Utterly Unrelated Non Sequiturs

(Non sequiturs are unrelated by definition, so perhaps the title to this piece also qualifies.)

(You have to know by now that any piece of mine beginning with a parenthetical is likely to be trouble. I don't suppose you'll find this one to be any less than what you might expect.)

I've finished the clean-up project. The sidebar has been denuded and...

(Before we go any further, or farther, or mother, and I promise that's the last time I'll ever use that joke, an aside to Nick: I go to your site and get a warning that you might be trying to infect me with hideous viruses. I have no idea concerning the truth of that warning, and perhaps I have an overly sensitive computer, but that's why your link has now become part of the past. Sorry! You might want to look into that...)

... and I have also cleaned out much of the rubbish from my past postings. I got rid of 45 or 50 of the things, and everything that remains is something of which I am not embarrassed. That may speak volumes concerning my discretion, but it's the stone cold truth. Meanwhile, however, even those things I've permanently deleted had a thing or two in them I wanted to save. This, O Unwitting Victim, is where I'm saving them. What follows are lines and paragraphs lifted from the past postings I'm shitcanning.

(Yes, I am so ego-driven that I can't bear to part with a few random sentences that lived within my worst pieces. Shoot me now and save yourself future pain.)

This will not make any sense, linearly speaking, but I suppose you've already gathered that.

Enjoy (or a reasonable facsimile thereof.)

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Great money-making idea! Manufacture 51-Star American Flags. Be ready to corner the market once Puerto Rico comes around. Or Iraq.

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So, now my mouth is a bit dry, since I'm holding a big wad of cotton in one area of it, but other than that, all is well. This does makes one wonder what God had in mind when intelligently designing teeth, though. Does pain in teeth really serve a useful purpose, other than to force either prayer or curses from your mouth? Obviously, one knows to get something fixed when there is pain, but people have been experiencing tooth pain for longer than there have been the tools and techniques to cure that pain. In days of yore, pain meant you pulled the tooth, period. Wouldn't it have made better design sense to just forgo the pain and let them rot out?

Teeth don't make a great argument for evolutionary theory, either. If evolution were fact, wouldn't our teeth have evolved to the point where they would be expected to last, without repair, until we were dead? OK, most of the damage done to teeth is probably self inflicted, what with sugar and crummy oral hygiene habits, but evolution should take those things into account. Where's the evolution complaint desk?

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Or manufacture 49-Star American Flags. Get South Dakota to secede.

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I've known Fred since our days working together in South Boston, at Blake & Rebhan (an office supply company.) We bonded rather thoroughly at the first office Christmas party we both attended, when we found out that we were both Deep Purple freaks. After a few drinks we were singing "Highway Star" at the top of our lungs, a cappella, to the "delight" of the rest of the partygoers. Since then, we've played ball together on two different teams and gone to many a metal concert, sometimes even when there wasn't any concert.

Let me explain. On two different occasions, we showed up at concerts and there wasn't anyone playing. Once it was Ozzy Osbourne. Unbeknownst to us, Ozzy had cancelled due to illness, but there we were driving into whatever they were calling The Tweeter Center in those days (perhaps "The Tweeter Center") and wondering why there were so few cars in the parking lot. Another time, we headed to Providence to see AC/DC, and when we got there we found a parking space just about a half-block from the auditorium. Again, we wondered why we were so lucky. Turns out we had shown up a week earlier than the date on the tickets. I was totally annihilated, too. Fred pretty much had to pour me back into the car and, so it wouldn't be a total loss, we trucked on back to Dorchester and enjoyed some Chinese food, including an infamous Char Sue Din, which looked pretty much the same later on that night, at home, when it appeared again. I can barely type it without getting sick. Ah, good times!

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Combination Cream Cheese/Spackle, in case you get hungry on the job or feel like patching some drywall during brunch.

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Since I have nothing better to write about, I'm going to tell you what CDs I'm currently listening to in my car. Oh, boy!

(Hey, if you've got nothing better to do with your time than read me, you've got no right to complain.)

