I just saw an ad for the Mark Cuban reality show, "The Benefactor." They're hyping the fact that the show will be unpredictable and wild and crazy -- much like Cuban's persona. They claim things will change and that there are no rules except for the one's Mark Cuban makes up.
My first reaction was, this is just bad television. Unpredictable is good within the framework of some ground rules, but a spoiled brat millionaire just making shit up could get annoying.
My second thought was if there are no rules, can I be a contestant and point a gun at Mark Cuban's head and say, "give me the million dollars" and win?
The World Cup of Hockey
Are you pumped!!! Are you excited!!! Are you psyched!!! This is it -- after this there won't be hockey for a very long time. I can't wait. Even though I won't be able to see a single game on TV probably.
Will Canada, the favorite, win?
Will Sweden overcome their Bill-Buckner-esque play from the Olympics (good job Tommy Salo) and finally win with this, their best national team ever?
Will the aging US stars pull out one last international victory?
Will the gritty Finns score enough?
Will the Russians be able to come together in spite of the absence of many of their stars and questionable goaltending?
Will the Czech Republic elevate their game in the wake of the death of their national team coach, and childhood hero to many of the players, Ivan Hlinka?
Will the Slovaks defense and goaltending be good enough to allow their potent offense to win high-scoring games?
Will Germany win a game?
Do any of you care?
So I guess he's leaving "Law & Order" (bum-BUM!). And I see they got Dennis Farina to replace him. I can see why they'd do that. Though Jerry Orbach quitting is on par with either: a) the pope dying, or b) Castro relinquishing power. Shit. Talk about the end of an era.
The ad on TV I saw for the season premier of "Law & Order" (bum-BUM!) said that it would be unlike any other in the 14 years of the show. I found that odd, because Jerry Orbach has been on the show for thirty-seven years, meaning he's been on "Law & Order" (bum-BUM!) more than double the amount of time it's existed. That's crazy! Also, what's he going to do now? I can only assume he'll star in a "Law & Order: Jerry Orbach Unit" where Jerry Orbach just makes surly and sarcastic jokes about the state of the world.
I mean, seriously, this guy's been on forever
. I always assumed that in the future, when the sun finally explodes, all that's gonna be left on earth are cockroaches. And these cockroaches would watch Jerry Orbach on "Law & Order."
But so now I'm over Jerry Orbach leaving (no, I'm not, but you're probably bored of reading about him here). Let's talk about the show itself. Those casting people must have a hell of a time finding new actors to play criminals. Whenever I'm at a restaurant here, I assume my waiter has been featured on "Law & Order" and I spend my time trying to place which episode he or she has been on.
Here's my idea on how to keep the show going for infinity (they're doing a good job one their own though). It's called "Law & Order: Parole Violations." Each week involves a case about a crook they caught in Season 1 who's out on parole and who gets caught doing something else.
SAM WATERSON (voice quivering): You killed the man! In cold blood!
DEFENSE ATTORNEY: You have no proof.
ACCUSED: Yeah. No proof.
SW: Maybe not. But you had a beer in McSorley's last night. That violates your parole.
SAM WATERSON SMILES AND LOOKS AT THE NEWEST PRETTY ASSISTANT D.A. AS THE DEFENSE ATTORNEY GLANCES AT THE ACCUSED. THE ACCUSED GRIMACES, LOOKS DOWN, AND WE FADE OUT...
I have that feature where you can see what page people come to your blog from. I like to see how people accidentally find my site, so I often click on these accidental referrers.
One of the sites is a journal-type blog. The guy writes how he hasn't written in awhile because he gets bored and when he starts writing he isn't enthusiastic and quits midway. Except he doesn't say "enthusiastic" but rather "enthu." How is he supposed to finish a thought when he can't be bothered to finish a word?
Random Olympic Observations/Thoughts
1) I didn't know Maya Rudolph of SNL fame was also a Greek hurdler. When she won the gold medal, that place sure went frigging nuts.
