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Any law which violates the inalienable rights of man is essentially unjust and tyrannical; it is not a law at all. - Maximilien Robespierre A Violently Executed Feed BUY SOME STUFF, MAKE ME HAPPY Contact me. Links and stuff Handshake Bloggers Damn Good Music
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Sunday, November 30, 2003
Something rotten in the state of Massachusetts And I ain't talkin' about the Red Sox' World Series performance. Seems the Roman Catholic bishops of that fine state think the recent pro-gay-marriage ruling is a "national tragedy". What the fuck? According to these pedophile-hiding hypocrites, none of whom have never been in a loving sexual relationship, [the state high court ruling promotes] "divisions in society by villainizing as bigotry the legitimate defense of thousands of years of tradition". The lying, child-molester protecting bastards then went on to blather, "Marriage is a gift of God ... it is not just one lifestyle among many". Yeah, right. I suppose pedophilia is A-OK, as long as a priest in involved, eh? Here's what pisses me off: these assbags played a shell game with priests they KNEW were molesting children in their parishes. They KNEW these guys were doing it, and they told the kids and their families they'd go to hell if they told anyone, then quietly reassigned the priests to other parishes, where they could do the same. They condoned the destruction of who knows how many lives just to make sure their gravy train didn't get derailed. They got off scot-free - no jail time for these Servants Of God, nosirree. Aiding and abetting criminals only counts if you're an average joe, not if you get to wear a fancy hat and robes. They did all this (and I pass blame all the way up to the fucking pope on this one), and they have the gall to say that homosexual marriage is wrong? Just more of the shit that makes me think we need to cull large portions of our planet's population. As far as I'm concerned, the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church can J.D.A.. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 4:22:00 PM   Woot! Alec's started rolling over. Guess it's time to start baby-proofing everything. New comics this week: JLA/Avengers #3 - Kurt Busiek, George Perez. Good stuff - the cover is a great trivia contest for geeks like me. El Cazador #3 - Chuck Dixon - CHUCK FUCKIN' DIXON - and pirates. Need I say more? 1602 #4 - Neil Gaiman. The plot thickens, and I'm still in love with the woodcut stylings on the cover of each issue. Fables #19 - I'm a big Bill Willingham fan, so this comic rocks my world. It's available in trades, so I urge you to go buy it. New Justice League cartoon last night - they're doing some good stuff with it this season, playing with retelling some of the major events from the DC universe while at the same time giving it a unique spin. The characters are getting more complex, and I'm really enjoying the relationship between Green Lantern and Hawkgirl I'm pretty sure there was a Hal Jordan cameo in this episode. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 8:30:00 AM Saturday, November 29, 2003
Happy I am, me By last night, my fast, combined with lots of peppermint and the recuperative powers of time, had brought me to the point that I was able to eat and actually enjoy it. We had a few friends over for a Post Turkey Day Potluck Dinner And Game Night, and good food was shared by all. I ate a lot and drank more, which means I'm a wee bit hungover today, but I don't care, because I had fun and got to eat. The turkey enchiladas that Bethany made from Julie's recipe were especially nice, as was Melissa's turkey and rice soup. Hayden and his wife brought mashed sweet potatoes with pecan topping, which is something I don't get enough of in my life. Yup, life ain't bad right now. It's amazing how not feeling sick will do that, eh? posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 6:49:00 AM Friday, November 28, 2003
Friday 5 Courtesy of Marvin: This is Thanksgiving week in the US of A, the holiday on which immigrant Americans celebrate the poor foresight of the Native Americans who kept their Puritan forebears from starving to death. Which normally means that I could cop out and ask a question like, "Name five things you're thankful for." However, several people on this list are within driving distance of my home and are rumored to have poor impulse control, not to mention the alleged secret stockpiles of explosives and furry porn, so I'll go for something a little different: five separate questions, loosely related (just how loosely depends on how much scotch I manage to drink before I finish thinking them up). Aside: It occurs to me that these questions betray a definite Anglo-Saxon Christmas-season bias. Please feel free to recast the questions to suit your own holiday traditions. 1. You've just sat down for you favorite holiday meal and you hear a knock on the door. It's Freddie Mercury in a tight white T-shirt and a gold lame halo—he offers to sing for his supper. What song(s) do you request and why? (Not necessarily Queen songs—since Freddie joined the heavenly choir he's been expanding his repertoire.) "One Year of Love", "Killer Queen", "Bohemian Rhapsody" for starters - followed by Diamond Dogs (I'd love to hear FM's take on that Ziggy Stardust classic), and maybe round it out with a random selection of classic glam hits. 2. A certain relative or in-law so-and-so—the black sheep of the family, the one who drinks all the beer but never bothers to pay for any—shows up later in the evening. You know the one (assuming it isn't you, of course). What is his (or her, let's be fair) special talent that you secretly envy? That would be my scumbag dope-addict cousin. I suppose his ability to scam money off my grandparents without a shred of conscience or remorse would be interesting to have, but not very attractive. 3. You've been feeding the family dog beneath the table. Fido's digestive tract isn't what it used to be. Which tasty morsel was it that stank up the joint? Cordy's very vulnerable to corn-based products. I'm betting it was either the corn pudding or the cornbread stuffing. 4. Between dinner and desert one needs a pause for digestion and reflection. In what special aid to this process do you like to indulge? Madeira, port, ye olde Sheep Dip, Longbottom Leaf, or something else? This year, it was a trip to the can. In the past, I've preferred a glass of red wine and (when I was still doing so) a cigarette. 5. It's time for dessert. You've pudding and hard sauce but no brandy to set the former on fire. But there must be fire. You search the house for a substitute: what will you find and use? Lighter fluid, gunpowder, gasoline - whatever burns pretty. The other Friday Fivers are listed to the left, under the heading "Friday 5 Blogs". And for the record, it's Will that has the furry porn. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 7:23:00 AM Thursday, November 27, 2003
