At long last, Alberto Gonzales has resigned as Attorney General. Like Senor Rummy before him, the administration has once again exceeded our (admittedly high) expectations in its inability to deal with political realities for months on end. As demonstrated in our earlier postings, Project Democracy (1-3), this combination of audacity and incompetence is nothing new, but never before has it been so out in the open and on such a large scale. Which brings us to our central thesis for the reasons behind the abysmal failure of the “Neo-Incompetents” and the unprecedented damage they have done to the US reputation in the world: Pride and Loyalty have run rampant over any form of job performance. This approach is best summed up in six words: Harriet Meiers as Supreme Court Justice.
Of course, Alberto was high on that list as well...
(Editor's Note-- the plural form of Attorney General is “Attorneys General,” rather than “Attorney Generals”; we used to have a problem with that, but that was before the terms of Messrs. Ashcroft & Gonzales, neither of which we would want to have giving any sort of orders to troops)
For our next president, above all, we are looking for somebody who is not afraid to change course and admit mistakes. Most of the inane decisions made by administrations past were made in the cloud of blind loyalty. Look at RFK’s attempts to take out Fidel in order to make up for his brother’s failure in the Bay o’ Pigs. Dubya’s to both finish what his father started, and to avenge his attempted whacking. Carrying such baggage means that the agenda is no longer your own. As previously noted, this ties into our fears of a Hillary presidency as well: we fear she may do something like outlaw blue dresses (or, at least, those with polka dots).
Call us paranoid, but our biggest fear is that this type of blind obedience, taken to its most extreme form, could morph into martial law. Which brings us to Rudolph Giuliani. We are intrigued by the man, and want to give him a fair shake, but here’s something about that second syllable of his first name that makes us a bit uncomfortable.
As for Rapmaster Rove, we can’t get as excited over his departure, as we are sure that he is still working behind the scenes (the whole “official” rationale of “devoting more time to his family” rings more hollow than usual, especially since his only son has just gone off to college).
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Neo-Incompetence
The policies of the Bush administration now have a name. We toyed with the label “Compassionate Incompetence,” but in the absence of foreplay or even a “sweet nothing” or two, it would be more apt to call it outright buggery.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
How About a Little Haiku?
Sometimes on-island
We have wine and cheese for lunch
Just because we can
Such is life upon our undisclosed offshore location, which may explain why our postings have become fewer and further between. After the requisite cutting and clearing of brush (we haven't fully overcome our ancestor's Puritanical nature), the days are intermixed with kayaking, quarrying, acting as ballast on sailing sloops, reading, (occasionally) writing, and taking delicious afternoon naps.
This regimen is occasionally interrupted by forays into the "big town," such as the one we undertook a fortnight or so ago, which included a meal in the rusticated inn. After the meal, we shook hands with a gentleman in salmon slacks(the standard genteel flatlander's uniform), in which we alleviated the guilt of our respective parties in detaining the overworked staff until past 10. I learned later that he was, in fact, the brother of a former president. While we were both ignorant of each other's identity at the time, only one of us, still, remains (blissfully) so.
We have wine and cheese for lunch
Just because we can
Such is life upon our undisclosed offshore location, which may explain why our postings have become fewer and further between. After the requisite cutting and clearing of brush (we haven't fully overcome our ancestor's Puritanical nature), the days are intermixed with kayaking, quarrying, acting as ballast on sailing sloops, reading, (occasionally) writing, and taking delicious afternoon naps.
This regimen is occasionally interrupted by forays into the "big town," such as the one we undertook a fortnight or so ago, which included a meal in the rusticated inn. After the meal, we shook hands with a gentleman in salmon slacks(the standard genteel flatlander's uniform), in which we alleviated the guilt of our respective parties in detaining the overworked staff until past 10. I learned later that he was, in fact, the brother of a former president. While we were both ignorant of each other's identity at the time, only one of us, still, remains (blissfully) so.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
33 ½ Signs That You’re Older Than Jesus
When you pass that perilous threshold of 33, it is time to take stock of your life. That’s what we did, uh, fairly recently, and, needless to say, our accomplishments did not quite measure up to the Big Guy’s. If nothing else, however, we decided we would no longer ask ourselves “What would Jesus do?”, because at our age he was dead (and resurrecting yourself is not an option). If you, like us, occasionally lose track of your age, here are some signs that you may have already passed that milestone:
1. Hair has started growing out of your ears.
2. You have bald spots along your sock line.
3. You no longer tell your story about learning about John Lennon’s death on the school bus (when you thought they were referring to Jack London of White Fang and Call of the Wild fame—you were crushed)
(Editor’s note—the last time you told this, someone looked at you strangely and asked, “How old are you?”)