2) (and this one is random
): Since when did Laura Bush do commentary for the dive events?
3) I think Dan will beat Dave.
4) RE: observation #1 and crazy Greek celebration: I wish I could have that level of pride of country. Actually, any level would be nice.
5) I've decided there is no summer Olympic I have a chance to win. Looks like my plan for Olympic glory (a.k.a. curling lessons) should begin in earnest.
6) Ignore #3. I think Dave wins.
A Resemblance of the Creator as a Youthful Male
"Once upon a time and a very good time it was, there was a moo-cow coming down along a road and this moo-cow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo..."
We get a pep talk on not keeping the kitchen stocked well enough. Then there are some items listed on the "to-buy" list and a passive-aggressive comment from an unnamed person regarding said items on "to-buy" list: "Don't you think it would be good if we made sure we always have these? People seem to like them."
So we buy them. And when we go to put them away, we find there's no room because the cupboards are filled with the items already. The exact same ones. How can I possibly respect people when they pull that? Yet somehow we're the assholes for "not keeping the kitchen stocked."
On an unrelated note, when I was young and my mother sent me to find something, if I came back mere moments later and said I couldn't find it, her reply was "if I go in there and find it, you're not playing street hockey after dinner." You're goddamned right I found it right after that. And I was, like, 8.
I wonder why I thought of that?
The Black-Eyed Peas
Let's get it ended.
Please. For the love of God. End it.
When I took Art History (II) back in college, I remember a discussion about what Munch's "The Scream" guy was screaming at; about how it was a comment on angst and the modern world and all that. Maybe he just forsaw, and was reacting to, the violent nature in which he would be stolen?
This weekend I saw a kid get yelled at in two languages -- English and Spanish. Ha-ha.
Venice Beach is Weird
Like the title of this post says.
On the blogger dashboard page is a joke about a panda bear that "eats, blogs, and runs." I believe the original version of that joke is much filthier seeing as it involves hookers and bushes. Probably a good idea that they changed it.
Last night while driving around L.A. I sat at a red light behind a cab. The cab was white with red writing. The name of the cab company was "People's Cab."
The light turned green and the cab took off, and I was left wondering if all the drivers pool their wages and tips together.
It's Been A Long Time
It's been a few days. I feel the need to post something.
I went to war yesterday and today. The enemy swarmed World War I-style; send'em over the trenches and by sheer numbers we'll make it to the other side. Even though I have 21st-century weaponry -- smart bombs, the ability to carry out precision strikes, and state-of-the-art surveillance -- I decided to fight back against this pre-emptive strike World War I-style as well. So I carpet-bombed them with chemical weapons.
Except my mustard gas was Raid.
The house was under attack by ants. Hundreds of thousands of ants. They came in through the kitchen door. And one of the kitchen windows. Platoons, companies, and divisions of them, all hell-bent on destroying my food supply. I also think there was a plan in the works to contaminate my water, but I thwarted that before the group could fully assault the sink area.
I raided the main column, starting at the head and working my way down the chain. I straifed them with blasts from the spray bottle, instantly killing probably three-fourths of the enemy. The lucky ones drowned in the sheer volume of chemical rained down on them. Meanwhile, the other unlucky quarter writhed in pain, suffocating on the toxic fumes. I must say, the bravery exhibited by the horde that still crawled in under the door made me falter momentarily. But I quickly regained my wits and unleashed a volley of sprays that turned the kitchen door into a miniature (of sorts) Dresden.
My youthful excitement and enthusiasm waned as the dead piled up (literally). I felt like Paul Baumer from "All Quiet on the Western Front." But there were more of the enemy, and I was in charge of Homeland Security. I had to fight on.