God-DAMMIT! This was the first Thanksgiving I've ever been able to eat less than one serving. I've been battling some intestinal distress for almost a week, but it seemed to be mostly gone this morning. Unfortunately, it wasn't. Halfway through Thanksgiving dinner, I had to bolt from the table and I spent the rest of the afternoon with my guts tied up in fucking knots. So far, no remedy has worked. I'm able to eat, I just don't derive much pleasure from it. Fucking hell goddamn shit motherfucker. I need this in my life right now. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 11:10:00 PM It is here Thanks to Franny, I got a pre-6AM wakeup. We're planning to putter around until 11 or so, then head over the the In-Laws' for dinner. Here's hoping my stomach stays relatively calm. Full details on the gluttony will be posted later tonight or tomorrow. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 6:41:00 AM Wednesday, November 26, 2003
I loves me some turkey I mean, I ain't tryin' to be profound or nothin', and it's not like I'm the only one. Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, and it's simply because I like having an excuse to gorge myself into turkey-induced catatonia. I spend the other 364 days of the year guilty about eating so much while others starve, I feel like I deserve this one day to cast aside those worried and eat until I want to do nothing except bask in the warm sun like a tyrannosaur that's just gnawed his way through a herd of baby iguanadons. For starters, there's the heavenly smells that come from a roasting turkey. The succulent promise of good things to come. The delicate odor of cooking dressing (cornbread, natch), sweet potatoes baking, the pies, the cranberries - I usually find myself hovering around the kitchen (assuming I'm not able to get myself a job cooking) and drooling on the counters. When the turkey's out of the oven, I can usually snag a couple of pieces of the skin to munch on. A lot of folks will tell you that the skin is full of bad fats and all that, but I don't care. It's tasty stuff. At the table, it's a few slices of turkey breast, maybe a wee bit of smoked ham, a pile of dressing, green beans, mashed sweet potatoes (with the marshmallows on top), cranberry sauce, gravy, corn pudding, maybe a couple of rolls with butter (real butter, too - none of that sissy-ass margarine or butter substitute). If I could get my grandmother's recipe for cheese & garlic grits casserole, it'd be perfect. A little red wine makes for a perfect palate cleanser between bites. Seconds go heavier on the starches, especially the dressing. Thirds, I go back to the meat. I always save room for dessert - homemade pie, maybe a little bit of ice cream on the top. Some variety of jello salad is usually involved in Thanksgiving Dinner, and I'm always happy to savor that, as well. Late in the evening the day after Thanksgiving, I get another favorite treat - the leftover midnight snack. Here's my favorite recipe: 2 slices of homemade bread (buttermilk bread is especially good for this). a slab of leftover dressing, 2 slices of turkey breast, a dollop of cranberry sauce and another, slightly larger, dollop of hot Chinese mustard (the kind you get in Chinese takeout). Cheese is optional, although I prefer the uncheesified taste of the sammich. Wash it down with a cold beer (Shiner is good, and I've also savored Harp - cider would also work, but hard lemonade is right out, as are Budweiser, Miller and Heinekin), and enjoy while watching late night kung fu movies on cable. Feel free to share your favorite Thanksgiving Food Porn below. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 10:43:00 AM Another spiffy blog Scott vonD's Moonshine Mountain. Go to it. GO NOW! posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 9:11:00 AM En français, encore Inspiré par Amanda des singularités et des malheurs humains, j'ai décidé d'employer des poissons de Babel pour signaler cette entrée en français, au profit de n'importe quel Francophones qui peut se produire sur ce blog. Pour les aider dans leurs efforts googling, j'inclurai les limites suivantes: années de l'adolescence juteuses filles excitées Magazine De Catherine Zeta Jones Gynecology Comment faire un crossbow Un Blog violemment exécuté - aucun arrêt trop stupide, aucun truc trop de fromage. Appréciez ! posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 8:27:00 AM More tomfoolery
Thanks, Ritu! posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 7:56:00 AM Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Thanks, Julie! posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 5:18:00 PM Thanks, Gord It appears that you can now find this blog by googling the words "funbags" and "kachungas". Thanks to Gord for making that possible. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 10:37:00 AM The Mouse can go fuck himself Walt Disney has canceled all involvement in the new Peter Pan film. See, J. M. Barrie willed ownership of the play "Peter Pan" to the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital when he died. The expectation, of course, was that the hospital (and, therefore, all those sick children) would benefit from the royalty payments on all those productions of the play. Disney, however, believed it should be exempt from having to share nay of its profits from games, toys and spin-off books. Seems that the folks at Disney honestly believe that their grudging, occasional token payments for the animated version exempt them from ever having to share their filthy lucre again. Boy, Walt'd be proud of how these guys think of the children. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 10:24:00 AM Monday, November 24, 2003