4. You still quote lines from Caddyshack, but only in the right company.
5. You are finally fully cognizant of the fact that NCAA athletes are younger than you.
6. You have finally accepted the fact that you will never be a professional athlete.
(Editor’s note—Well, maybe not—see 756* below)
7. You get sore after a round of croquet.
8. You have quit trying to cut out the “stray” grey hair along your temples.
9. You occasionally try to cut out the stray gray hair on your chest.
(Editor’s note—note, young metro-testicles, that a real man does not wax)
(Additional editor’s note—we noticed in the pharmacy the other day that there was an Australian waxing product for men named “Nads.” In our day that meant something else)
10. You remember, somewhat guiltily, making jokes about the space shuttle Challenger, and what color the astronauts’ eyes were.
(Editor’s note—Blue. One blue this way, and one blue that way)
11. You have accepted the fact that you didn’t accomplish most of the things on your “To Do Before I Turn Thirty” list—but have given yourself an extension on the ménage à trois.
12. When watching the news about Britney Spears or Lindsay Lohan, you have a greater urge to help them than take advantage of them.
(Editor’s note—unless it would help check off #11)
13. You no longer try to watch the squiggly channels on TV.
(Editor’s note—this has more to do with modern technology than any sort of maturity)
14. You have no interest in men’s magazines like Stuff and Maxim.
(Editor’s note—this also might have something to do with technology)
15. You actually buy Playboy for the articles too (well, you would, but you still can’t work up the courage to actually buy it).
16. You’ve become more of a “butt” than “breast” man.
17. White women bore you.
(Editor’s note—nos. 16 & 17 are related)
(Additional editor’s note—this is not, in fact, completely true—but we have inspired at least one white woman to go out and buy a drill bit)
18. You no longer experiment with facial hair.
19. You have acknowledged that you were never intended to have long hair, and have foresworn any future attempts to grow some.
(Editor’s note—to put 18 & 19 more succinctly, you have decided that you will make no more attempts to look like the white European Jesus—or the real one, for that matter)
20. You remember when you first learned that “bitch” could be a verb—when listening to Billy Joel’s Big Shot on your red-checked Fisher-Price stereo.
(Editor’s note—while you are not overly proud of 52nd Street being your first album, you are glad that you chose that over its main competition, the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack)
21. You get misty-eyed—or, at least, your nose starts to flare—when watching families reunite on the Maury show.
22. You sometimes buy yourself flowers.
23. You still haven’t forgiven yourself for not learning the guitar in elementary school.
24. You still haven’t forgiven your parents for throwing out your baseball cards.
25. You have forgiven your parents for throwing out your old Chuck T’s.
26. You sometimes wear your sunglasses when it’s not that bright out—to cover up your crow’s feet.
27. You understand why Bono wears his all the time.
28. You have discovered embarrassing paraphernalia in your parents’ bedside table—and still are unable to face it.
29. You sometimes size up a woman by imagining what physical traits she could pass on to your sons.
30. You’ve learned to like wine—and pretend to like martinis.
(Editor’s note— shaken, of course, not stirred)
31. You’ve become a snob about coffee—or, at least, have finally realized that Starbucks just tastes burnt.
32. You no longer throw darts at a picture of the pope.
(Editor’s note— you were young. And—we must clarify—never at pictures of Jesus)
33. You keep telling yourself that one of these days you’re going to learn how to type.
33½. You see the glass as half empty.
