Book Me a Spot on Larry King Live for Next Week

I just got the strangest fortune cookie at Khan’s Mongolian BBQ.

I’ve always said that if I were a homicide detective in Cabot Cove, Maine I would follow Angela Lansbury’s ass around 24/7 and just wait for the cases to fall into your lap.

So, Newscoma, you might want to come shadow me for awhile. I’m just sayin’…

Blogging is Sorta Like Sex…

If you go without doing it for too long, you start to get uptight about not doing it and worrying about whether it’ll be good enough when you actually do do it again and whether anyone will ever want you to do it again so you finally decide to just get off your ass and do it again and when you do it’s usually pretty sloppy and over too quickly.

Bru-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-ce!

In yet another example of egosurfing, apparently Bruce Jenner has found a reference to himself on NewsComa’s blog and left a short comment. The only celebrities to grace the comment section here at thedryspot.net have been George Goldtrap and the children of Bob Lobertini. We’re certainly not talking A-listers here.

Being the suspicious mind that I am, (I’m caught in a trap. I can’t walk out.) I clicked through the link on Bruce’s comment to verify his identity at his website. That’s where I came across this:

Holy crap, Bruce! Botox much? Which part of that word doesn’t scare you? BOtulism or TOXin?

The Artist Formerly Known as Big Brother

Well, it finally happened. I got my first “Cease and desist” request regarding my internet content. Yeah, I’m banned in China and apparently thedryspot.net is rated PG-13, but I never thought I would piss off his Royal Badness, Prince.

The YouTube video that I posted from our New Years Eve in Vegas has been taken down. Apparently, The Purple One has been on a rampage to protect the copyrights of all usage of his music and image in the intertubez. He’s taken it to the point where he’s gone after a short video of an 18 month old baby dancing while “Let’s Go Crazy” plays in the background. Scheming little pirate baby!

But the video I shot wasn’t of Prince. It was of Morris Day. And it actually wasn’t even Morris day. It was a Morris Day impersonator! And he wasn’t even singing any lyrics. He was dancing!

This whole thing brings to mind another little clip I found on YouTube.

Help I’m Being Repressed!

Crappy Birthday to You!

If you’re gonna mess up my desk by putting sprinkles on top of your cupcakes, they should at least taste like something. Paper confetti icing. Feh.

And don’t get me started about those people that put mylar confetti balloons and palm trees and 40’s and dollar signs in the envelope with their party invitations to shower your cubicle when you rip it open. Unless you’re coming behind with a Dyson to clean that crap up, don’t even bother!

/curmudgeonish rant

They’re Funny Little Bastards

My online Bank of America tries to automatically categorize my credit card expenses for year-end reporting purposes.  I used my Visa to buy tickets to the Kids in the Hall show at the Ryman in May.

They showed up on my statement as “Child/Dependent Expenses.”  Heh, I never knew I had five cross-dressing comedian sons.

I love my little cabbage-head, chicken-lady, head-crushing Lopez boys.  29 out of 30 Helens agree.

Like the Swallows to Capistrano

After a long winter’s nap, my trusty Murray lawnmower started right up on the first pull of the starter rope.

Damn, there goes that excuse.

Well, That Didn’t Last Long

It only took one car trip to Sewanee for my brand spankin’ new Camry Hybrid to go from “that new car smell” to “that gassy, wet dog with a side order of Arby’s curly fries smell.”

It was nice while it lasted.

T for Texas. T for Hil-La-Reeeee.

Like Punxsutawney Phil seeing his shadow, I’m afraid we’re in for six more weeks of this crap.

I think I’ll follow the lead of our fuzzy little groundhog buddy and crawl back into my warm, dark den until it’s over.

Wake me when they get to Denver.

Preventable Anguish

I know some people are allergic to the egg medium that flu vaccines come in, but not getting a $20 flu shot because you heard from somebody that it doesn’t cover every strain of influenza is like not wearing your seatbelt because you’re worried that it won’t protect you if you drive off a bridge and get stuck in 500 feet of water.  It’s worth the risk.

I don’t wish the agony of the flu on anyone, but the rest of us that have to cover for you when you’re out sick would like you to please go to Walgreen’s next year.

A Few Questions to All the Panicky Peoples Out There in Blogland

Think back if you can to the last day of March 2007.

• Was your throat tight?
• Did you feel as if the world was collapsing in on you?
• Were you worried that the global economy was going to wash away your home like some financial tsunami?
• Did you feel like you needed a bailout and that everyone else in America earning less than $75K per year probably needed one too?
• Did you actively make plans to abandon your 401K at work and bury your money in mason jars in the back yard?

