Vision? Nary!

It is true that in these days of budget cutting there is still money in pampering pets.
Effective immediately, I hereby announce I am available to read poetry to your pets.
My original plan was to make myself available to read poetry to your dogs. After carefully considering my business plan I have broadened this from “dogs” to the more generic “pets.” Who am I to deny the love of poetry to your cats, birds, and snapping turtles? My business is inclusive rather than exclusive.

It is only natural that I would eventually strike out in this direction. For years dogs have looked at me as if I were about to read poetry to them. They would stare at me quietly, tilt their head to one side, and wait expectantly. I don’t know why I didn’t take this clue and begin reading poetry to them spontaneously years ago. I guess it’s because I wasn’t being paid.

My services do not stop at poetry either. While it is true I do not bathe, clip, or walk pets; I do read things to them other than poetry. I also specialize in reading, for the benefit of animals, works of existential philosophy and biographies of great physicists.
Why not pamper your pet with the works of Friedrich Nietzsche, Soren Kierkegaard, or the autobiography of Richard Feynman? You’ll be glad you did.

There is also another niche market I am eager to exploit. I am available, immediately, to read the Bible to your pets. I wish to assert that I do this at quite a reasonable price, since, after all, we’re talking about your pets soul here. And, it’s really a job you should be doing, indoctrinating your pet into your faith. But I am glad to be here to help.
Again, my prices are reasonable, and, optionally, you can choose to have me read to them your entire holy book or pick and choose what you want your pet to believe.

Franchising opportunities available.

http://www.plazm.com/blog

Where Bishop Patrick crossed the street
An X now marks the spot.
The light of God was with him,
But the traffic light was not.

- Yip Harburg,
lyricist, “Somewhere over the rainbow” “Brother can you spare a dime?”

Love thy neighbor as thyself.
Put that motto on the shelf.
Let it lie there sitting idle.
Especially if you’re suicidal.

No matter how high or great the throne,
What sits on it is the same as your own.

The ball is in your court

My testicles look exactly like Osama bin Laden’s. Some people find this hard to believe, but it’s true. It is a terrible burden. Even just telling people, the look on their faces, they judge.

Some do ask how I know of this resemblance. They are trying to reassure me. To correct what they believe is a baseless assumption. I wish it were.
I know all too well what Osama bin Laden’s testicles look like. I’ve seen a line drawing that once hung at the local post office, a product of a zealously thorough Department of Homeland Security, who left no bush unturned.
As soon as I saw it… I recognized it immediately.
It was as familiar as the back of my hand.

The intent of Homeland Security was to use the drawing to prove a resemblance to Hitler. However, this resemblance is poor.
Hitler had only one testicle, while both Osama and I have two. I wish the comparison stopped there.
Otherwise, we do not look alike. Thank God.

Only under the closest of scrutiny do I resemble a terrorist. This has not stopped my being singled out for closer scrutiny at airports (I lost a jar of hazelnut cream at Schiphol), or being stopped in Washington State for walking. The officer in question at the latter incident actually said something about terrorism, and I swear he kept looking at my crotch, though I dared not mention it at the time.
Still, such occurrences are rather rare. For the most part I walk around undetected and unmolested. I think you need to see the drawing in question to draw the conclusion (In this way, it is a drawing of a drawing). Once you do, it is self evident.

I do have to say, given the large difference in our ages, the comparison serves only to flatter Mr. bin Laden. He has the testicles of a man many decades younger than himself.
Could this drawing be an archival rendering?
Am I being tormented by out-of-date intelligence?
I am not ordinarily outraged, but this is outrageous. Homeland Security has refused to clarify in any way.

Again, in daily life this does not come up. As long as I remain quiet.

I worry about the new scanners they want at the airport. The ones that see through clothes. That reveal the hidden. That necessarily compare me to Mr. bin Laden.
I may have to avoid air transport altogether and this is unfair.

And what of others?
Do your private parts resemble those of a person of interest?
Have you really looked?

Featuring expert testimony.

The Maria Bamford Christmas Special.

Dear Del Monte,

I do not require my sliced peaches to come with “Rasberry Flavoring.” It is not necessary for my fruit to taste of other fruits. Just so there is no confusion, I did not ask for this.
I fear your focus group study may have been conducted amongst only people who either hate the taste of peaches or love the taste of rasberries, perhaps some mix of both.
Whether this is the result of lobbying from the makers of “Natural Flavorings” is likely a matter that will never become fully clear.

In 1998 I was outraged when Tropicana added artificial sweetner to fruit juice. It is with some distaste that I must also now inform you I do not require my fruit to be so sweetened. I find that fruit comes pre-sweetened. It generally requires no additional sweetening. In those instances when it does (rare though they are) I would prefer non-artificial sweetening. Adding artificial sweetner to fruit is akin to mixing real fruit with waxed. It does not fool anyone and only serves to make you (Del Monte, Inc.) look like a fool.

I wrote a similar letter of concern to Tropicana at that time. I do not think I have to remind you that eleven years later their stock prices plummeted. I am not suggesting that correlation implies causality. I’m simply asking you to stop trying to make one food taste like another food. It will come to no good.