(Editor’s note—you also realize, at this point, that 33½ (or 33 1/3 ?) is also number of RPMs on all those LPs you saved from your childhood, which are undoubtedly warped by now, especially since you stored them on their side)
1. Hair has started growing out of your ears.
2. You have bald spots along your sock line.
3. You no longer tell your story about learning about John Lennon’s death on the school bus (when you thought they were referring to Jack London of White Fang and Call of the Wild fame—you were crushed)
(Editor’s note—the last time you told this, someone looked at you strangely and asked, “How old are you?”)
4. You still quote lines from Caddyshack, but only in the right company.
5. You are finally fully cognizant of the fact that NCAA athletes are younger than you.
6. You have finally accepted the fact that you will never be a professional athlete.
(Editor’s note—Well, maybe not—see 756* below)
7. You get sore after a round of croquet.
8. You have quit trying to cut out the “stray” grey hair along your temples.
9. You occasionally try to cut out the stray gray hair on your chest.
(Editor’s note—note, young metro-testicles, that a real man does not wax)
(Additional editor’s note—we noticed in the pharmacy the other day that there was an Australian waxing product for men named “Nads.” In our day that meant something else)
10. You remember, somewhat guiltily, making jokes about the space shuttle Challenger, and what color the astronauts’ eyes were.
(Editor’s note—Blue. One blue this way, and one blue that way)
11. You have accepted the fact that you didn’t accomplish most of the things on your “To Do Before I Turn Thirty” list—but have given yourself an extension on the ménage à trois.
12. When watching the news about Britney Spears or Lindsay Lohan, you have a greater urge to help them than take advantage of them.
(Editor’s note—unless it would help check off #11)
13. You no longer try to watch the squiggly channels on TV.
(Editor’s note—this has more to do with modern technology than any sort of maturity)
14. You have no interest in men’s magazines like Stuff and Maxim.
(Editor’s note—this also might have something to do with technology)
15. You actually buy Playboy for the articles too (well, you would, but you still can’t work up the courage to actually buy it).
16. You’ve become more of a “butt” than “breast” man.
17. White women bore you.
(Editor’s note—nos. 16 & 17 are related)
(Additional editor’s note—this is not, in fact, completely true—but we have inspired at least one white woman to go out and buy a drill bit)
18. You no longer experiment with facial hair.
19. You have acknowledged that you were never intended to have long hair, and have foresworn any future attempts to grow some.
(Editor’s note—to put 18 & 19 more succinctly, you have decided that you will make no more attempts to look like the white European Jesus—or the real one, for that matter)
20. You remember when you first learned that “bitch” could be a verb—when listening to Billy Joel’s Big Shot on your red-checked Fisher-Price stereo.
(Editor’s note—while you are not overly proud of 52nd Street being your first album, you are glad that you chose that over its main competition, the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack)
21. You get misty-eyed—or, at least, your nose starts to flare—when watching families reunite on the Maury show.
22. You sometimes buy yourself flowers.
23. You still haven’t forgiven yourself for not learning the guitar in elementary school.
24. You still haven’t forgiven your parents for throwing out your baseball cards.
25. You have forgiven your parents for throwing out your old Chuck T’s.
26. You sometimes wear your sunglasses when it’s not that bright out—to cover up your crow’s feet.
27. You understand why Bono wears his all the time.
28. You have discovered embarrassing paraphernalia in your parents’ bedside table—and still are unable to face it.
29. You sometimes size up a woman by imagining what physical traits she could pass on to your sons.
30. You’ve learned to like wine—and pretend to like martinis.
(Editor’s note— shaken, of course, not stirred)
31. You’ve become a snob about coffee—or, at least, have finally realized that Starbucks just tastes burnt.
32. You no longer throw darts at a picture of the pope.
(Editor’s note— you were young. And—we must clarify—never at pictures of Jesus)
33. You keep telling yourself that one of these days you’re going to learn how to type.
33½. You see the glass as half empty.
(Editor’s note—you also realize, at this point, that 33½ (or 33 1/3 ?) is also number of RPMs on all those LPs you saved from your childhood, which are undoubtedly warped by now, especially since you stored them on their side)
How Would Jesus Have Deteriorated?
If you are in the 33-40 range, and have other notions as to what defines this era, give us a shout-out at hypomaniacal@gmail.com (we might get around to checking it this time). We will post any worthwhile responses (and we all know how painful that can be!).