BWAH-HA-HA-HA! OK, this one's good - A KKK member was critically injured when a bullet fired during an initiation ceremony hit him in the head. If morons like these assbags are the Master Race, I pray I'm not part of it. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 2:52:00 PM  Which Survivor of the Impending Nuclear Apocalypse Are You? A Rum and Monkey joint. Thanks, Rob! posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 9:51:00 AM Geekgasm redux This is big, big, big news for me. Whilst meandering through Sci Fi Wire this AM, I found that Kurt Busiek's Astro City might make it to the big screen. If you're a fan of Astro City, you're as thrilled to the core as I am. If you're not a fan of Astro City, it means you haven't read it yet. Busiek has created, with artists Brent Anderson and Alex Ross, a living, breathing world that is one of the most fully realized in any work of fiction. Busiek tells the stories of individuals in his universe, the small stories, and imbues his characters with a life and energy I haven't seen in comics before. Anderson's interior art, and Alex Ross' brilliant covers, make each character solid and real. Busiek will be working with producer Ben Barenholtz (who served as executive producer for "Miller's Crossing" and "Barton Fink", among others) and screenwriter Jonathan Alpers on this project, and Busiek will be involved in any creative decisions. I'll tell you again - if you're not reading Astro City (available as trades at your FLCS [buy local!]), you're missing out. Busiek's limited series "Astro City: Local Heroes" is winding up right now, with a completely new series coming in 2004. This is a comic that will give you thrills, chills and on some occasions, make you weep. Those of you that know me are no doubt asking, "But, Adam! What about 'Transmetropolitan'? What about 'Planetary'? What about 'Rex Mundi'?" Relax - I still love those titles, as I do "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen", "The Watchmen" and the original runs of "American Flagg" and "Scout". Astro City, though, is something different. Busiek created a world out of whole cloth, with all the trappings we expect in a superhero comic, and told us the stories that we don't normally see. It's a comic about the small moments, the little things that make the big things matter. It's worth twice the price you pay for it, and you get ten times the value. So buy it. Now. Read it. NOW. Then you'll understand. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 8:19:00 AM Sunday, November 23, 2003
Stupid Arguments Against Gay Marriage Please, if you want to argue against extending civil recognition to the committed unions of 10% of our society (based upon current estimates), don't waste your time using any of the following: (1) "It's against the laws of nature." - There is no such thing as natural law, you dig? NO. SUCH. THING. We violate what were once considered "laws of nature" every damn day. Should we ditch our eyeglasses, because animals don't correct their vision? So long, clothing! Adios, air travel! Goodbye, laws and constitutional protections! Or does natural law only apply when you're exercising your bigotry against homosexuals? That's what I'm getting. (2) "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!" - It's usually dressed up a little bit more, but any argument based upon biblical precepts falls flat - everyone is in violation of some law or another in the bible, even the Orthodox Jews. Why? Every faith picks and chooses what applies and what doesn't, justifying it with one obscure verse or another. If we set that aside (and that's a big set-aside), there's this little thing we have here in the States called the Constitution, which pretty much insists that law NOT be based upon specific verses in the bible, that being a violation of the concept of a separation of church and state. For which there is a long-standing legal precedent. (3) "It's disgusting." - So anything that offends your delicate sensibilities shouldn't be allowed? What about things I find disgusting? Can I ban Celine Dion, Pat Robertson and AOL? Pal, if you're disgusted by the thought of two men (or two women) loving each other, DON'T FUCKING THINK ABOUT IT. I swear, some of you assbags spend so much time agonizing over the details of the "homosexual lifestyle", I'm half convinced you furtively beat off to it. Now that I mention that, the thought of you whacking it makes me kind of queasy, so I'll stop talking about it. (4) "It upsets the traditional balance in a marriage." - Who cares? It used to be traditional for a man to be permitted to beat his wife with a stick no thicker than his thumb. Let's hear it for tradition! All you women, stay home! Us men'll go out and earn our paychecks. You just have that pot roast nice'n hot for when we get home, y'hear? (5) "If we allow gay marriage, we'll have to allow group marriage, and before you know it, people will be marrying ANIMALS!" - (a) What's wrong with group marriage? (b) Slippery slope-ism gets you jack-fuckin' shit with me. Argue the issue in front of us, not some worst-case-scenario strawman you pull out of your ass. (c) I support marriage between any adults capable of giving informed consent. That rules out children, animals, the retarded or assbag morons like YOU. If you insist upon using any of the above in a discussion with me, I will mock you, call you an assbag moron, and push you down a flight of stairs with the goal of improving the gene pool. That is all. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 3:13:00 PM Saturday, November 22, 2003