Having temporarily closed off a strategic point of entry, I turned my attention to protecting the sugar reserves. It was vital I save the sugar. It was the whole point of the war, no matter what the Queen Ant may have told her colony otherwise. I'm sure I was painted as a lunatic despot, ruling over the house with an iron fist and putting down any kind of insect insurrection with brute force ("He uses Raid! on his own house spiders!") There were a few ants who spent an hour or so abroad, and I dropped a bit of apple for them. I'm sure their pleas for peace were ignored as the bloodlust rose in the hick ants who spent all their days in the depths of the colony raising aphids for milk to feed the Queen and soldier ants. No, I wasn't going to be fooled. I knew the ants were here for one reason and one reason only: the sugar.
I set up heave defenses around the sugar reserves and spread out from there. I decimated the three lines of enemy combatants headed for the "white gold" using the same technique I closed the borders with.
But in my quest to protect the Homeland, other important duties were being neglected. This is where my allies came in and saved the day. The Coalition of the Willing consisted of my roommate and some spiders. When I left for work, the ants staged another assault on the Homeland. Either the chemical fumes died down or the ants tied little bits of grass around their mouths to breathe through, because when my roommate came home the attack was on. He fought back, picking up the fight where I left off.
Detractors of my War on Terror-ants will point to my alliance with the house spiders as proof of my insincerity. I understand the spiders will turn around and bite me in my sleep faster than I can say "Black Widow," but by building an inter-species coalition I was setting myself up for future successes. The spiders caught a minimal number of enemy combatants, and the glee with which they spun their sticky web around the trapped Terror-ants caused me some alarm, but I looked the other way during these moments of torture (for some reason it made me think of Paul Wolfowitz, though). These are Terror-ants -- THEY attacked US because they hate the way we live in houses and with food in the pantry. They don't deserve our sympathy. The spiders are on the forefront of the War on Terror-ants. They fight and eat them every day. I need them on my side.
Some of you may blame me for this problem, saying it was my own policy that got me here in the first place. Let me first say that these are bad ants we're dealing with. They don't like us. Secondly, sure, I used to like ants better than spiders. I used to let some ice cream drop to the sidewalk in summer so they could eat. I was vehemantly against the sunlight-through-magnifying-glass-to-burn-ants (a.k.a. the scorched ant policy) that many of my friends funded and supported. But times change. Situations and contexts change. Those ants I helped were part of some East Coast colony (cell?). These are the more evil West Coast colonies (cells?). The house is a safer place with the ants pushed back. We have spiders all over the backyard rooting them out. Roommates with Raid bottles ready to hunt them down before they attack us again. How many other house insects are safer now that the threat of thousands of ants swarming them and ripping them apart is gone?
Also, I know that seventeen of the twenty creatures that attacked people in the house in the past year are spiders, but these were renegade spiders. Probably trained by ants. There is no official spider jihad against me; unlike there is an ant jihad as exhibited by the Queen Ant instructing her colony to attack with the promise of tons of syrup and 66 not-fully-grown queen ants as a reward in the afterlife.
AND, I know that I had a no-bug zone around the whole house and a policy of killing any and all bugs that tried to move around, no matter if they were ants or not; and I allowed a bunch of spiders (i.e. picked them up in Kleenex and set them in the garden) to get out of the house. This isn't contradictory at all. See, spiders aren't insects. They're arachnids. Completely different. Nothing to do with each other. So stop your whining about me not questioning them because maybe they knew something. They are our allies. Besides, they don't want the sugar and help guard it.
Oh, wait, I shouldn't have admitted that last part. Never mind.
If I had unilaterily fought the ants, I would have been caught in a quagmire. Every time I went to work, the ants would attack. I would come home and repel them, and it would start all over the next day. I would be stuck fighting them for possibly the next fifteen years. But with my Coalition of the Willing, we won the War on Terror-ants.
The house is secure. I hope to live here for another 4 years or so.
The 2nd Great iPod Rolling Thunder Revue of Late '04
I am undertaking a great... um, well, undertaking.
- I will try and listen to all somewhere-around-3,400 songs that I have on my iPod.
- Listening period consists of the 3-4 hours I spend doing nightly script deliveries.
