Why I Don't Drink Wine

I've been reading about Alexander the Great and I stumbled on this story that solidified my resolve to not drink wine.


The story goes like this: Alexander has already conquered most of the known world by this time and has fought his way to India and is headed back to Macedonia. But before he leaves India, he convinces this Buddhist wise man by the name of Calanus to come with him. Now Calanus was eighty-three and had never been sick a day in his life, but when they get to the town of Pasargada, he comes down with a sever case of cholic. "Well this just won't do," decides Calanus, so after the fashion of his beliefs, he has Alexander build a funeral pyre for him so he can get this dying thing over with. Alexander tries to talk him out of it but Calanus has made up his mind and this is what he is going to do.


So they stack up a bunch of wood and the old man climbs on top and tells them that they shouldn't be sad at his passing. They should drink and carouse with Alexander to celebrate the occasion. Then Calanus lays down, says, "Flick your Bic, Alex baby," or something to that effect, and never moves a muscle as the fire consumes him.


Now we get to the good part. They take the old man's advice and have a party. Where I'm from they would call this a wake, but whatever. So to honor the memory of their dear departed friend, Alexander offers a crown to the person who can drink the most. The winner is a stout hearted brute by the name of Promachus who consumed eighteen to twenty pints of wine. He enjoyed his victory for three days before he died. Of the guests, forty-one died from drinking too much.


I don't know what kind of wine was served, but I would be willing to bet it wasn't made by Earnest & Julio Gallo, but I'm not taking any chances. I'll stick to beer, and if you are wondering, that's what will be served at my wake. The kegs will be conveniently positioned at the head and foot of my coffin as to provide the mourners a pre- and post-view drink without the fuss of bothering the bartender who is too busy pouring shots anyway. I like to be a considerate host regardless of the occasion.


And don't send flowers, send peanuts and pretzels.


Cheers,
Doc

The First Thanksgiving; or How Squanto Got Screwed

We in America make a lot of this holiday. I think it is because we don't really have many feast days on our calender because in America, every day is a feast day. It is easy to see, as every street has dozens of restaurants and multiple gyms to work off your indulgence.

It wasn't always like this.

While this has always been a land of opportunity, it hasn't always been a land of plenty. The pilgrims figured that out when they got here in 1620. These poor sods were doomed to failure when they climbed aboard the boat. When they left England they brought a motley bunch wholly unsuited to settling a new land. Would you set off for the wild with two tailors, a printer, a silk worker, a shopkeeper, a hatter, and several merchants, as well as lots of guys who listed their occupation as farmers but at the time that only meant that they owned land, not that they knew how to farm it. They packed a drum, a trumpet, sundials and candle snuffers, and one dude by the handle of William Mullins went to the trouble to bring 123 pairs of shoes and 13 pairs of boots. I think his wife may have had some influence on his choice of baggage. The reason they stopped where they did is because they had run out of beer on the boat and were afraid to go any further. Not a single one of them could shoot or had the slightest idea how to acquire food. They were screwed from the start.

But they lucked out.

Sure, the pilgrims tried very hard to meet their neighbors, but every time they saw them, the natives fled. Make no mistake, these were smart natives. Most of the pilgrims had died off. Of the original 102 that had gotten on the ship, 54 remained, most were children. They got a lucky break and in February met a local by the name of Samoset. While Samoset wasn't from this neck of the woods and couldn't understand most of what was said, he did have a friend who knew the English language well, and with any luck his buddy could hook him up with a few of the new widows who were a large portion of the Plymouth settlement now.

Samoset brought his friend, Tisquantum. The pilgrims couldn't pronounce that, so they called him Squanto for short.

Now here is where the mystery comes in, as all good tales need a little mystery. Why would the newly named Squanto bother to help these idiots? They couldn't have had much to offer him unless he was really in the market for a slightly used sundial or candle snuffer. Squanto had every reason to dislike white people and resent their presence in his homeland and yet he helped them survive and thrive.