3 New Fivers I've never heard of any of these people in my life. Cool. Morgaine - Eclectic Waves Rik - Grey Area's Journal Fionna - Fionna's Journal posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 7:38:00 AM Out and about, random notes Going to be at Millenium 6, a gaming convention here in Austin. With any luck, I will not find myself at any time in the presence of someone for whom soap is an alien concept. I'm not holding my breath, though. I mean, I will, if/when it happens, but right now, I'm not. The argument I'm beginning to hate the most in the whole gay marriage foofraw is the "Gays/The Left want to DESTROY THE FABRIC OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION, and an assault upon marriage is just their first step!" Fuckin' morons need to Just Die Already. Just Die Already - bear in mind it's not a desire to hurry the process, I don't want to kill morons, I just want to make it clear that they are irrelevant, and we'd all do much better without them, thankyouverymuch. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 7:25:00 AM Friday, November 21, 2003
Geekgasm The trailer for the Hellboy Movie is up. Looks frickin' sweet, man. I'm betting that it'll go high on my comics2movies list with X2, Spider Man, Ghost World and Mystery Men. This is what it looks like when a fan with TALENT makes a movie. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 2:20:00 PM MODOK in da HIZZZOOUUUUSSSSEEEE I'm directing all comic geeks, especially fans of the late, great Jack Kirby, to check out Ludic Log. Julie turned me on to this blog, and it's great. The link above takes you to a writeup on MODOK, one of the most delightfully fucked up comic book villains EVAH. Big head, tiny arms, rocket powered chair. Oh, yeah. I'm scared. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 8:56:00 AM Friday 5 From Nanette, who ponders the following: I work in the music business. Glamorous as this may sound, we are actually just two women in a home office in South Austin. Hipness, youth and cool factor are a common topic of conversation between me and my boss, i'm 35 and she's 39. We often remenisce about our cool groovy old days when we actually went out to see the kind of bands we work with and go to the clubs we talk to everyday and it dawns on us that we are sooo way out of the cool scenes we envision ourselves part of still. soooo, the topic is - what 5 ages would you like to be and why., either to re-live or that you imgine would be ideal in the future. Hey, if you are so inclined and have a moment to spare, what about throwing in 5 ages you would NEVER want to be again, and why. Top 5 Ages: (1) My thirties - my current age. I like being a grownup (as much as I am one). I guess it's mainly because my life started really coming together when I hit 30, and it's been getting better ever since. (2) Early twenties - I'd like to be thin again, although I could do without the haircut I had then. (3) Seventies - I want to be a cranky old man. I want to be the old guy that gets away with hitting on younger women, cussing out whoever he wants, and gets to say things like, "You kids get the hell off my goddamn lawn!" I want to be a curmudgeon. I realize that Melissa may feel differently about this, but I say you gotta dream. (4) 4-5 - No job, no worries. You get naps. Fuckin' NAPS! Everyone tells you how cute you are, you can be brutally honest with people and they don't lose their shit. (5) Any age past 140 - If they can keep me alive that long, they can probably upload me into a robot body, and I'll be an immortal killer cyborg. With laser eyes and all that shit. Bottom 5 ages: (1) 10 - I hated this year. It was fucking awful. I was a damn bully magnet. (2) 11 - Hated this one, too. I started fighting back with bullies this year, but it was still goddamn painful. Especially the part where I got hit by a car. (3) 14-17 - These were no goddamn picnic, let me tell you. If I could have put myself in suspended animation during high school, I would have. It was that bad. (4) 26 - I've mentioned before how this was the year I almost killed myself. Never, ever again. (5) 27 - This one wasn't quite as bad as the year before, but it was somewhat less fun than getting punched in the testicles repeatedly, over a span of months. The other Friday Fivers are, as always, listed to the left. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 12:00:00 AM Thursday, November 20, 2003
Busy day Despite taking a day off from work. I spent the morning at Franny's school as a volunteer in the classroom. It was lots of fun, actually - the kids made pumpkin muffins and then wore indian headdresses they'd made and shared a Thanksgiving Feast (popcorn, cranberry raisins, sunflower seeds and the aforementioned muffins) with the classroom next door, who dressed as pilgrims. Surprisingly enough, no mention was made of smallpox. Go figure. After that, I went out and shipped prizes to Gord and Spidra (Julie's already got hers, and Will gets his on Friday). Spidra, look for your MYSTERY! GIFT! in 3-4 days. Gord, it'll be about 10 days for you. Then it was a quick trip to a branch of the Austin Police Department to defer judgementon my speeding ticket, so that I can take the defensive driving course and keep the ticket off my record (although my personal shame at getting a ticket will remain with me as an indelible stain upon the fabric of my immortal soul). $95, but better than the $206 I'd have to pay for the ticket. Then home, and a couple hours of wrangling the kids while Melissa got some writing time in. Tonight - Survivor! Yes, I know I swore I hated it, but it's actually holding my interest this year. Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself. I am vast, I contain multitudes. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 5:25:00 PM Wednesday, November 19, 2003
This is ALMOST a good idea. Almost. Turkey and gravy flavored soda. I might buy some, just to see if it's as awful as I think it will be. And you never know, I might like it. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 3:40:00 PM Danger! Danger, Will Robinson! Prepare to bow down to our Machine Overlords. They're studying karate. Used to be, you could count on being able to outrun the lumbering, boxy Kill-O-Bots, or at least dodge their clumsy arms as they grabbed for you. Not anymore, not now that they've got this super Kung-Fu mojo shit going. You guys are doomed. Not me, though. I'm Goodlife. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 10:02:00 AM OK, I hate this Three times, I've got a good head of steam up and started writing something, only to have it run down before I finish. I dunno if they're especially profound thoughts, but I've never pretended that's what I write. Until I can get my shit together, I'll give you a few of my favorite punch lines. Enjoy. "You're not coming here to hunt, are you?" "That's wonderful, darling, but doesn't it get in the way when you fuck?" "Got any duck food?" "I'll never get the smell out of those fish." "Know it? I wrote it!" posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 9:23:00 AM Tuesday, November 18, 2003
