Guns, Knives, Rhinoceros Intimacy, and Fairy Cake

“I want to be intimately involved with a black rhinoceros.”

Remember that sentence. No, really… commit that sentence to memory. We’ll get back to it in a little bit.

Remember back in the early aughts, when the National Rifle Association — led at the time by the late, and ever affable, Charlton “Bright Eyes” Heston — was getting their plus fours collectively bunched up in response to a proposed mandatory background check and two-week waiting period required before purchasing a firearm? The proposed legislation — which I don’t think ever happened, or maybe happened and was later repealed — was being pushed by bits of the government largely in response to things like the Columbine tragedy and the Waco siege.

Back then, in those heady days past before Patrick Roy‘s retirement sent Colorado avalanching to Sucksville, the pro-gun/anti-legislation people were angry because they felt that a two-week waiting period was way too long to have to bide one’s time before getting a gun. They wanted to be able to walk straight into a store, pick out the four nickel that best accentuated their eyes, and walk out that very same day, whistling a merry tune. And don’t even get them started about the background checks. Background checks equated solely with breaking into your bedroom and rifling through your private drawers. How DARE they violate your extra special parts!

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Heartbreak is a Lasagna

I don’t like Pyrex.

I’m not an real big fan of formal “cookware” in general, actually. I prefer those cheap, aluminum foil-based roasting pans you can get at the supermarket for like three bucks. They’re inexpensive, bend rather than break, you don’t have to clean them afterwards, and they have a low carbon footprint.

Wait, those things are recyclable, right?

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Traveling Cramps

Traveling is awful.

Occasionally, like most modern humans*, I have to travel places for one reason or another. For the sake of convenience or necessity, this travel often takes the form of a commercial airline flight. In fact, I’m writing the draft of this on a 737 somewhere between Baltimore and San Francisco and, though I’d much rather drive (or fly) myself, my car is far too elderly for 3,000 miles in one shot, and I haven’t got a plane at my disposal, so a commercial flight is really the only way to go.

The only thing I can say about this is: good grief.

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Mysterious Guy Friend

I just learned that Traci Nobles, an otherwise entirely unremarkable cheerleading coach from Georgia, has published an entire book based upon the fact that she received text messages from Anthony Weiner. I’m not kidding about that, either… an entire book has been contrived around a tweeted message of Anthony Weiner’s, er… Anthony. And this brings me to one conclusion:

I think that I need to get involved in a sex scandal.

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Suitable for Framing

Something weird is happening in my photo collection, and I don’t think I’m the only one it’s happening to.

First, some background. I got my first digital camera in 2003. It was a bit out of date even for the time as it was all of 1.3 megapixels, and it didn’t even have a screen on it: you had to wait until you got home and copied the pictures onto your computer before you even knew what you took a picture of. Awful as it was, though, it got me in the habit of taking lots and lots of pictures of entirely paltry things and, before long, I’d established  a decently sized photo library.

Two years later, the march of progress (and the fact that I dropped my old camera in a lake) dictated that a new camera was in order, so I upgraded to one with 3 megapixels, almost twice what my original had. That camera tended to take much better images, and the increase in quality across my burgeoning photo library was hard to miss. In 2007, my camera technology updated once again, this time to 8.1 megapixels.

Then a curious thing happened.

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Cracking the 2012 Pot

Harold Camping is a bit of a crackpot.

For those blissfully unaware (or outside of the United States, where people seem largely immune to this sort of ridiculosity), Harold Camping is an undead, five hundred-year-old Christian fundamentalist preacher who predicted that, on May 21, 2011, some two hundred million people would be “raptured” and rise, hilariously nude, to heaven while most of us would remain, clothed, on Earth to suffer God’s wrath and eventually die horrible (and presumably still clothed) deaths.

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The Starbucks Boycott

Recently, people have been asking me why, specifically, I’ve been boycotting Starbucks for the past two years. I have insofar managed to not tell the story, on the grounds that it gets rather long and winding, is comprised of a nearly unbelievable series of events and, really, doesn’t have all that much to do with Starbucks. With the latest query to be delivered to me, though, I figured I’d set the record straight, or at least less crooked than it was, on my one remaining boycott.

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I walked outside earlier and I saw a slug on the sidewalk. He had been there since the night before because I’d seen him then too… except that, rather than being the young, vibrant and healthy slug he had been then, he was now little more than an overcooked french fry.

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Bringin’ the Heat

Spring has been in the air now for close to a month (I know this primarily because I’m violently allergic to it) and summer looms menacingly around the corner. Old Mister Sun is starting to wake up, and he’s staring down at us with his beady little eyes and his two scoops of raisins, ready to get it on.

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Bloodsuckers, the L-Word and a Weird Myth

As I write this, it is February fourth, and in a mere ten days there will be an event known as Valentine’s Day. It has also been referred to (often by me) as “Oh-Sweet-Unholy-Crap-I-Forgot-It-Was-Valentine’s-Day Day” but, whatever you might happen to call it, it’s creeping up on us.

As you may have surmised, I have a few problems with this.

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