What could Squanto possibly hold against them you might ask? Well Squanto had gotten the fuzzy end of the lollipop from white people before. In 1605 he hopped aboard a ship captained by George Weymouth. If he did this of his own free will or not is a matter of conjecture. If he did it because it sounded like fun, that denotes an adventurous spirit. If he did it because he was at the point of a sword, I would think that would reflect poorly on Mr. Weymouth, but then the world is full of bastards.

Regardless, he spent nine years in England doing odd jobs until 1613 when he signed on as interpreter for a gent named John Smith. No sooner did Squanto get home than Thomas Hunt, one of John Smith's lieutenants, decided to pack up some fish, corn, as well as Squanto and nineteen of his fellow tribesmen and ship them off to Malaga, Spain and put them all up for sale. This is the second white bastard that Squanto had run into.

Some local friars decided that Squanto and his buddies needed some religious instruction and took them off Mr. Hunt's hands. After a while, the resilient Squanto made a break for England. He lived with a Mr. John Slany for a few years, one of the few non bastards that Squanto ran into. From there he caught a boat headed for Newfoundland. He bummed around there for a while looking for a lift to North America but that never happened and in 1618 found himself back in England. Even then, travel agents weren't to be trusted.

In 1619 he finally caught a lift back to the New England coast just in time to find his whole tribe was wiped out by small pox that they had gotten from visiting white sailors. Everyone he knew and loved was dead. Then his buddy Samoset shows up and asks for him to try a double date with him and some newly widowed white women.

The amazing thing is that Squanto said yes. After fifteen years of being under the thumb of one white guy after another, Squanto decides to cut the pilgrims a break and helps them out. I can only assume that Mr. John Slany was a hell of a good guy and taught Squanto that all white guys ain't bad.

Because of Squanto alone, the pilgrims survived. He showed them how to plant, harvest, build and hunt, and he must have done it very well because any experienced turkey hunter knows that it isn't easy to bring down this fat, feathered Butterball, especially by an amateur. A turkey is perhaps one of God's dumbest of creatures who possess a brain almost the size of their eyeball, yet they remain one of the hardest creatures to bring down as they are armor plated with a coat of feathers that act as a flak jacket and are the most skittish of creatures who can be frightened off by an incoming butterfly.

Yet they had one at Thanksgiving, and from what I heard the cornbread and stuffing was awesome.

So to return to the mystery as to why Squanto would help these poor fools lost in the wilderness, it is anybody's guess. Why would he help a bunch of white people who couldn't help themselves after being treated as nothing more than an oddity and a slave for so many years? Perhaps it was because he didn't have anyone else, as his people were a fond but distant memory, and he was an outsider to all the local tribes. Here he was respected like a chief and his advice followed, after years of mistreatment. Perhaps that is what made him settle with these people.

I'd like to think that maybe he realized that we are all in this thing together, and we are here to help each other. That is something to be truly thankful for.

Shortly there after Squanto caught a fever and went to the great hunting grounds beyond, but we remember him every year as we sit down with family, or extended family, or friends, knowing that some one, some where gave enough of a damn to see us through.

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone,
Doc

Two-Thirds Of A Beer?

Those wacky kids at the Weights and Measures office are at it again. Come April, English bar patrons will have a new size option for their suds besides the beloved pint or the dainty half-pint. The W & M folks have authorized a two-thirds pint glass. The spokeman for the British Beer and Pub Association, Neil Williams, said it would be similiar in size to many continental bottled beers and would encourage customers to order these brews by the draft. Honestly Neil, do British people really need encouragement to drink beer?

The two-thirds pint works out to 378.5 milliliters, or slightly more than twelve ounces. Williams went on to say that the new size would appeal to the lunch crowd, and drinkers of specialty beers with higher alcohol contents. "It just makes sense to to add the two-thirds pint because for some customers and styles of beer, it'll just seem like the right size." While Jonathon Mail, spokesman for the Campaign for Real Ale, warned that a two-thirds pint could lead to too much drinking.

Bullshit. Buy your pint and suck it down like a man you pansy. Two-thirds of a pint is like two-thirds of sex. It sounds fun and exciting until you get to the bottom.