She's just so darn cute when she does that During the hours-long process involved in getting her to bed, Franny will at least a couple of times yank her door open, shout, "Goodnight, LOSERS!" and slam the door as hard as she can. I keep telling myself that the very same qualities that make her an exasperating child will make her a vibrant, exciting, freethinking adult. I have to, or I'd lose my shit a lot more than I do. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 10:08:00 AM Monday, November 17, 2003
The math certainly seems to add up 4 out of 5 geniuses agree: posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 9:47:00 PM Blogroll back up! Hacking issue resolved... for now. I'm backing up my roll anyhoo. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 11:00:00 AM Blogroll crash For some reason, my blogroll has gone South. I lost all the links currently in my blogroll, and they were replaced with a link to some bitch named Laura's blog (not Laura of Green Boogers, some other Laura). And looking at some other blogrolls, it appears I'm not the only one affected by this. I'll be attempting to recreate the roll. Apologies to my linkees, I'm trying to find you again. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 9:58:00 AM Getting on the bandwagon Poached from Maggie! And if you're interested in playing around with the Caption Thing, go HERE. Their server's taking a lot of hits, so your response time may be veerrrryyyy slllooooooowwwww. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 9:19:00 AM Sunday, November 16, 2003
Heh. One of our daily struggles here is getting Franny down for a nap in the afternoon. It usually ends up with us putting her in her room (with child-proof latch on her inside door knob) and listening to her scream and kick the walls for an hour, which is the minimum time for "Quiet Time". She's learned this week, however, to take the childproof thingy off her doorknob, and today opened her door to announce that she had defeated our puny Quiet Time enforcement measures (maybe not in those words, but the intent was there). When I came down the hall to remind her that she needs to stay in her room, she slammed the door in my face and told me to "Stay out!" I fear that this new skill means the end of Quiet Time. Melissa ain't gonna like this. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 1:58:00 PM Saturday, November 15, 2003
No surprise here...  Pirates of the Caribbean! What movie Do you Belong in?(many different outcomes!) brought to you by Quizilla Thanks, Gord! posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 11:03:00 PM And the judges have spoken... Folks, we've got a tie for first. While Gord's novella certainly won points for detail, length and 60-70-odd years of perspective, I found that Julie's riffs on my favorite whackaloon conspiracy theories had a certain something that grabbed my attention. I will therefore award TWO First Prizes, with additional MYSTERY! GIFTS! for Will and Spidra, 'cause I like their style. Gord and Julie, email me with your request from the list I posted here. Spidra, email me your address and I'll get your MYSTERY! GIFT! in the mail this week. Thanks to all that participated, I will no doubt do something similar to this again soon, as I really had fun pretending I was making Important Decisions. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 10:53:00 PM Melissa Goes For The Throat I wholeheartedly recommend Melissa's most recent blog entry, slamming the Right's shameful treatment of Jessica Lynch. Melissa, she don't shiv. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 11:47:00 AM This is... weird Hanging corpse mistaken for art. BUDAPEST (Reuters) - Police have removed the corpse of a man believed to have hanged himself at least a year ago after builders and students at Budapest's University of Arts had initially mistaken it for a modern sculpture. The body hung for a whole day in a garden building that had been re-opened for repairs before onlookers realised what it was and called the police, local media said. The building, in campus grounds crowded with different types of sculpture, had been closed five years ago pending reconstruction work. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 8:05:00 AM One every minute... every minute, dammit! There's a website out there for fans of the horror RPG Bureau 13. I've never played the game, but it's one of the more respected ones out there, and it's on my "gotta get my hands on a copy" list. The site itself is great - lots of detail, sample scenarios, GM tips - all the stuff you need to enhance your role-playing experience. What pushes the site up into the "You should check this out even if you don't game" category, however, is William Travis' Book Of Morons, a listing of the choicest bits of mail he gets from idiots who cannot understand the Bureau 13 is a FUCKING GAME!!! posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 8:01:00 AM The Contest is OVER And I received 9 entries. I'll post them all, with commentary, and decide on the winner later. Remember: judging will be arbitrary, with no logic used save my own unique brand. Rob: you wake up tomorrow to find a bunch a aviator wearing suited beef outside your door in the company of a female aged clown. she claims she's your mother. but worse is to come - your real name is george adam, that is george a. bush :- LONG LOST LOVE CHILD OF GEORGE W: AND A FEMALE CLOWN!!!!!!!!!!!! This one is kind of creepy, in that it touches upon my Ray: Okay, seems kinda lame now, but here it is: You're driving down 183, Franny sees a punk-rocker biker guy (who has a mohawk, earrings, and probably a name like Face or Stripe) and says, "I want a boyfriend who looks like that, Daddy!" Had I not been into the punk scene in college, this might give me pause. Still, it was an attempt to play upon my parenting issues. A