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Election ’08—Why Hillary Should Not be President
The main reason we feel that Hillary Clinton should not be elected president has nothing to do with the fact that she used to wear big glasses, her baking ability, or her cleavage. It actually deals with her main asset—her husband. Now don’t get us wrong— we like the guy, and would probably vote for him again if we could. But we can’t. You see, there’s this little thing called the 22nd amendment which restricts a president to two terms of office. This was designed to keep any one individual from having too much influence on the US government. Let me tell you, right now, we are damn glad there is such a thing in place, 28% approval ratings notwithstanding. But anyway, if Bill Clinton became the first First Man of the United States, he would be in a position that would violate the core principle of this amendment.
Of course, there are other reasons as well.
1b. As a further “amendment” to the above, let’s let some other families in on the act. The whole Bush-Clinton “double helix” is getting old. Look around you—that royal family/ monarchy thing isn’t working out too well for anyone else.
2a. That lame “Sopranos” spoof …
2b. and that Celine Dion theme song.
3. She has sold her soul politically. While we were impressed by her ability to veer across the political spectrum in order to be elected to the Senate, and think these abilities would help make her a fine majority leader, such chameleonship is not what the presidency needs. The aptly-named “Bush-Cheney lite” is not the answer.
4a. She doesn’t talk, she shouts.
And, related to the above:
4b. She is starting to sound (and look) more and more like Suze Orman.
‘Nuff said.
Of course, there are other reasons as well.
1b. As a further “amendment” to the above, let’s let some other families in on the act. The whole Bush-Clinton “double helix” is getting old. Look around you—that royal family/ monarchy thing isn’t working out too well for anyone else.
2a. That lame “Sopranos” spoof …
2b. and that Celine Dion theme song.
3. She has sold her soul politically. While we were impressed by her ability to veer across the political spectrum in order to be elected to the Senate, and think these abilities would help make her a fine majority leader, such chameleonship is not what the presidency needs. The aptly-named “Bush-Cheney lite” is not the answer.
4a. She doesn’t talk, she shouts.
And, related to the above:
4b. She is starting to sound (and look) more and more like Suze Orman.
‘Nuff said.
Election ’08— The Bitch Factor
We worry that some might see our perspectives on the HC as sexist. A woman should be disqualified from the race—because of who her husband is? Shouting? Isn’t that better than being “shrill”? Aren’t these all double standards? Isn’t it just as bad when a female teacher sleeps with her students?
In regard to the last question… uh, no.
And in terms of our original concern, to quote Nigel Tufnel, “What’s wrong with being sexy?”
We also must make a disclosure— at this point, we are an Obama Girl.
In regard to the last question… uh, no.
And in terms of our original concern, to quote Nigel Tufnel, “What’s wrong with being sexy?”
We also must make a disclosure— at this point, we are an Obama Girl.
Election '08-- (Dis)Qualifying Questions
The first question that should be asked to each and every presidential candidate was the one asked in the Republican debate on May 3rd, 2007: “Do you believe in evolution?”
An alternative way of asking this question would be, “As president, if you were presented with concrete evidence that went against the faith-based scenario you had conjured up in your mind, would this affect your judgment of the situation or the actions you would take?”
Three people answered “no” to the original question in the debate: Sen. Sam Brownback, Gov. Mike Huckabee, and Rep. Tom Tancredo. They should be eliminated from any further consideration for the post. One person has clearly answered yes to the second; thanks to term limits, he is already ineligible.
An alternative way of asking this question would be, “As president, if you were presented with concrete evidence that went against the faith-based scenario you had conjured up in your mind, would this affect your judgment of the situation or the actions you would take?”