Doc

**Editors Note** This article was lifted in part from one published in the Canton Repository, Saturday, October 25, 2008 written by Elle Moxley of the Associated Press. I can only hope that in reseaching this article, Ms. Moxley drank too many two-thirds pints and later did something she was ashamed of.

A Question Of Anatomy

I have a question that seems to fall a little out of the realm of my expertise so I feel compelled to turn to you, my Brain Trust, to help me find this answer. Mostly this question is directed to the male readers, but ladies feel free to chime in with your observations.

A while back at Tiki, we were having a conversation about sex and one of the girls expressed with concern the fact that her husband had one testicle that hung lower than the other. John reassured her that this was normal and that all guys have one that hangs lower than the other, always on the left, and not only that, but a man's entire "package" naturally hangs to the left. No one had the chance to challenge him on this statement as the conversation quickly veered in another direction, and the opportunity to ask him where he got this information has not presented itself since then.

This made me wonder.

So I tried to research this a little bit so I could satisfy my curiosity without the embarrassment of asking someone, but my research is scanty and inconclusive.

Mind you, my research includes all of fifteen minutes of reading on Wikipedia and my own personal experience. The reputation of this great online fountain of knowledge I have no reason to doubt, while my own personal experience has frequently been called into question by several competent lawyers in front of a jury of my peers, so my personal experience is considered null and void and will be stricken from the record as inadmissible.

I consulted three different articles from Wikipedia and found this under testicle, (which is oddly enough named after a Roman law. It turns out testicle is a witness) "In mammals with external testicles it is most common for one testis to hang lower than the other. It is estimated that in about 65% of men the lower hanging testicle is the left one. This is due to differences in the vascular anatomical structure on the right and left sides." So according to this, John was 65% correct that it is always the left testicle that hangs lower, but it is the other half of his statement true too?

I have read that women often have one breast that is larger than the other, and while this is a topic that I am much more knowledgeable on and might be able to at least cite a few examples, in the interest of scientific inquiry, I count myself out. (That and I want these women to continue to accept my phone calls)

I always assumed that it was determined by handedness, just as your dominant hand has a bigger arm because it gets more use, but in the case of breasts, or a man's entire "package" that argument just doesn't hold water. Most people are right handed, while about 8-15% of people are left-handed, so that means that only 8-15% of people would have a larger right breast or their "package" would lean to the right? Somehow that doesn't seem right.

The two gentlemen pictured above don't resolve this much either. The hideless dude at the top has an overall lean to the right and is holding the knife that he has just skinned himself with in his left hand, but his left ball looks like it is hanging lower. Perhaps this is just a trick of the light and maybe his slightly raised left leg is influencing his "hang", I don't know. Da Vinci's David is no help. Here again, the left arm is holding something while his right arm is at his side suggesting that David is left handed. David's "package" is centered while his left nut is the one closest to his knees, but he isn't standing straight up either. All of his weight is shifted to his right leg. Here again, no help.

I can't think of any other research I could do on this topic that wouldn't involve bail, so I have decided to pose this question to you, Dear And Gentle Reader, and ask you to join my poll. What is your dominant hand? Does the testicle on that side hang lower than the other? Is that the same side as your larger or smaller breast? Does your entire manly "package" favor one side or the other? Please, no graphic details, we are just looking for left or right answers here. The option to publish anonymously is enabled and feel free to use it.

So how about it? Which way do you lean?