I saw The Coen Brother’s film “A Serious Man” last night and was pleased when I saw that linguistics professor and standup comic Ari Hoptman had a part in the film. I have long enjoyed and promoted his album “Dang! The Schtick of Ari Hoptman.”

Here is some of his work:

Sunday nights at Traditions Cafe throat singers congregate in a circle. The lights are dim. It’s after hours. At one point a couple half open the door and a woman is heard saying, “Are they open?” to her companion, but they wordlessly beat a hasty retreat when they see the only people gathered inside are a small group making unusual noises.

This was the January meeting of throat singers and potential throat singers. For the uninitiated, throat singing seems to be all about “overtones,” and is comprised of odd sounds emanating from the throat.
This was the first of what are planned to be monthly meetings occurring on the first sunday of every month.
Attendees ranged widely in age. Some were very experienced and some not very experienced at all. A few were involved in local bands where they used throat singing mixed with various flavors of rock music, and occasionally foreign languages.

“Ventricular folds – starting from a growl,” coached Michael, the facilitator.
“If you do it for over an hour, it’s gonna itch, you’re gonna cough. The next day, better. Then you don’t notice it so much.”
“You do it for hours and you drink hot tea,” said Heather Duke, singer in the local band Mater Mut.

Throat singing sometimes sounds like electronic music à la Raymond Scott electronic experiments, with the sound produced naturally rather than by machine. It is also reminiscent of an instrument known as the Jew’s Harp; with its vibrating, repeating sounds.

“Pythagorus was into this – deriving the overtones, the harmonics of sound.” said one participant.
Another participant suggested the sounds of goats and the room practiced singing based on the bleating of goats. Later, the various cultural methods of goat slaughter were discussed.

For later meetings instrumental accompaniment was promised, particularly stringed instruments. There was a jam session following this meeting with the addition of a small metal bowl. The bowl was struck with a small tool and produced a tone that altered as the tool was manipulated around the bowl. A fountaining effect was discussed which occurs when the bowl is filled with water, resulting in the water bubbling and spraying up.

“Growling is a wonderful way to get started. Growling and grunting,” said Michael.
“It will take you into some ecstatic states,” added Heather.

These green jelly beans actually taste green.
I don’t know how they do it! The wonders of food science. I like to think no expense was spared.

Are the green jelly beans not ripe yet; or have they gone bad?
Or, are the green jelly beans the taste of envy?

Are they environmental? Do companies produce them only to prove they are earth friendly?
For better economy are some of these environmentally green jelly beans actually purple jelly beans painted green with lead-based paint from China?
Do the painted ones taste better than the natural ones? Do they taste more authentic?
Because they are now what you grew up on? What you expect?

Arthur C. Clarke is now obsolete.

A poem for new year 2010:

Wiffleball dodging ’till waffle time.
Green absinthe and sugar cubes.
Pistachio nuts in Japanese bowls.
Salty goodness. New year.

Monkeys went to space first. Monkeys do everything first. I have monkey envy.
I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.

They named that suit after them. You know the one.

People sometimes monkey around; the reverse is never true.
Monkeys have nothing to prove.
There is monkey business and there is plain business; they are vastly different beasts.

RE: Monkey Business

There are various monkeys that must all be accounted for. There is the Cheeky Monkey, The Clever Monkey, The Curious Monkey, The Monkey on Your Back, The Monkey Shines, The Monkey Around, The Brass Monkey, The Monkey See, Monkey Do, & Monkey Hear, The Barrel Monkey, & The Monkey Wrench.

As always, more monkeys are constantly being discovered.

Planned birth children are entirely too smug. Those non-bastards.

Santa’s wife on him about goofing off the rest of the year.
Alex Moskwa: “Santa, why aren’t you out there enforcing your trademarks?”
Beware. Elf Lawyers are viciously litigious.

Attempt to sleep the whole day failed at 11 AM. My fault. I did not train enough.

I have ingredients to make Gingerbread Men.
And the requisite man cutter.
I suppose any knife qualifies as a “man cutter.”

Christmas Eve Dinner of Steel Cut Oats. Evidently I live in a Charles Dickens Novel.

How come I can’t wear a pope hat? Is it unfashionable, like the Toothbrush mustache?

Why are fundamentalist Christians bad at math? Because they can only count to three.
And even then the calculations are often questionable.

When atheists invite you to Christmas, no ulterior motives. Also, no church. Hurrah!

Danger is the only thing I flirt with. Danger is very receptive.

Older lady backed into me in the supermarket parking lot, 6:20. Wouldn’t have happened if I were in a dirigible. Let the new decade bring the return of dirigibles.
The skies full of personal dirigibles by 2020.
How will it look in 20/20 hindsight? Oh, the humanity.

– http://twitter.com/David_Raffin

Woman almost runs me over @4:45. Stops about an inch from my body. Glares at me like she wasn’t gunning it through a red light without looking before she speeds off with tires screeching. Into the oncoming darkness!

As we know, it was my force of will that stopped that vehicle. I worry, then, not for me, but for those who journey and cannot stop heavy objects with the power of their will.
Perhaps you all need protective personal outfits like gerbil balls.

It will look pretty from above, via dirigible.