Three people answered “no” to the original question in the debate: Sen. Sam Brownback, Gov. Mike Huckabee, and Rep. Tom Tancredo. They should be eliminated from any further consideration for the post. One person has clearly answered yes to the second; thanks to term limits, he is already ineligible.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
The Democrats Are To Blame (Again)
Re: FISA (the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act)
Thanks to the efforts of 41 House Democrats and 16 Senate Democrats, the White House & their Republican lackeys have been handed another part of their right-wing agenda. After all the clamor over illegal wiretapping, these 57 have allowed the practice of conducting wiretaps without a warrant to be officially approved, putting such decisions exclusively in the hands of the administration (gulp) and Attorney General Alberto Gonzales (double gulp). Undoubtedly, they caved in the face of selective and fear-mongering intelligence, enhanced by a healthy dose of their own spinelessness. In a way, this was actually worse than the Democrats’ complicity in the decision to invade Iraq: this time, the numbers were on their side.
We would like to take this opportunity to change our official political affiliation from “Independent” to “None of the above.”
Thanks to the efforts of 41 House Democrats and 16 Senate Democrats, the White House & their Republican lackeys have been handed another part of their right-wing agenda. After all the clamor over illegal wiretapping, these 57 have allowed the practice of conducting wiretaps without a warrant to be officially approved, putting such decisions exclusively in the hands of the administration (gulp) and Attorney General Alberto Gonzales (double gulp). Undoubtedly, they caved in the face of selective and fear-mongering intelligence, enhanced by a healthy dose of their own spinelessness. In a way, this was actually worse than the Democrats’ complicity in the decision to invade Iraq: this time, the numbers were on their side.
We would like to take this opportunity to change our official political affiliation from “Independent” to “None of the above.”
756*
(Editor’s Note—you will have noticed by now, we are sure, our fondness for aster**ks)
For all the negative press Barry Bonds has received over the course of the year, we would like to counter by giving the guy some credit—he succeeded within the confines of the system, and persevered through it all. If he was allowed to do what he appears to have done, isn’t the system itself to blame? The closest analogy we can make is to Bill Gates and Microsoft—his/their use of predatory market tactics, intimidation, and manipulation got him/them where they are today, and now he’s saving babies in Africa.
In the end, we can’t help but feel that there is a bit of a racist element here. For all the praise heaped on Hank Aaron these days, one can’t forget all the threats and hate mail he received back in his day, and the subtler disclaimers to games played (compared to the Great Bambino) that we even found ourselves making. We felt this in an even subtler form when Mark McGwire came off as the popular favorite when battling Sammy Sosa for the single-season crown back in 1998. And remember, McGwire not only had the muscles and overgrown head, but the acne too.
In a way, Bonds is the manifestation of the “big black negro” that the insecure white man has always subconsciously feared will ravage his women, rendering his respective “tools” and “skills” worthless; only this time, he has not only been bred for the task, but also chemically enhanced to take it to the next level.
It should be remembered, though, as it was once explained to me, that steroids “turn your grapes into raisins.”
Upon further reflection, perhaps our sentiments are merely a reaction to the insinuation that the only way a post-35 year old can perform significant athletic feats is through the use of such chemical “enhancers”… we aren’t quite ready to face that fact yet.
For all the negative press Barry Bonds has received over the course of the year, we would like to counter by giving the guy some credit—he succeeded within the confines of the system, and persevered through it all. If he was allowed to do what he appears to have done, isn’t the system itself to blame? The closest analogy we can make is to Bill Gates and Microsoft—his/their use of predatory market tactics, intimidation, and manipulation got him/them where they are today, and now he’s saving babies in Africa.
In the end, we can’t help but feel that there is a bit of a racist element here. For all the praise heaped on Hank Aaron these days, one can’t forget all the threats and hate mail he received back in his day, and the subtler disclaimers to games played (compared to the Great Bambino) that we even found ourselves making. We felt this in an even subtler form when Mark McGwire came off as the popular favorite when battling Sammy Sosa for the single-season crown back in 1998. And remember, McGwire not only had the muscles and overgrown head, but the acne too.
In a way, Bonds is the manifestation of the “big black negro” that the insecure white man has always subconsciously feared will ravage his women, rendering his respective “tools” and “skills” worthless; only this time, he has not only been bred for the task, but also chemically enhanced to take it to the next level.
It should be remembered, though, as it was once explained to me, that steroids “turn your grapes into raisins.”
Upon further reflection, perhaps our sentiments are merely a reaction to the insinuation that the only way a post-35 year old can perform significant athletic feats is through the use of such chemical “enhancers”… we aren’t quite ready to face that fact yet.