for effort, with extra points for giving me beer. Will: Clowns break into your house at 2 am, seconds after you are stumbling into bed from finally soothing a crying child. The clowns persit to dance about your face and neck, singing The Dukes of Hazzard theme while littering your house with raw eggs and baking soda. Oooh! Late night clowns! Points for that, but you lose them all with the "Dukes of Hazzard" theme, which I have immunized myself against (and, as it's performed by Waylon Jennings, I kind of dig, in a campy way). The trashing of the house would just make me angry, spurring me to kill the clowns and mail their compressed bodies back to the Hell-Circus that spawned them. Will, I expected better from you, but I'll still give extra points, because you're a mensch. Amanda: While at the grocery store in the "10 Items Or Less" EXPRESS line, four people in front of you write checks. S l o w l y write them, not bothering to fill them out ahead of time. And at least two of them have more than ten items. You know, because you counted. At least 3 items will need a price check because they don't scan properly. One guy's credit card will be declined...he'll get out another. It'll be declined, as well. And his third card ... goes through. The one lady who has 9 items changes her mind and decides to trade the 1% milk with skim. So you wait for her to go back to dairy and trade milks. As you stand there, you notice the full service lines... you know, the NON-EXPRESS lines, are moving faster than the express line. You curse the day you were born. Ahhh, hitting me with the banality of true evil. Too bad it's happened to me before. Familiarity breeds contempt. I have a feeling that if you knew my deep down fears, you might have really rocked my socks off. Keep up the good work. You get points for... for having a creepy ex-con neighbor that possibly has dead bodies stored in blue plastic barrels next to his garage. Julie: you'll be at work, calmly working, when you decide to check your email or something on the internet. you notice scary headlines all over the place: THE EARTH'S MAGNETIC POLE HAS FLIPPED AND A SUPERRACE OF HUMANS HAS TAKEN OVER THE PLANET. you get a little unnerved so you click over to cnn.com where you see RAELIANS LAND ENORMOUS SHIP ON TOP OF WHITE HOUSE and GEORGE W. BUSH SOLE SURVIVOR OF RAELIAN LANDING and BUSH APPEARS TO HAVE BECOME GIANT SPACE LIZARD. on your way out to the car you realize that there are spaceships filling the sky...and as you reach for your keys, you realize your hand won't go to your pocket...your body has been taken over by some sort of mind melding force field! now under the control of whatever it is, you goosestep stiff-legged back into the NOC and program the entirety of BRW's network to communicate the invaders' message to humanity: WE ARE YOUR LEADERS. ALL UNBELIEVERS WILL BE SUMMARILY EXECUTED, BUT ONLY AFTER STERILIZATION... of course, you breathe a sigh of relief as you realize how glad you are that you already had THAT bit done... Julie, excellent touching upon so many subjects that I enjoy - the pole shift, reptoids, orbital mind control lasers, raelians - you even threw in my impending vasectomy. Well done! Your ownership of a glittery bra also counts in your favor. Spidra: Joan Rivers shows up at your front door wearing a lab coat and latex gloves. She says she's now working for the IRS and that you're in "arrears". She will now have to "audit" you. OK, if you replace Joan Rivers with Bernadette Peters, I've got something very similar in my rolodex. Congratulations, I'll have to take that card out, because instead of Bernadette, I'll hear "Can we talk?". You get extra points for having called me cute. Chris: All righty, mister "spittle-flecked rant," I've got your third disaster. God appears to you. God. Definitely God -- not a hallucination, not a dream -- God. No doubt in your mind that you are face to face with the Creator. You are filled with awe and reverence and a kind of joy that you never imagined existed. And then God tells you that He has anointed Rush Limbaugh as His prophet, that he hates liberals because they really do all hate Him, that he would prefer that the corporations destroy nature because 'He was never all that proud of it anyway,' that God meant it when He said that women should be ruthlessly subjugated and that homosexuals would be damned to Hell for all eternity, and that--by the way--you must renounce all irony and humor and live a life of pure earnestness. How's that? Not bad. Yes, being confronted with the existence of the deity would shock me, but if He felt it so important to tell me that to my face, it would mean He needed me for some reason, which would primarily serve to inflate my ego further. Plus, I'd enjoy making Rush a martyr. I'd enjoy it a LOT. Extra points for knowing how to cook turducken, as well as carve apples into those cool little swan sculptures. Gord: So, nothing happens. You spend a few days wondering what's gonna pass, how you're gonna suffer in the triumvirate, and nothing happens. The idea passes from your brain, except for in terms of this contest. And so you ship off your prize to the happy winner, and get your vasectomy, and everything goes well. You walk out with both family jewels intact, no scarring, no strangeness. It's all okay. And then one day... do you wake to find yourself turned somehow into a cockroach? Good lord, no. Do you discover it's the end of the world afoot? What? That's crazy. No, nothing happens. Nothing sudden, anyway. Of course, your wife does comment one day on your balls. You'd not seen them change, but... no, come to think of it, they are a little bigger than before. Wait, scratch that. You reach into the TV cabinet and pull out the video tape sneakily labeled "prawns!" so the kids aren't interested in it, and... good lord! They're twice what they were! Of course, it's taken a year, so you didn't notice the gradual change. You go in to the doctor's office, and show the doctor. She giggles, fondles with them. She's sexy as hell. But you're married. And after all, these bad boys have just doubled in size. So you're all about serious business. So... So you ask her what she can do. Balefully, rejected, she turns her lovely, heavy-lidded eyes to you and