nobody asked…

It is an endless and frivolous pursuit to act by any other rule than the care of satisfying our own minds in what we do.

– Richard Steele, Writer (1672 - 1729)

[NOTE: That is libertarian with a lower case “l”.]

The second third worst thing about an annual physical exam is the fasting overnight with nothing to eat or drink before you stumble into the lab to make a major donation of blood and urine. I just got out of the clinic and am heading for the closest donut shop or Waffle House, whichever comes first.

Doc Sam shook his head disapprovingly when he could find nothing wrong with me, and muttered something to the effect that I might live another year. Medical school and years of practice, practice, practice have not equipped him to understand how a 60-some year old man in as bad a shape as I am in can have nothing wrong with him. Nothing findable at least. I get the feeling he would like to do a full body cadaver slicing on me to try to find something buried deep inside that he could point to and scream in glee, “Aha!”

The first-worst thing is the gloved and jellied finger up the butt. I swear this gives doctors some low-level perverted pleasure. But Doc Sam seemed defeated when he said, “Hmmm … prostate feels fine.” Last year he said I had the prostate of a 27 year old. Hmmm… I’ve gone from 27 year old to fine in 12 short months. Does this signal a decline?

The second worst thing is when he grabs me by the family jewels and matter of factly says, “Turn your head and cough.” Damn, right I’ll cough. And if you squeeze the toys one more time, I’m gonna have to whap you upside the head, Doc.

OK, the blood letting and peeing in a bottle are over, got the KY cleaned off me arse, and my coughing spell has subsided. Now I’m off to find the donuts…

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Laid back cool while tripping on a reality distortion field. Yeah, I’ll take that. Certainly fits me better than Ishtar, Meatballs 4, or Snow White. Now this begs the obvious question: Am I Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, or Jack Nicholson? If it’s my choice, I’ll go with big Jack. Here we are, 38 years after the film was released, and there is still no cooler dude walking, young or old, than Jack Nicholson. And the older he gets, the cooler he is. Just my opinion…

[Flip of my mane, blowing and flowing in the wind, to Elsie and Liz.]

As I sit here staring out at the misty rain engulfing Nashville, some of the best minds on the planet are enroute from diverse locations to a convergence at a place known only as The Compound near Etowah in the hills of East Tennessee. This conclave will party labor together over the weekend with an objective of consuming copious quantities of the region’s finest ’shine exploring paths to global peace and prosperity through culinary and gastronomic channels. The summit was convened by The High Holy Priest of Drinking with Blog Buddies a man known to all as Eric, The Straight White Guy, and his lovely Scot Missus. Attending dignitaries, their bodily pleasure companions, and security guards will drink, eat and bullshit enough to sate all. Prior to their Sunday departure, voting members will adopt a blueprint for solving all the world’s crises. Watch CNN for details as they become known. Well, at least catch a wrap later at Eric’s site.

While my offerings would pale in the blinding glow of such luminaries, it pains me arse severely that I had to RSVP with regrets. Having recently met, dined and drank with Eric and Missus, and having known several of the other ambassadors through their good works, I would give Jimbo’s left ball plus $10.47 to be in the presence of this distinguished assemblage of magnates of mélange.

Y’all hoist a pint or three for ol’ Winston as Bou leads you in chanting some incoherent babble about Elisson for President.

On Tuesday, Tom Miller, the dumbass incumbent Mayor of Franklin, TN, was stunningly defeated by longtime school board chairman John Shroer, who received 63% of the vote. Miller got only 35%, losing by almost a 2-to-1 margin.

After the resounding defeat, Miller was reported to have said, “All this means is that God doesn’t want me to be mayor.” Would someone tell this fool that God doesn’t vote in Franklin — it’s the people — the voters — who don’t want him to be mayor.

Originality is the fine art of remembering what you hear but forgetting where you heard it. — Laurence J. Peter

Sometimes I think I have an open mind. Other times I realize it is just vacant property. The tiring stress of work at work and work at home and my Tennessee Vols losing and the stupid weather and did I mention work and the natural erosion of aging, have all conspired to dull me senses and drain me brain. Synaptic explosions are more like dull thuds. Thoughts have no discernable pattern, and when I finally think one does, it splats and runs like a sunny side up egg thrown against the wall. Sure, I have copious notes and outlines for posts that will thrill and mesmerize my readers for hours on end. In the future. But not today. Today I am a veritable tabula rasa, so I went stumbling around in the dark for an idea that would not exacerbate the simple minded state I find myself fast approaching. Where do the simple of mind go for entertainment? I have no clue, but I went to Elisson’s and found this; he got it from Verbatim, his alleged Blogmamma, whatever that is.

Grab the nearest book and answer the following questions:

Title and Author:

The Art of Amazement: Judaism’s Forgotten Spirituality by Rabbi Alexander Seinfeld

Is the book dedicated to anyone? If so, whom?

Dedicated in honor of a beloved Bubbe (Grandmother)
V’rachok mip’nimim michra….Her value is far greater than pearls.
Proverbs 31:10

and in memory of three grandparents

Charles Chester Goodman

Lester Seinfeld

Sylvia Seinfeld

What is the first sentence?