Doc

***Editor's Note*** The author of the above article was mildly to reasonably drunk at the time and has a long record of drinking beer on the job. He blames it on a highly sensitive vascular anatomical structure, whatever that is. Also, if for some bizarre reason you would want to skin yourself like the dude in the top picture, the author would suggest picking a different knife. Apparently no one skins with a dagger anymore, and it is considered a major breach of etiquette in most circles. The Editor would like to defend the inclusion of these two pictures of unclothed men, as the charter of this site has a very strict "No Nudity" policy, but the Editor feels that as these are obviously well established examples of art, no violation of that policy has occurred. If you don't think this is art, ask Da Vinci or Dale, but I would start with Dale first, as Da Vinci doesn't answer his emails. The author has been watching quite a bit of Mythbusters and decided that this would be a good time to make a quick stab at science and see what we learn. The Editor regrets that they are unable to install one of those handy survey widgets that Bub's uses all the time, but the entire IT staff for SZ; tcob left for Nashville this morning and the Editor is ill prepared to figure it out himself. The author is also assuming that you have the original equipment that you started with. Just like Barry Bonds, your record will be noted, but augmentations won't be considered. The entire staff at SZ; tcob would like to assure it's Dear And Gentle Readers that this will not be a subject that will be returned to, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. You know, for science.

Why I Might Have Been A Good Republican

To most of the people I talk to "Republican" has become a dirty, dirty word. They seem to want to lay the blame for everything that has gone wrong on the Republican doorstep, and I will admit that there is a slew of nastiness I would accuse our present administration namely of : torture, manipulation, cronyism, mismanagement, and lying, among many other things, but I'm not certain it's all their fault. [It is. --Flannery]

I used to follow politics and the news quite closely as a kid. My Dad bought the paper everyday and read it front to back. He would frequently point out this or that article to me, which I would read, but only after I finished with the comics section. Then we would sit and talk it over. From the Newark Advocate, jokingly referred to as the Aggravate, I learned to read. From Dad, I learned to reason. I can distinctly recall sitting at the dining room table with several sections of the paper spread before us and looking up from an article on some foreign aid bill and asking him what the difference was between the two parties. I knew that the Republicans were represented by the elephant and the Democrats by the donkey, but I didn't know what their particular platforms were.

In Dad's usual way, he sat back in his chair, took his old briar pipe from his lips and blew a plume of blue smoke to the ceiling as he thought about it for a minute. "The Republicans often represent big business, while the Democrats represent the working man."

"Well who do you vote for?" I asked.

He just smiled very big, and with his callused and bruised carpenter hands put his pipe between his teeth and went back to his reading. This Christmas he will have been gone seven years and I still can't bear to read a newspaper.

I was thinking about his simple explanation recently. The Republicans represent big business, but there are a lot of other things that come under their banner. The Republicans, to the best of my knowledge, have always touted that they represent family values. I am all for family values and who wouldn't be? I have a family, you have a family, and wouldn't you want them to have values? I'm just not so certain that what my family values is the same as what their family would value. Often the phrase "family values" is used to include the values of the Christian right. While I count myself as a Christian, we fundamentally differ in our interpretations.

The Republican party has always been friendly with the National Rifle Association. I own a gun and I'm fond of it. I don't own it because I'm planning on holding up a liquor store, shooting a friend in the face while hunting, or defending myself and my family against evildoers. I own a gun because I have a maniacal need to blast a few empty pop cans every few years. Call me a crazy gun nut, but no amount of therapy and jasmine scented oils can provide the feeling of release of seeing four cents of aluminum shredded to the sound of a small bang. I make no excuses for this.

The Republican party has never made any bones over their stance on the death penalty. I like to consider myself as an "enlightened" person and find ending a life abhorrent in all forms, but I think that there are times when you need to put a rabid dog down. I would rather see money spent on a kid to get a hot breakfast and lunch as well as a good education than spend it to keep some creep locked up for seventy years. The creep is going to generate nothing but more trash to fill a landfill with and hog resources we could spend on something worthwhile and contribute nothing, while the child demonstrates nothing but potential and hope.