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One-time-use disposable cats!

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If Prokofiev had been born in 1956 in Detroit, instead of 1891 in St. Petersburg, Russia, and he had dropped some acid, he would have been the white Jimi Hendrix.

(That's the type of statement nobody can easily dispute. It contains no facts, other than the dates, and supposes something that was utterly impossible during the person's real life. I don't really believe it, but what the hell. I felt like saying something totally ridiculous and that works as well as anything else.)

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Book: 101 Ways To Decorate Your Apartment With Nosehair.

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(Being a bass player, I love extended bass solos. However, some people consider them the musical equivalent of waiting for your number to be called at the registry of motor vehicles. Being a bass player, I hope those people's eyes rot out.)

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Deep-fat-fried liver-on-a-stick. Confectioner's sugar drizzle optional.

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What can I say about AC/DC that hasn't already been said about slamming a baseball bat into your kidneys repeatedly?

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A 56-slice toaster would save time by making a week's worth of toast for a family of 4 all at once!

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Have you have ever tried to Google yourself? I've done it quite often. This is because I'm an egotistical moron. You already knew that, though, so let's move on.

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I think I know how to make my fortune. Personal Blimps!

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He is rude, crude, obnoxious, filthy, an egomaniac, and one extremely funny and talented sonovabitch. In his particular niche of the writing world, he is incomparable. To paraphrase a quote once written about Twain, he is the Lincoln of his literature. Of course, he writes about wrestling - not a whole heck of a lot of budding Hemingways or Steinbecks in that crowd - so it's sort of like being the world's tallest midget.

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De Gustibus Non Est Disputatum, as my grandfather used to say before he learned English.

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About as much fun as a do-it-yourself colostomy kit.

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The thing is, these questionnaires give you choices, such as African-American, Asian, Hispanic, etc., and the choice for white folk like me is Caucasian. Now which one of us white folk made such a stink about being called white that we now have no other identity on these things than Caucasian? I don't remember anyone being particularly upset at being called white. As a matter of fact, I recall it being rather stylish at one point.

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I had someday planned on fleshing this whole thing out into a book that people could pass around at parties after they got sufficiently boozed up to the point where they think such things are fun, but I'm using it here because I'm fresh out of ideas today and it will fill lots of space.

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I have a feeling this will be about as successful a career path as that home study course I took to become a mohel, but only time will tell.

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(Well, I could drive into work expressly to post something, but then everybody here would know that I'm a lunatic, whereas right now they only suspect it. Likewise, I could go to the public library and use one of their computers, but I like to use those to access pornography and make drug deals, and I don't want to leave any sort of a trail that the feds could use to track me down later.)

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Finally, if you really feel the need to waste a shitload of time, you could always go here, but you should be a mature audience, it says. Of course, if you were a mature audience, then why the heck would you be wasting your time reading me?

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As you may know, I do professional voice-work. Here's something MY WIFE told me while we were dating, and which still tickles me. She said that every time I phoned her, early in our relationship, she thought she had just won something. For the briefest of moments, before she recognized who it was on the phone, she always thought it was some disc jockey. She thought he was calling to tell her that her name had been drawn as the winner in a radio contest of some sort.

Whatever success I've had as a voice talent, or whatever rejections my voice may have received from possible clients, I know that it accomplished this one tremendously fun thing. And that's enough for a lifetime.

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Well, shove a toy surprise up my ass and call me Crackerjack!

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My knowledge concerning electrical things is limited to shaking a broken light bulb and listening to the filament rattle about.

(Why do we do that? We take a non-working bulb from a socket, shake it, and when we hear the filament bouncing inside it, we nod our heads. What would we do if we didn't hear the filament? Screw the bulb back in and expect it to work because it didn't meet our rigid standards of brokenness?)

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Baseball fans who say that baseball games take too long are not baseball fans. It's like a guy saying that he's in love with someone but he wishes he didn't have to spend so much damn time with her.

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I'm thinking that's as good a place to stop as any.

Soon, with more better stuff.