- I will listen album by album; once an album is started I cannot switch.
- If I get home from the delivery part-way through an album, I must resume listening to that album when I start the delivery the next night.
- I am free to listen to any songs/albums I want on all other occasions, including while driving for work during a period that is not
part of the nightly script delivery.
- I will list the albums on this site in the left-hand column of this blog. The list will be arranged chronologically in the order I listen to them.
Going by the middle-name-as-first-name and street-you-grew-up-on-as-last-name trick of figuring out your porn screen name, mine would be Michael Southwood. Which is a pretty bad name. However, if my parents had lived one block over I'd be Michael Northwood.
The ravings of a lunatic
No, the title of this post does not refer to me, ha ha very funny.
I spent a half-hour today eavesdropping on a conversation someone was having on their cell phone in Borders.
I've seen this guy at Borders more than a few times; he's usually there with his (presumably) wife and little girl. They seem to not have a lot of money. The (presumably) wife looks very old in the way people who struggle through life look old -- I think she's probably 15 years younger than she looks. The little girl is always bruised and slightly dirty, and every time I see her I feel bad. Sometimes they hang out in the cafe part and eat bread and butter and read. Which is why I think they're poor. But they read, so that's cool.
But it's the guy who's the most interesting. He usually wears drab olive pants tucked into calf-high socks and boots. His shirts vary, but he always wears a drab olive cap like Vietman war protesters wore. Or New York garage rockers wear.
Or paramilitary wear.
Which is what I think this guy is, now, based on this conversation I at first accidentally but then for twenty-nine minutes and fifty-six seconds purposefully, overheard.
He was alone in a corner of the book store, sitting in a chair and talking on his cell phone. I was looking for Miles Davis' Bitches Brew
when I heard a voice say, "I don't want him there. If I see him around I will rip his fucking throat out." That was the accidental 4 seconds I overheard. The remaining 00:29:56 can be summed up as follows:
He quickly finished talking about whoever he was talking about and wanted to see larynx-less. Then he started saying things like "I want to meet somewhere private... where just the 4 of us can meet and anyone else is automatically under suspicion..." And then there was, "These people can fit in anywhere, and you'll never know... NO - it can't be a place you like, that you want to use again... it will be dangerous, but we need to control it... that's the U.S.S.A. for you, that's communism and we live in a socialist state..." OK. Now it just went from being weird to fucking fucked up. But I kept listening.
Bravely, I feel.
And the guy continued on about how the Supreme Court ("fucking Republican Court" is how he phrased it, I believe) came down and wrecked 10 states, including California, that have strong patients' rights laws regarding the ability to sue HMOs. So now he's on a Lefty rant. I suppose if you go far enough Right, you end up Left, and vice-versa. I remember hearing an interview with Tim McVeigh, where Tim said he was in the same prison as the Unabomber and even though McVeigh was reactionary right, and Ted Kazinski was radical left, they agreed on a lot of issues.
So now I'm thinking this guy is definitely paramilitary. He continues on about the authority of his Church or something, and how he's starting to not trust them. Then he enters a diatribe on how awful lawyers are, but how you need them because they know how to read judges, know their personalities, and understand the law. He wondered why "nothing's been done yet, because I'm going to write one more report to make it current and then I'm going to the city and then to fucking Van Nuys court." Then he goes back to this meeting he's planning, and how he wants to meet in a park. Then he tells the person he's talking to to "be careful tonight, and tomorrow" and hangs up.
My first instinct was I wanted to know what park he was meeting at and at what time so I could go there. How cool would that be? One time in London I followed a crazy guy around because he was so entertaining. But then my next thought was the London guy was just sticking his tongue out and laughing at people, and this guy here seemed a little more dangerous, and so following him was probably one of the worst ideas I've ever had in my entire life. And I've had some pretty horrible ideas, such as the one that involved beer, the fire cracker, and the house across the street.