Don't for a moment think that this is a decision that I arrived at casually. I think I made my mind up after reading Jack London's "The Law of Life", about an old Eskimo man who was blind and had been left to die by his tribe. His son hugs him after the rest have left and shows the old man the small pile of wood next to him for the fire and hikes off. The old man sits and contemplates his position for the rest of the story as he listens to the wolves in the distance. He knows that the tribe can only support so many people and he has become a burden who can contribute nothing, while his new grandson can have the food he would have eaten. He is never angry at being left behind to die, and he remembers leaving behind his own father in the same position he finds himself in and how painful it was to be the son who walks away. In the end, the wolves get him. If we can allow transgressors of our most heinous laws any dignity, let them exit with the knowledge that they make room for someone to do some good in their place [You presume remorse--Flannery] [Yes, yes I do--Doc]. As grievous as the thought of an innocent facing this final judgement is, and such things have happened, in a thorny way it is somewhat comforting to think that the truly guilty have met their fate. The ending of their life in no way makes up for their crime or could ever restore right to the wrong they created, but it does keep them from contributing more wrong. The solution is grossly permanent, distasteful, and should never be applied hastily, but I can see it.

Republicans have backed tax breaks and limited government since their entrance on the political scene. Lincoln was the first candidate for the party and I would be dishonest if I said he was anything less than my hero. Let's be honest, NO ONE LIKES to pay taxes, other than the guy who prepares yours. I would love to pay a small amount to keep the streets paved and clear of snow and assure myself that my kids get a good education, as well as cops and firefighters are plentiful, but I know that I, as a citizen, have to pony up my share. I'm all for keeping the government out of my hair as they have better things to do than screw with me. For instance, rather than tapping my phone line and paying someone good money to monitor Flannery telling me to take the books and movies back to the library as well as how her day is going, why not put this money into funding our struggling school system and help some folks who find their backs against the wall?

To the best of my knowledge, it wasn't that long ago that the Republicans spearheaded a bill to jump start the economy by sending us all a check, only after they had created the biggest debt we have ever known. I won't kid you, I cashed the check while I still could. Didn't you?

The Republicans have always backed a strong but limited central government. They have pursued this since Alexander Hamilton and I can't honestly admit that I have a problem with this, provided that the government delivers on their most basic of promises: to insure peace and domestic tranquility, to provide the services necessary for an enlightened and diverse electorate, to ensure justice, honesty, and equality to all, and to operate on the highest of standards with respect to those they serve and to be accountable for their actions.

Perhaps I missed the memo, but I haven't seen any of this. I have witnessed an administration and a party that has done none of what they promised and has violated many of the things that I hold sacred. I feel betrayed, cheapened, cheated, and short-changed by everything that they have put in place. I am deeply embarrassed by the party of Abraham Lincoln, and I can only hope that another man from Illinois can help to set things straight.

I might have made a good Republican, but the truth of the matter is, I'm just the son of a carpenter, and I can't see it their way.

God Bless America,
Doc

Random Thoughts And Questions

I can tell that the economy is in a down turn and I don't need an analyst to tell me. The grocery store where I work is running a sale on ramien noodles and it is an ongoing sale. I'd hate to be a car salesman, a jewelry salesman, or a fur dealer about now.

Have you ever gotten into the shower and just stood still under the water for a moment and then try to move and it feels like you have to peel your feet from the bottom of the shower as if they have achieved suction? Isn't that weird?

Have you ever been grumpy all day and couldn't understand why until you get home from work and peel your socks and underwear off and you instantly have a whole new outlook on life?

Why does lobster and crab meat taste sweet? I would understand if Hershey, Pa. had seafood, but I've seen what these things eat and it is very far from Twinkies.

Is it a silly question to ask a hooker for change for a five?

I would like to purchase a used but working parking meter and install it in my driveway, just so I could get visitors to contribute to my kid's college fund.

I would like to go to San Fransisco and just spend the day on the docks just so I could really understand Otis Redding.

Just once, I would like to go to a fast food establishment and receive a sandwich like the one in the picture.

I'd like to have a beer truck have a flat in front of my house. I would run out to help and the driver would look me in the eye and say, "There is no way I can jack it up when it's full! What am I going to do with all this beer?"

Why does an embarrassing itch never crop up when you are alone?

Just out of some perverse curiosity, I would like to see a book published that has been scientifically researched on the in depth study of the underwear of the clergy. I'm willing to bet my parking meter money that there are some animal prints in there somewhere.

I'd like to own a catapult and park it on the front lawn, just to show the neighbors I mean business.