If We Want Your Opinion, We Will Give it to You
If you feel like trying anyway, we can be reached at hypomaniacal@gmail.com (that’s right, some sumbitch stole our prospective e-mail address as well).
We'd also like to give a quick shout-out to Rodrigo, the sole person to contact us so far (twice). However, in his own best interests, we have decided not to hawk his Camisetas Personalizadas on this site: believe you me us, you have no idea what our clientele could come up with. Let's just say that it could well violate state, national, and/or international laws, and as far as the penal codes go for such infractions, well, they are rather stiff.
We'd also like to give a quick shout-out to Rodrigo, the sole person to contact us so far (twice). However, in his own best interests, we have decided not to hawk his Camisetas Personalizadas on this site: believe you me us, you have no idea what our clientele could come up with. Let's just say that it could well violate state, national, and/or international laws, and as far as the penal codes go for such infractions, well, they are rather stiff.
If Cold Guinness is Wrong, We Don’t Want to be Right
Despite vehement declarations by certain people that a proper Guinness is served warm, all the Guinni that we received while in Dublin were cold… and we received many. Even if every single pub (including the brewery itself) did so merely because they detected our American accent and thus concluded that we were a ‘Mary’, frankly, my dear, we wouldn’t give a damn.
Dublin(’) Down
Despite that bastard Murphy, things picked up once we entered Davy Byrnes’ pub, where a certain Leopold Bloom had once washed down a gorgonzola sandwich with a sherry. They didn’t have any food, but they did have Guinness, which is basically a liquid manifestation of the food pyramid.
This was the first step in our attempts to trace the steps of Msr. Bloom, which we cannot, unfortunately, give away for free, but plan to recount in an upcoming essay entitled ‘Reading James Joyce in Dublin’, in which we will attempt to connect Faulkner (and, subsequently, incest as it relates to quests for racial purity), Joyce’s influence on Mr. Bill, their respective uses of the c-word, a few more of Joyce’s words from Ulysses, the physical setting of the book today, and the transcending powers of a settling Guinness with our own personal vision quest.
(Editor’s Note— Our would-be author reports that his task may have been somewhat compromised by the fact that, in hindsight, he realized that he never read any of Ulysses while actually in Dublin, and, uh, isn’t quite finished with it yet. Stay tuned)
This was the first step in our attempts to trace the steps of Msr. Bloom, which we cannot, unfortunately, give away for free, but plan to recount in an upcoming essay entitled ‘Reading James Joyce in Dublin’, in which we will attempt to connect Faulkner (and, subsequently, incest as it relates to quests for racial purity), Joyce’s influence on Mr. Bill, their respective uses of the c-word, a few more of Joyce’s words from Ulysses, the physical setting of the book today, and the transcending powers of a settling Guinness with our own personal vision quest.
(Editor’s Note— Our would-be author reports that his task may have been somewhat compromised by the fact that, in hindsight, he realized that he never read any of Ulysses while actually in Dublin, and, uh, isn’t quite finished with it yet. Stay tuned)
Murphy's Law
We entered Dublin to the smell of shite… literally, there appeared to be some sort of frothy liquid spewing into the water from a processing plant along the narrow channel that leads to the port, causing our nostrils to flare.
Upon docking (next to the Ulysses), we had to wait a good twenty minutes for a 2nd bus to arrive to take us to the terminal.
Then, the ATM would not accept our card, leaving us Euro-less. We were forced to go to the upstairs café and change our pounds sterling one-for-one.
Following which, we had to wait a half-hour or so for a 2nd bus to take us into the city.
As we wrote in our journal at the time, ‘Irish eyes may be smiling, but we are pissed off’.
Murphy was an Irishman, don’t you know.
Upon docking (next to the Ulysses), we had to wait a good twenty minutes for a 2nd bus to arrive to take us to the terminal.
Then, the ATM would not accept our card, leaving us Euro-less. We were forced to go to the upstairs café and change our pounds sterling one-for-one.
Following which, we had to wait a half-hour or so for a 2nd bus to take us into the city.