The Dow Jones Industrials closed 25 points higher today than it did on March 30, 2007. Quit freaking out and get back to work. Go out and buy something made in America. But don’t pay for it out of your home equity.

It’s that simple.

Mea Culpa From the Fed

to: The World Economy

from: Ben Barnanke

Oops, sorry about that. My bad. Next time I’ll try to act a little sooner before I send the global markets into a tailspin. Sorry about all those Krugerrands down the crapper.

Your friend,

Ben

p.s. Can I please borrow a cup of crude oil?

A Sad State of Affairs

I’m ready for Christmas.  By that, I mean I’ve done all my shopping and wrapped all the presents and helped to decorate the house.  (OK, I hung up the tall stuff.  RUABelle did everything else.)

But I haven’t wrapped my head around that it is actually next Tuesday.  The sad part is, I’m so far behind at work I’m a little disappointed that we won’t be open Monday and Tuesday so that I can make some progress at getting caught up.  This holiday is definitely sneaking up on me like a truck windshield on a junebug.

Also frightening is the fact that I’m going to the Titans Jets game with the DogDoc, Knuck and Ryan.  And it’s a 3:15 game.  In the middle of a four day weekend.  What’s the number for Safe Ride again?  I recommend you invest in some Diageo stock.

If This is Your Grandfather or Your Uncle or Something, I Apologize…

and really, what are the odds that you would be reading The Dry Spot during your period of bereavement?

But this is some of the scariest shit I’ve seen in a long time.

Great, now Jasbo’s free to haunt my dreams forever!

Flowers=Good

That’s the best $32.77 I’ll spend this holiday season.

Thanks for the advice, folks.

A Dangerous Predicament

I have apparently lost the ability to distinguish whether RUABelle is tired, bored, depressed or pissed.

When did we replace the tile floor with eggshells?

Oh, It’s NA-Blo-Po-Mo?

I thought it was “No Blog Post Month.”  I was just following orders by laying low.

My bad.  Please carry on.

Those Wacky Stanford Kids

I just got back from a visit to my alma mater. The student body has always been known for their free-spirited sense of humor.

But you should never let them name anything.

In the 1970’s, in an attempt to distance themselves from the racially charged “Indians” sports team nickname, the students were polled four separate times to come up with a new mascot. The first two suggestions were rejected as being disrespectful of the school’s founder, Leland Stanford. So we weren’t “The Robber Barons” or “The Drunken Welshmen.” The students were then encouraged to come up with something more unique that might represent an aspect of campus life. So they selected “The Steaming Manhole Covers.” Nobody could see that rolling off of Keith Jackson’s tongue, so it too was rejected. Finally, the students were encouraged to consider Stanford’s proud athletic heritage and maybe use a nickname associated with the sports program. They opted for the nickname of the offensive line that blocked for Jim Plunkett in the 1971 Rose Bowl. Could we actually be “The Thunder Chickens?”

Alas, it was not meant to be. The administration finally took the decision out the student body’s hands and did what it usually did during the first 75 years of Stanford’s existence. They copied Harvard. They’re “The Crimson.” We’re “The Cardinal.” Blech.

But of late, they have allowed students to name the dormitories and modular buildings where they live and work. So behold some examples of what the best and the brightest can do when they are given a modicum of freedom.

Yes, on the shores of Lake Lagunita, (literally “Lake Little Lake”) are student residences named Jerry (after Garcia), Narnia (after the fantasy kingdom) and The Enchanted Broccoli Forest (after a cookbook.)

As a senior, I was the Resident Assistant in the American Studies theme house, which was formally known as “Robert Moore House South,” or informally “RoMoHoSo.” Apparently even that much has proven to be too much of a mouthful for the residents, so they simply renamed it “Bob.”

It’s the house two doors down from “Xanadu.”

Finally, I walked past two trailers which housed the offices of some environmental engineering grad students.

“Bambi.” Aww, how sweet and bucolic for a bunch of tree-hugger types. Of course, you know what had to be right next door.

Where I’ve Been Stuck for the Past Two Weeks

I believe this officially puts me somewhere between the sixth and seventh circle of Hell.

Somebody toss me a Bush Hog and I’ll get the heck out of here.

Am I Just Missing Something Here…

…Or couldn’t just xerox the same couple of Sudokus and do them over and over? It’s not like I remember where the numbers go or anything.

Just curious.