Have you ever seen a car in traffic with a sticker on it saying they support local police charities? Do they think this is going to save them from a ticket? Does it?

As a seller of doughnuts, I would like to take this opportunity to shatter the myth that cops eat lots of doughnuts. In my two years in the business, I have sold a total of four doughnuts to the men in blue. Twice, I peddled two glazed doughnuts to an officer of the law and it was the same guy both times. The cops know that there is never anything good left after the firefighters have been there first.

How does a "young tart" compare with an "old slut" when youthful zeal and boundless energy are trumped by determination and experience every time? I have heard this said but don't have any experience in either, so I don't know.

We have all heard the old adage about, "You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink." I would like to add, "You can lead a horse to the track but you can't make him deliver on 20 to 1."

Have you ever thought about stewed prunes? To make them must be like Dr. Frankenstein putting a raisin into some vat of rejuvenating liquid, super-charged by lightening, and arriving at some unsightly mess that has the strength to straighten a quarter mile of crooked plumbing into a short straight stretch from the back of your mouth to it's exit. Did you know that prunes are what gives Dr. Pepper it's flavor?

What is the weirdest place you have ever had sex? Mine is Ohio, hands down.

When it comes to partying, I know my limit. Four soft taco supremes, two chili-cheese burritos, and two orders of fiesta potatoes is my limit, but I might be able to help you with those nachos if you need it.

I have often stated that I like beer. I would like to change my stance on the subject. Heretofore, I would like to go on record as saying I am overtly fond of it. I enjoy it's taste, color, and bouquet. My only objection is it's price. How can bottled water be such a big business when the only way to assure yourself of clean drinking water is to brew it into beer? There is something wrong here somewhere, I'm sure of it.

In my public school health class, the the male gym teacher who was teaching rudimentary first-aid asked the class if they could think of something that might be handy for a bandage for a bleeding wound. The class was silent. I raised my hand and suggested a kleenex, but while he agreed that this wasn't a bad answer, it wasn't the one we were looking for. "It is something designed to hold blood anyway," he hinted. The empty stares were too much after a while and he gave us the answer. "A pad," he suggested. More blank stares, as sex ed was reserved for the end of the year. "A Tampax," he said and suddenly everyone nodded their collective heads. Later on things backfired on our health teacher when we were studying alcohol and drugs. When he invited in senior students to discuss the topic of drugs and alcohol before the class, all of them had nightmarish alcohol stories, but the only girl of the whole senior group advised all of the younger girls that if they smoked enough pot they would no longer have to suffer having periods, and cramps and bloating would be a thing of the past. She was hustled off stage quickly. Pity. I liked her.

As a suggestion to help you through the tough times that seem to be looming ahead, I would like to suggest a phrase that might help ease your load. The next time you feel that the pressure has gotten too much and you are just about to burst, try this tactic. Stand up, where ever you are and shout to the heavens and the stars above, "I Need A Jiffylube!!!" You will feel much better than you can ever imagine.

Doc

Intard Unemisma

"Won't trust a ho, cuz a ho won't trust me"

3OH!3, from their song "Don't Trust Me"

***
I don't really trust a sane person.
Lyle Alzado (1949 - 1992)

***

I am always surprised at what the Word Verification field asks me to type to leave a comment on your blog. I took word verification off mine because I figured that even spam was good as it meant that someone bothered to stop by. So far, no offers to have my penis enlarged or mail order brides or anything, but I did get an interesting comment from an anoymous reader suggesting that I purchase a book regarding the "n" word.

I must admit that at times even I can't decipher what string of letters it is asking for, so I'm certain that it is an effective tool for weeding out the junk mail, but sometimes this mishmash of letters almost make sense in a way.

The other day, I'm reading Bub's article about visiting the farmers market for the last time and I leave a comment. Word Verification asks me to type "intard", and for some reason this sounds like a word I should know. And if this wasn't a word, it should be. As in, "Dave, that freakin' intard. He can only see the faults of others and is blind to his own."