But now I wonder if this is something more serious. I mean, I don't live my life in fear like Fox News and the current president wants me to. Though as crazy as this guy was, he was talking about fighting through legal channels.
Besides, I should just be thankful he's encouraging his daughter to read.
There's too much on this blog about sports. I don't really like them as much as I used to, except for hockey and soccer. And I guess I like baseball a lot. But I don't read Sports Illustrated or watch Sports Center or listen to sports talk radio or constantly read espn.com or really have my mood depend on my teams' successes like I used to. I really don't like football. Yet people have found this blog doing searches for Derek Jeter and Ricky Williams and Lauri Korpikoski (the latter is kind of cool, actually. Random Finnish hockey player search and this blog is what you get. Hee hee.).
I need to cut this out.
The story of how one becomes a pop star while trying to become a pop star, but before they're a pop star.
I am stealing an idea from Surgical Strikes. But it's OK because I know Tobin. And so anyways, what I'm stealing is the idea of a post about weird google/yahoo searches that lead people to the blog.
Someone came here searching for "Jessica Alba Derek Jeter Strip Club."
That's fine, I guess, but what's weird is this blog is 12 out of 70 results. Twelve!!! The blog is easy to find on a Yahoo search, but this was a google search. I have tried every conceivable phrasing of my name and my site in google searches, but I never find it. But "Jessica Alba Derek Jeter Strip Club" makes number 12.
And I can only imagine this mentioning of them yet again will bump me up on the list.
My last two posts are long. If you don't want to read them, save some time and just read this one.
Barney's Fifth Marcus
It had been awhile. A very long time. I thought I was getting soft as I was getting older. But then it all came rushing back to me today, and it felt great. It was almost like the feeling never left, yet at the same time the absence made it's return all the sweeter. I was back to hating rich people.
I had to go into Beverly Hills for work. The 90210 is one of the most obnoxious parts of L.A. and the Wilshire-and-Rodeo section may be the rotten core. It's a highly congested neighborhood made all the more maddening by gawking tourists and dumbass rich old drivers who either refuse to make that right-hand turn or cut you off doing so. Then of course there's the liberal dosage of rude jerks you get in wealthy neighborhoods.
Not only was I forced to go to Beverly Hills - to the Wilshire-Rodeo section - but I was going specifically to Nieman Marcus. And Barney's New York. And Saks Fifth Avenue.
The men's and
I was returning clothes for the wardrobe department. In an earlier post I mentioned how I get overwhelmed in malls. How I get freaked out when I have to go into American Eagle or the Gap or, God forbid, Bloomingdale's. But Barney's? Saks? Jesus, this could only end badly.
First of all, it took me twenty-three minutes of circling the stores like a moth does a streetlamp before I found a parking lot that wasn't full. So I got pissed off at some annoying bitch who stopped in the middle of the cross walk, blocking me for awhike as she looked for her cell phone, and then was forced to drive past her three more times as I looked for parking and she chatted on the sidewalk. I finally found a garage that accepted parking validation from Saks.
My return to the Saks women's store went fine. Then back to the car for the Barney's stuff. Then into Barney's. Again, no problem. Both places were filled with well-dressed gay men and rich 45-year-old blonde women with fake boobs and a slight buzz from their martini lunch to get them through their meaningless days. Then I went to Nieman Marcus. And the bag broke. And all the clothes spilled out. And they knocked over a make-up stand. Nothing broke, but everything clattered. And all the rich people looked at me in my jeans and t-shirt with armpit stains. A manager came over and cleaned it up. He was very nice, and actually apologized to me for the Nieman's bag that broke and caused me to drop all my shit. See, I was pretty sure he knew I wasn't a real customer, but he couldn't be positive since dressing down is chic in L.A. So he had to be nice just in case. I should have played that angle for my own amusement, but I wanted to get the hell out of there as fast as I could. So I made my return and left.