As we wrote in our journal at the time, ‘Irish eyes may be smiling, but we are pissed off’.
Murphy was an Irishman, don’t you know.
The Whole Ffamn Damily
Our scribbling scribe went on to report that, after leaving ‘Shakespeare Country’, he scaled the highest peak in Wales, which isn’t exactly Everest/Chumolungma… but he did stay at the lodge where Hillary & co. trained before they ‘knocked the bastard off’. In his words, ‘You gotta love a place where the ‘reception desk’ features 6 taps of ale’.
T’was after dinner, after retiring to the parlor with some far more serious climbers (amidst photos and paraphernalia from the Everest expedition and, incongruously, a shrunken head from Peru), that he learned that the ‘f’ sound in Welsh is produced by a double ‘f’, leading our fearless protagonist to speculate that this might be groundbreaking insight into the roots of his paternal ancestors, who had originally used the ‘Ff’ (not to be found in old English).
For the sake of anonymity, we will henceforth refer to them as the ‘Fudds’.
Anyway, growing up, the lads were always told by their patriarch that, when confronted with an interview for job or school, to ‘just tell ‘em you’re a Fudd’. With the initial discovery, the saying became, ‘just tell ‘em you’re a Ffudd’. Naturally, this extended to other ‘f’ words; in the words of one, ‘If you don’t ffind it ffunny, you are ffree to ff**ck off’.
T’was after dinner, after retiring to the parlor with some far more serious climbers (amidst photos and paraphernalia from the Everest expedition and, incongruously, a shrunken head from Peru), that he learned that the ‘f’ sound in Welsh is produced by a double ‘f’, leading our fearless protagonist to speculate that this might be groundbreaking insight into the roots of his paternal ancestors, who had originally used the ‘Ff’ (not to be found in old English).
For the sake of anonymity, we will henceforth refer to them as the ‘Fudds’.
Anyway, growing up, the lads were always told by their patriarch that, when confronted with an interview for job or school, to ‘just tell ‘em you’re a Fudd’. With the initial discovery, the saying became, ‘just tell ‘em you’re a Ffudd’. Naturally, this extended to other ‘f’ words; in the words of one, ‘If you don’t ffind it ffunny, you are ffree to ff**ck off’.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Bated Breath...
probably doesn’t smell very good. For those of you who have been anxiously awaiting our fearless reporter’s update on his lineage, however, your prayers have been answered… while recuperating back at his undisclosed offshore location, he dictated the following updates.
The Royal Wee
(Editor's note-- We refer here not to our reporter’s unusual manner of referring to himself in the collective, but to the current state of British lavatories)
Alternate titles:
Royal Flush
Skip to My Loo
When it comes to water closets, the British are retarded.
Case in point:
1. It takes at least two flushes to swirl away anything of substance. We came upon this realization after finding a Lincoln log or two during our first relief efforts in a Cambridge dormitory, leading us to realize that we may well have left a present or two behind as well and, subsequently, needed to amend our own flushing practices. The above dictum held true for the duration of our stay.
2. While designing said dorms without a rest (and relax) room ‘en suite’—our attic room did not even have one on the same floor—they have installed sinks at just about the same height as your average urinal.
Rather convenient, actually.
Whilst dictating the above screed, we came upon a thought: if the empire’s Labor & Conservative parties chose to unite, they’d become the Labor-Tory party— go (un)Espanol with the ‘v’ (and Bostonian w/ the '-or') and ve’re right back ve’re ve started (some would say ve nebah left).
Alternate titles:
Royal Flush
Skip to My Loo
When it comes to water closets, the British are retarded.
Case in point:
1. It takes at least two flushes to swirl away anything of substance. We came upon this realization after finding a Lincoln log or two during our first relief efforts in a Cambridge dormitory, leading us to realize that we may well have left a present or two behind as well and, subsequently, needed to amend our own flushing practices. The above dictum held true for the duration of our stay.
2. While designing said dorms without a rest (and relax) room ‘en suite’—our attic room did not even have one on the same floor—they have installed sinks at just about the same height as your average urinal.
Rather convenient, actually.