Later the same evening I am reading GetkrisiLove's article about the start up of her new hockey season and I leave a comment and am confronted with "unemisma". I think this word should be added to the language as well. Unemisma is the blood-lust like desire to succeed and grasp victory where others have only tried and failed. The word's opposite is Emisma, which is what you tell the boss you had the day before and that is why you couldn't come into work that day, even though you just laid around the house watching game shows, drinking beer, and eating pizza.

Also GkL had a video from a group called 3OH!3 that advised not to trust a Ho. It is catchy and would inspire Unemisma. In an encore performance, I reproduce it here:

This is Lyle Alzado:

This isn't:
To sum it all up, just let me say: I hope you are never afflicted with intard and are overcome with unemismatic drive and zeal, even if you have occasional bouts with emisma.

Oh yeah, and Go Ice Monkeys!

Doc

The Politics of Beer

While I normally leave the political scene to better informed folks than I am, I feel it is time to speak out against an antiquated foreign policy.


Is there no way we can ease the burden of the good people of Cuba? I enjoy a good cigar every now and then, and I would gladly trade some Stroh's light for a cigar that has been hand rolled on the laps of virgins.

Doc

Your Starter Kit

Mankind has been living for quite some time, but bad shit still happens. Sure, we've learned to cure some diseases, gone to the moon, and moved a little closer to making things better. We don't have the plague anymore, and we have almost eradicated slavery. But the truth of the matter is bad shit still happens.

I'm certain you need no reminder of the date, so I won't touch on it, but bad shit doesn't always come in big packages. WW II was bad shit in a big package, but most people know bad shit in smaller packages, and on a much more "at home" basis. Lost keys, lost job, lost loved one, lost "last chance" are just a few that occur to me.

I have a friend of mine going through a tough time now and he feels like he has hit a wall, and it has bothered me for a couple of days that I can't think of one single thing to say or do to help him, and it tears me up. I can't muster up anything but reassuring words, and a fat lot of good that is going to do. I have prayed for him, but I don't kid myself into thinking that I carry much sway with the Big Guy, and I'm sure they both have a lot on their plate now.

So I started thinking about what would help alleviate the problem of bad shit, and it came to me. What life really needs is a starter kit. It could be the kind of thing that is given at baby showers, weddings, graduations, retirements, christenings, birthdays, or any occasion where there might be cake. It could be personalized, come in a variety of colors and scents, and be tailored to the person, but each would come with at least five basic things:

A BOOK: Your choice, but with any luck, it will be the one that has a great amount of wisdom in it and will be of some use to you when you need it.

First Aid Kit with Flashlight: There are a lot of bumps and bruises out there and sometimes you need a little light to avoid them.

A Camera and a "How to Improve Your Memory" tape: To record the good times.

A Sturdy, But Compact Snow Shovel: A sturdy shovel because sometimes the shit gets deep, and a compact one because it has to travel well. You never know where you are going to have to dig your way out. I've seen some nice folding ones in a camping catalog.

Cold Beer: You have got to have something to cut the dust while using the other four.

In the immortal words of Red Green, "I'm pullin' for you, and we are all in this together."

Doc

The Parable of the Coo Coo Clock.

Now it is seldom that I am accused of fostering a good idea, or for that matter any ideas, let alone coming up with anything that remotely resembles a pearl of wisdom, but I sit here before you so accused.

I was chatting with an old friend here as of late and he was telling me of his new-found dilemma. He was contemplating entering into a new relationship, but was more than a little leary as his last couple had ended so poorly. "What if this one doesn't work out? I don't know if I can take it again," he said with a groan.

"Well, it's kind of like buying a new coo coo clock," I responded.

"Huh?" he raised one eyebrow and gave me a look that told me he wasn't following my train of thought at all. For me, this is not an uncommon reaction to most of the things I say. "How so?"

"Well picture it this way: You are in the shop and you are thinking about buying a new coo coo clock. You pick out a nice one that has a wonderful chime and the carving is beautiful, but you hesitate to buy it because you know that at some point in the future it is going to break. It might break as soon as you leave the store, or it might last long enough that your great-grandchildren will get to grow up listening to it's wonderful sound, but some day, that clock is going to break."