pouts. Those lips. "We have to take them off you, honey," she says. And of course first you think it's some kind of revenge ploy against you for brushing her off. That would make sense, after all. But you see several doctors and they actually all pretty much tell you the same thing. Which, you says to yourself, is probably, you know, a sign that they're all lying, but what can you do? So one fine afternoon in later 2004, you go in and get spayed. Or neutered. Whichever it is for boy dogs. Except you're not a boy dog, you're a boy human. And Oh what a piece of work is a man. No shit. What a piece of work you are. What a piece of work you will become. So anyways, you come out of the O.R. just fine. You feel a little high because they've drugged to the gills, nay, past the gills and all the way up to the hippocampus. But, you're overall okay. Okay-ish, anyway. You know, you're a little apprehensive. But your wife does her best to support you emotionally, tells you that you needn't worry, that you're still all man to her. You still have your little willy, after all. And so life goes on... the swirl of it, the tide and turn; the kids get older, they start using words with even more syllables and doing things in math class that you can't bloody remember how to do yourself. Day by day you begin to forget you ever had balls. You find in time that you don't even miss them. That, looking back now, they were always in the way, a kind of exposed batch of nerve endings waiting to be kicked, the truest Achilles heel in the world. I'm better off without them, you think to yourself. I don't need 'em. But one day, on the street, you're walking with Drew and some kid he knows wanders up and says this: "Yo, yo yo, yo' mama one UGLY bitch." Drew looks confused, and embarrassed. So, for that matter, dear Adam, do you. What the hell is this boy thinking? Why is he suddenly insulting your wife? Drew narrows his eyes, makes fists, and says, "Bobby. That's my DAD. Shut up." Drew looks ready to draw blood. (The act of drawing blood, you remember your friend Gord stating long ago online in some ludicrous comment posted to your web page, is apparently the basis by which guilt is assigned in assault cases in Korea.) You're kind of impressed by this. But your pride in Drew is rapidly eclipsed by your realization that this Bobby brat thinks *you* are Drew's mother. Why the fuck...??? That's what you're thinking when you look down, and Oh. My. God. What is that pair of luscious, pert tits doing on your chest? Why did Melissa say anything about this? How did they get there? If someone had said something, maybe you would have grown your hair out or something. Maybe you'd have been more careful in shaving, or started wearing sports bras, the kind that bind down those teats and hide them from the public. It disturbs you. It disturbs you because they look HOT. If they were on a woman, you'd want to reach out and grab them. You'd want to nuzzle between them, kiss them, do things to them that are beyond the purview of this predictive post. But they're yours. Hanging there from your chest. Boobs. Breasts. Funbags. Boobies. Jugs. Hooters. Bosoms. Kachungas. Yours. This drives you into a deep philosophical mood for months, asking the most profound questions about sexuality. Your breasts change the way you walk, the way you lift things, the way you carry yourself. Hell, your wardrobe changes completely too! But more importantly, the way you think changes completely. Utterly. A man with breasts. You are a man with breasts. A paradox. Because sometimes you fiddle with them... they're very sensitive. But most of the time they're just there. No function, no purpose. You dedicate yourself even more to existentialism. After all, breasts in a woman do mean something beyond just ornamentation. They mean lactation. They're there to attract mates and to feed the babies that mates provide a woman with. If *you* could get pregnant, your breasts might mean something too. They might have even an originally intended purpose. But you cannot get pregnant. Your upper specials have changed, but your nether specials have changed no more than what was done by the surgeon's blade. And so you delve deeper and deeper into the philosophy of sexuality, and find you are alone. You must invent the language anew to express yourself. among the secrets of the flesh there are, parallelled, these unparallelled orbs of flesh dangling like half-moons from the chests of half of us. You sink into writing obsquare verse on the level of this stuff, and finally find yourself giving into postmodernism. You read through the archives of the long-ago-concluded philotirades of Gord and Marvin online, watch their criticism of postmodernism collapse into a kind of ideological orgy of pomomeaninglessness. The language. Structure is. And so (very). You write. Unto. Like this. Endless/ness/ly. At age seventy, you are hailed in academia as the queen of momam crit (modern mammarian critical philosophy). You are invited to lecture tours, and your sentences are so rife with random verbasimilcizabilitations and thick with spittleflecks that audiences are forced to pretend to understand what the fuck you are saying. And all the way, you wonder: which was the fatal third leg of the triumvirate? Was it losing my balls? Or was it gaining these, my tits. "These, my tits..." you say aloud, as you look down on them lovingly, but alos in horror. Is there a difference? Is there a continuity? This question occupies you until you reach the grave, and you never know the answer. Because, of course, the answer cannot be known. Your grandchildren request that your now-enormous tubby-grammy-sized hooters be displayed openly in your open casket. There is a family fight. Laser guns, and attack waldos, and a few EMP blasts... all of that, again, beyond the scope of this post. And the truth is this: it is neither losing your balls, nor gaining your tits, that is the fatal third leg of the triumvirate of doom. No, it is the doubt you had, the worry and wonder that took up all of those years. But now, it's over, and though there is no "you" to worry about it, the best news anyone could ever hear is the truth: it doesn't much matter either way. How fine, however, I shall say, for those who dare to ask it, the pair of knockers on that day that knocked in Adam's casket. In nomine patri, et fili, et spiritu sancti, et in glans mammarius, Amen. Wow. That's really something. Points for the Harlan Ellisonish touches, points off for inaccuracies (it's not labeled "prawns", my Urologist is middle-aged, male, and named "Dr. Chopp [no joke], "little willy"). Positive points for threatening me with postmodernism, as well as mentioning a laser battle at my funeral. Bonus points: You really, really went all-out on this one - 1387 words! Bonus points for Latin. This is going to be difficult to judge. I'll get back to you on it. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 12:15:00 AM Friday, November 14, 2003