Then I went to Sak's (the men's store). No escalators. I had 4 heavy
bags, all of them long dresses and suits so I had to hold them so my arms were half-raised, like in the middle of a movement I couldn't finish. And my arms were killing. And I waited for the elevator -- any 1 of the 3 would do. And waited. And waited. And it finally came. And it went down. And no one got on. And we went back up. To the first floor where I started. And the door opened and no one got on. And we went to the second floor. Where who got on? Right -- no one. And then finally to the third floor. Apparently at Sak's the elevators stop at all the floors, but they only ding!
at the floor whose button is pressed. So finally I made the return. And I went back down, stopping at each and every floor. And by now I'm cussing under my breath (shit, fuck, ass bitch, damn, piss, dick
) and I step off the elevator and head for the door.
And realize I forgot to get my parking validated.
So back up I went, checking in on each floor again, got the parking validated, and back down. And now when the elevator stopped at the second floor I lost it and hit the wall. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of this plastic, obnoxious, overbearing urine-soaked (well, not so much urine-soaked) hell-hole.
And then a gorgeous, down-to-earth-yet-really-fucking-hot brunette of unidentified exotic origin (Latina? Indian? Spanish? Italian?) got on.
And I didn't want to leave Beverly Hills. Ever.
I had a Meal Ready to Eat (MRE) for dinner last night. These are the rations they give soldiers in war. My roommate is a reporter for the Pasadena newspaper and he did a story on some Marines and they gave him one to try. So we split a spaghetti and meat sauce meal.
Aside from the spaghetti, the packet contained a slice of bread, cheese spread, powdered vanilla shake mix, tobasco sauce, instant coffee with sugar and non-dairy creamer, chewing gum, moist towelettes, a few squares of toilet paper, and a pack of Charms candy.
The first thing we did was throw away thye Charms candy. I read somewhere that Marines consider them to be bad luck and get rid of them ASAP. And in the spirit of "when in Rome..."
Next we prepared to "cook" the spaghetti. The MRE comes with a pouch of chemicals that, when in contact with water, undergoes some kind of chemical reaction and heats the food up. It takes about 10-15 minutes. This was not the first time I'd eaten an MRE. When I was a boy scout, a fellow scout's father was in the Air Force and brought us MREs to eat on a camping trip. Back then you needed to boil some water and drop the pouch in to cook the food. Oh how efficient the 21st century soldier is! Though I wish I knew what kind of chemicals they were. Every time I use a microwave I'm convinced I'm getting cancer; after eating chemically-cooked food I fear my intestines might crawl out of my ass, leave my dead intestine-less body where it lay, and attack Tokyo.
The instructions tell you to pour water in the pouch containing the chemicals and food; to hold it horizontal for 1 minute; and then rest it at an angle against a rock for 10-15 minutes. Actually, it says to set the pouch at an angle against "a rock or something." Or Something.
Do the skulls of dead Iraqis count as something I wonder?
The second I poured the water in the pouch that held the chemicals and the food I burned my fingers and lost feeling in all 5 fingertips of my left hand. There are no blisters, but nearly a day later my hand still tingles. It's kind of pleasant, actually. But it really
hurt at the time, so I dropped the pouch. Then my roommate read a caution: keep away from flames. Taking this new bit of information into account I figured it probably wasn't a good thing that I dropped the MRE on the stove. So I picked it back up and burned myself again.
I got a rock (or something) out of the backyard and propped the MRE against it. While I waited for the food to "cook" I made the vanilla shake. This involved pouring "one canteen cap full" of water into the shake mix pouch. Enemy fire was thick in the kitchen and I couldn't reach my canteen so I eyeballed it. I think. I have no
idea what a "canteen cap full" of water looks like. I don't even know what a canteen cap looks like. The shake didn't taste that bad, actually, so I either guessed correctly or was so off but the shake is really supposed to be terrible that my miscalculations proved a blessing.