Try to remember the most spectacular sunset you ever saw.

Turn to page 47. Please share the first sentence of the first full paragraph.

Could another delicate planet like ours exist in the universe, or are we alone?

OK. Easy enough. For even the likes of me. It is not yet clear what we have accomplished here, but I invite all of you to join in the simple minded fun.

Twenty-eight was a wonderful age. Being recently stripped of any meaningful assets by divorce, my pockets were usually empty, but I had enough to have fun and enjoy life without developing any seriously expensive habits. Just enough to get by on. One end of my apartment was a glass wall that framed the balcony, giving a view of a large wooded city park. It had the feel of living outdoors. I had friends who had been good to me, a good job with a promising future in a Fortune 50 company, a decent component stereo system with an excellent colletion of LPs, made to sound better than it was by the absence of sound absorbing and reflecting furniture. I had none. An old card table and four folding chairs, home-made shelves for the stereo equipment, a roll-up mattress on the floor for sleep and other activities. That was it. Life was good.

Sipping my morning wakeup coffee and having the first glorious cigarette of the day, it slowly seeped into my emerging consciousness that something was not quite right. My mouth and tongue felt … funny. Hard to describe, but just … different. Oh, well, it was 6:30 in the damn morning. Another coffee and cigarette and it will be fine.

I shuffled/stumbled to the bathroom for my daily 4S ritual (for those not in the know, that is shit, shave, shower, and shampoo), stopping to check my mouth in the mirror. “HOLY SHIT!” Read more

No matter what side of the argument you are on, you always find people on your side that you wish were on the other. — Jascha Heifetz

This is for all the lucky folks who will be gathering next weekend at Eric’s compound in the wilds of East Tennessee for the World’s Largest Blogmeet and Cocktail Party. As internal lubrication is applied and classic folderol unfolds, lively games of fierce competition are likely to unfold. As I understand it, these activities might range from the sedate (sitting around drinking and arguing about whatever) to the more rigorous manly excursions like shooting (the shit, pool or (gasp…) firearms), and male plumage strutting.

So, brave boys and girls, as you engage in activities requiring the choosing of sides, remember this one-liner and be forewarned — not all teammates are created equal. Eric and Missus, best wishes for a delightfully divine dip into decadence. Damn, I wish I could be there. Maybe next year… Hey, y’all tip a glass or three for me…

In a comment to my previous post about Mutant Tits in Wales, frequent visitor Elsie said she was going to post about the mutant wood pecker lurking around [her] yard just to see if [I would] give him equal time. Well, boys and girls, you all know that ol’ Winston is deep into equal time, always striving to be fair. And something as perversely weird as a mutant pecker is not likely to be ignored by this observer of life.

Elsie’s comment had a sort of tongue-in-cheek, sassy challenge kind of tone to it, so I decided to get ahead of the curve by mentioning that this feature story is coming, even before it opens in a theater near you. So, how is that for a jump-start on the equality thang, Elsie?

[UPDATE: Just “fixed” the non-existent link that wasn’t there and therefore didn’t work. Sorry, Elsie. Forgive me? 10/19/07, 7:45 PM CDT]

Welsh reporter Liz Hinds writes that a rare mutant tit has been observed. She presents a graphic description along with photographic evidence. Be one of the first to share in this titillating discovery that is sure to bring addititional credibilitity to the blog communitity.

Nope, that’s not snoring in Czech. Nor the name of a new miracle drug guaranteed to line your digestive tract with a durable and pliable coating in your choice of designer colors. This strange word showed up in my Page-A-Day Trivia Calendar a couple of days back.

A zyzzyx is a small wasp that gets its name from the sound it makes while flying. From my in-depth research, I also discovered that this little bugger must be indigenous to Chile. Most of the information I found was written in a Chilean dialect of Spanish, so I learned to make use of the Google translator. It did a good enough job that I could kinda, sorta decipher what it was trying to tell me.

Wikipedia has this to say:

Zyzzyx is a monospecific genus of sand wasp, containing a brightly-colored, medium-sized species, Z. chilensis, named after the sound they make while flying. They were first studied in detail by H. Janvier (a.k.a. Claude-Joseph) in 1928, more than 100 years after they were first described.

They are primarily predators on flies, but have been observed to consume skippers.

So, next time you are in Chile and a smallish wasp buzzes you looking for flies while making a sound like zizz-zix, you can confidently point to it and say, “Wasp.”

Now that I have your attention, gentlemen and ladies , may I direct your attention to an introduction you dare not miss. Yes, gridiron nuts, lovers of female beauty, and perverts of all denominations, I’m talking about the disrobing of the Titans Cheerleaders 2007 - 2008 Calendar. Here are a few dozen shots from the unveiling party for your esthetic drooling pleasure.

Bump of the helmet to Dan…

I cry for my country. I cry for our way of life. I cry for lost freedoms. I cry for what was and what could have been — for what almost was. I cry for the shameless degradation of our civil liberties. I cry that that our founders dreams and wishes have been shredded and thrown out. I cry because all this has happened and there is no one with power to stop it who will. I cry for you and for me. I cry…

[Adapted from a comment left by Winston on a post by Frank Paynter, 10/11/07.]