Another Fiver, another excellent blog Julie, a two-fisted agent of Rock'n'Roll Destruction, has started a blog called ill-sorted ephemera. Go, and know the power that is Julie. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 1:06:00 PM  You are Spider Jerusalem. Spider is THE journalist of the future. He smokes, he does drugs, and he kicks ass. The drugs are going to eventually kill him but not before he gets his way. And his way is the demise of the failed American dream. Although full of hate, he cares about his city. All he wants to bring the world is truth. Spider Jerusalem, conscience of the City. Frightening thought, but he's the only one we've got. What Gritty No Nonsense Comic Book Character are You? brought to you by Quizilla Surprised? Thanks, Ray! posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 1:00:00 PM Friday 5 Adrienne muses: Lately, I've been thinking about food. It's something I think about a lot, granted, but this is more about food and place. For me, these conenctions are intense and evocative. The question: if you could travel back to any place you've lived (or, in a pinch, visited) and have just one meal in each location that reminded you of the time you spent there, what would your top five stops and dishes be? I like food, me. This is easy. (1) January, 1988. Hot pita bread, greek olives, a big plate of dolmades. I was in a small Greek restaurant off of Russel Square in London. I got to chatting with my waiter, a Cypriot, who refused to believe I was an American, due to the fact that I was (a) in his restaurant and (b) not rude. His shift ended before I finished eating, so I invited him to sit down and we just shot the breeze while stuffing ourselves with good Greek food. London and Greek food are inextricably tied together in my head now, and hot buttered pita bread always makes me happy. (2) Palm Sunday. Barbecued pork, pulled right off the bloody great pig that cooked all night at my parents' farm. My parents have an egg hunt/pig roast every Palm Sunday. Family friends come from all over the country and a weekend is spent eating, drinking and hunting for eggs. It's a family reunion for the family-of-choice I had growing up. The hunt is on its 3rd generation now, and I curse the fact that money and time issues make it so damn hard for us to get there every year. The Egg Roast is where I learned to chug beer, and it's where I picked up my recipe for BBQ sauce. (3) Birmingham, AL. My wedding night. Dammit, it wasn't anything special, just catered chicken and vegetables, but Melissa and I never got to eat dinner after our wedding. We sat down to eat, and people kept coming over to talk to us, and then we had to get up to cut the cake, and fling the bouquet and garter, and the wait staff cleared our plates before we got back to the table. I want to finish that meal, and I want to be able to tell the younger me to get ready for the rough times, and know that it gets better after they're through. (4) My grandparents' old house, any of dozens of family meals there. My grandmother made the best damn cheese and garlic grits I've ever had, and I miss her cooking. She and my grandfather are in an assisted living facility now, and they just seem so frail now. I miss them, and I miss the cinnamon Dentyne gum my grandfather passed out to all the grandkids. Dammit, now I need to go home and cook some grits. I'm all verklempt. (5) A burger from Trudy's, 1993. I don't recall the exact date, but it was in one of the worst periods of my life. I didn't want to go home, so I stopped and ate at Trudy's, choking down a hamburger that tasted like ashes while I drank far too many beers and glared at anyone that looked in my direction. It was the night I've come the closest to suicide. I feel like it's important to me to remember that night, as it makes all the good ones so much sweeter. While I never want to go to that dark corner of my soul again, it's comforting to know that I've been there and made it back out again. Other Friday Fivers are listed on the left side of the blog. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 9:02:00 AM Thursday, November 13, 2003
Just remembered I needed to post this I was reading Dave's blog entry about time travel, and I remembered something I needed to post. Mind you, this is a "just in case". ATTENTION TIME TRAVELERS I will be glad to serve as your agent, if you are interested in using your knowledge of events in my future to build your investments to a point sufficient to maintain you at a luxury level of living in the distant future. I understand that, while you can shuttle back and forth along the timelines, you will still need someone in your past to handle any unforeseen events. I will charge a modest 3% on your investments, and will operate with the utmost discretion. Please contact me and tell me the word I'm thinking of right now (I've written it down and put it in a sealed envelope in my wallet - you should have no problem contacting me in my future after we've established your bona fides and getting that word, then coming back in time and telling me. (Did that make sense?) Please, no whackaloons. Serious inquiries only. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 11:11:00 AM Scientific Coolness First off, don't forget the contest. That said, check out this article detailing the belief of some scientists that machines that read minds are possible. Cool. I want a suit of powered armor. posted by Adam C. Lipscomb at 10:00:00 AM Wednesday, November 12, 2003
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