But now the spaghetti and meat sauce (bolognese?) was ready. I burned my hand a third time opening the package up. Then I opened the bread, spread the cheese spread on it, held my breath, and tasted the spaghetti. It tasted like... Chef Boyardee. Just like it. It even had the same "been sitting here for 5 years" quality. And oddly, it actually tasted REALLY GOOD when I put some tobasco sauce on it. The bread was awful. I think they took so much of the nutrition out and loaded it with so many preservatives mold can't live on it.
A soldier can, though. And for one night so did I.
And by that I mean I ate it before ordering a pizza.
Goals I would like to attain
I hope to one day achieve at least one, if not all, of the following:
1) Write a manifesto
2) See a real-life liger
3) See the Buffalo Sabres win the Stanley Cup
4) Telegraph someone in Slovakia or Slovenia
5) Be #1 on someone's enemies list
Recently I was informed that this blog is, and I quote, "not
a Shakespearian play."
I am conflicted. As an American, I like to see Americans do well at the Olympics. But as a sports fan, I generally root for the underdog and like to see good competition. Now I don't know how to feel about the Men's Olympic Basketball Team losing to Italy, and how I should feel about them in the very near future (i.e. during the summer Olympics).
I mean, it's the American team. My home team. I want them to do well. But I also feel like I'm rooting for the Yankees or Lakers. Who wants to see them win again
And it may be easier to feel conflicted about the basketball team because they are professionals who make a ton of money. The Olympics aren't their main goal; neither professionally nor personally as they are for so many Olympians.
But I'm thinking about this in terms of other sports. Now, for an American swimmer or gymnast, as an athelete involved in non-mainstream sports, the Olympics are it
. The only thing that matters. I've always rooted for them wholeheartedly. But now I'm thinking the Nigerian swimmer or Peruvian shot-putter who has no
money and trains like Rocky did in Rocky IV
with carts, rocks, and felled trees -- a guy or girl who will go back to their homeland to herd goats or something so Third World I don't even know about it -- deserves my support more than an American with state-of-the-art facilities.
All in the quest for consistency in my sports ideology and the support of the underdog.
Blog is my co-pilot
Would be a good bumper sticker.
I learned today that Smarty Jones is retiring from racing. He underwent some medical tests (one of which is called a "nuclear scan"! Cool!) and some kind of problem was discovered with all four of his feet. Or hooves. So I guess he's actually being retired by his owners. I imagine his retirement will be a little more interesting than Jack Nicholson's in About Schmidt
. His owners are certain to make gobs of money as Smarty lives the life of a stud. Lucky them (owners and horse).
But all this got me thinking how awesome horses are. And how we, as a society, are well aware of their awesome-ness because we occasionally:
1) Run like them.
2) Pee like them.
3) Are hung like them.
All three phrases refer to someone's impressive prowess. Heck, we can use anything
in a simile with horses and it's assumed the human possesor of said ability or feature has it in god-like portions. If you said someone named Fred "ties their shoes like a horse," I'm sure the person you told that to would think, "Good God, that dude must be one heck of a shoe-tie-er. Like a horse? Man, that Fred must be the best shoe-tie-er of all time."
And I gotta think he would be, if he ties his shoes like a horse.
The ultimate human/horse comparison-type simile would be the "f---s like a horse" which brings us back to Smarty Jones' retirement. Horses run around until they they can't run around anymore, and then use their giant members to pee and screw for the rest of their lives. Judging by the unhappiness of most hookers, all that running around and having sex-for-money can't be that great, but still, I'm more than a little jealous of Smarty Jones as I toil at a near-unbearable job and work on a long-distance relationship.
And I suppose all the hardships and failed avenues of happiness make our successes that much more fulfilling, but I can't help but be a little jealous.
I'll have to ponder this later because right now I'm famished. I'm so hungry, I could eat a... well, a lot.
I hate my job
Beautiful Girls Bend It Like Heathers
Kiera Knightly looks exactly like Natalie Portman.
Kiera Knightly also looks exactly like Winona Ryder.
Winona Ryder and Natalie Portman do not