evinced a low grade remorse. Sentencing will be Feb. 27 and he could receive up to five years in prison on each of the two counts.

In entering a guilty plea, he admitted taking $2.4 million in bribes. He will relinquish many of his properties and his freedom after pleading guilty to charges of fraud and conspiracy. BUT, he will keep his government pension and could even retain privileges enjoyed by other former members of Congress i.e. lifetime floor privileges, access to the gym and a parking space.

Above you will see Duke's wee little house.

“The Speaker’s office has yet to receive his letter of resignation,” said Ron Bonjean, a spokesman for Speaker Dennis Hastert (R-Ill.), but he added that the office expects the letter soon. “We are looking at this matter very seriously,” he said.

This is not the only allegation against Duke but it may be the only one that will stick.

Cat Zen Garden