Whilst dictating the above screed, we came upon a thought: if the empire’s Labor & Conservative parties chose to unite, they’d become the Labor-Tory party— go (un)Espanol with the ‘v’ (and Bostonian w/ the '-or') and ve’re right back ve’re ve started (some would say ve nebah left).
Homeward Bondage
By rail and coach, we managed to make it to our mother’s land. Ignoring all our usual instincts, we headed straight for the church. After meandering through the surrounding graveyard, we found a collection of familial gravestones in a little grove tucked behind the back corner of the building. Lots of fallen stones, one more recent (and intact) one listing the 15 or so interred there, which we took as an indication that somewhere, at some point, some members of our family actually attended church.
As we took our final picture, we heard a ‘caw’ from above… so quoth the raven (on commands from further above, we imagine).
Conveniently, there was a pub across the street (‘The King’s Head’). We strolled in and ordered a pint of the local ale (Lady Godiva—with a label very risqué by British standards). T’was a magnificent pub, resplendent in deep varnished wood, stone tile, and patterned maroon carpet, featuring a glorious set of juxtapositions: a pinball machine flashing the phrase “Bling Bling” among the aged pool tables and dart boards on the upper floor, a widescreen plasma TV above the fireplace below. There, we watched the races with the locals, who peppered the action with insights such as, ‘We’re getting lashed’ and ‘A horse farted’.
We got one more pint and summoned up our courage to ask the barmaid if she had heard of the family farm (under its most recent name). Stating that it sounded familiar, she proceeded to poll the other patrons, and a consensus was reached: we’d need to go to the top of the hill and turn right, but it was a little late and a little far to get there this particular evening. Stating that we’d just go and get a look-see, we strode to the top of the hill, knowing all the while that we’d be heading there posthaste.
After trudging along a ‘country road’ (read: no sidewalks), passing some other farms, and an ancient church bearing our given name, we reached another village and another glorious country pub. No one there had ever heard of it, so we decided it wasn’t meant to be (answering that age-old question) and got another pint from a tap adorned with a horseshoe.
We never did find the Stud Farm either, leading us to believe they may have been one and the same.
As we took our final picture, we heard a ‘caw’ from above… so quoth the raven (on commands from further above, we imagine).
Conveniently, there was a pub across the street (‘The King’s Head’). We strolled in and ordered a pint of the local ale (Lady Godiva—with a label very risqué by British standards). T’was a magnificent pub, resplendent in deep varnished wood, stone tile, and patterned maroon carpet, featuring a glorious set of juxtapositions: a pinball machine flashing the phrase “Bling Bling” among the aged pool tables and dart boards on the upper floor, a widescreen plasma TV above the fireplace below. There, we watched the races with the locals, who peppered the action with insights such as, ‘We’re getting lashed’ and ‘A horse farted’.
We got one more pint and summoned up our courage to ask the barmaid if she had heard of the family farm (under its most recent name). Stating that it sounded familiar, she proceeded to poll the other patrons, and a consensus was reached: we’d need to go to the top of the hill and turn right, but it was a little late and a little far to get there this particular evening. Stating that we’d just go and get a look-see, we strode to the top of the hill, knowing all the while that we’d be heading there posthaste.
After trudging along a ‘country road’ (read: no sidewalks), passing some other farms, and an ancient church bearing our given name, we reached another village and another glorious country pub. No one there had ever heard of it, so we decided it wasn’t meant to be (answering that age-old question) and got another pint from a tap adorned with a horseshoe.
We never did find the Stud Farm either, leading us to believe they may have been one and the same.
Effingham
We also must report that this quaint little nook of England, proclaimed ‘Shakespeare Country’ by the brochures, must feature the most ‘F-bombs’ per capita in the entire world. Upon disembarking from the train at Royal Leamington Spa, we had a young couple in our right ear & a group of high-schoolers in our left letting them fly in all forms. In Cubbington, several bus riders and even the bus driver got into the act. Seems they did not heed the call to get thyselves to a local nunnery.
As for ourselves, we have come to prefer the phrase ‘Bloody Hell’, partly because we don’t feel the need to use aster**es.
As for ourselves, we have come to prefer the phrase ‘Bloody Hell’, partly because we don’t feel the need to use aster**es.
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