"Yeah, so?"

"I don't know about you, but I'd rather take the chance, and perhaps listen to that clock for years, than to sit in silence and wonder how much richer my life might have been with that pleasant little chime every quarter hour."

He scratched his cheek and blew out a long plume of smoke from his cigarette and thought a minute. "That's quite a parable," was all he could say. After that he turned and began to walk away.

"Where are you going?" I asked with a little surprise, as I thought our conversation was just getting started.

"I'm going to go buy a coo coo clock," he said with a smile and a wave.

Doc

A Quandry

Well now way back in the Bible, temptations always come along

There's always somebody tempting

Somebody into doing something they know is wrong

Well they tempt you man with silver and they tempt you sir with gold

And they tempt you with the pleasures that the flesh does surely hold

They say Eve tempted Adam with an apple

Man I ain't going for that

I know it was her pink cadillac

Crushed velvet seats

Riding in the back, oozing down the street

Waving to the girls

Feeling out of sight

Spending all my money on a Saturday night

Honey, I just wonder what you do there in back of your pink cadillac?

Bruce Springsteen, Pink Cadillac.

I've heard this song many times over the years, as I'm sure most people have, but it just occurred to me today that the pink cadillac could be a euphemism for p*ssy.

Maybe I need a beer. Here to explain it is Jerry Lee Lewis.

Doc
P.S.- I just figured out I could change the color of the text. In another year or two I might have this blogger thing mastered.

Beerfest, a movie review.

It isn't often that I review a movie here at Social Zymurgy, but this film seemed appropriate. Brought to you by those funny guys of Broken Lizard Productions who also did one of Flannery's favorites, "Super Troopers".

I can honestly say, without any reservations whatsoever, that I, as an audience member, have never been pandered to in such a blatent manner, and I loved it. The only other film I can think of that even comes close was seeing Julie Andrews topless in S.O.B. while William Holden swilled bourbon and admired her off-screen.

Now I am rarely considered a viable demographic as far as Hollywood is conscerned. I just don't seem to fit in their market studies for some reason. But this silly movie "had me at hello" with Donald Sutherland playing the dying grandfather in his hospital bed gulping beers and playing with a doll named Po-Po. And while the cast is peppered with funny and talented actors, I have to say that the indomitable Cloris Leachman steals the whole movie as the tender, yet horny, Great Gam Gam. The scene with the summer sausage is one I could watch over and over again. The writers even gave her the best lines of the whole film, "If you can drink ram's piss, fuck, you can drink almost anything!" and, "I always sleep better with a little sausage in me."

This scene is in the following clip, but you must be patient, as it is five minutes into it, but well worth the wait. Let's watch...

If you haven't seen this film, do so as a personal favor to me. Call up some buddies and put your favorite suds on ice and lots of them, as this film *WILL* make you thirsty. Don't watch this movie without beer! You could do irrepairable harm to your tongue, liver, kidneys, and reproductive organs.

And while you wait for Netflix to get off their ass and get this movie into your hot little hands, you may as well enjoy some tunes. Here is a song intitled "Beer" by Reel Big Fish.

Cheers!

Doc

An Innocent In The Woods Of The World Wide Web

While I spend a great deal of time on the computer, I only know enough about it to make it do the handful of things that I use it for. I know how to check my Email, but I always have trouble sending one. I can start up and run the couple of games that I play on it, but always run into some sort of snag when I try to load up something new. I can find my way around blogdom, but am easily stymied by even the simplest of web pages. I can easily say, without any reservation at all, I am a technological boob, and this has gotten me into trouble before.

I had never used a computer before Flannery and I started dating. She grew up with one in front of her as her dad worked for IBM for some twenty odd years. She knew how to use it. She knew how to program it. Hell, she could put one together from a box of four thousand pieces and make the little s.o.b. stand up and howl if she wanted to. It took me three days to figure out that the little switch that had an "O" and an "l" by it was the one to turn it on and off. I even had to ask her why they didn't just label it "off/on" or "power." Then she explained that these were universal emblems for people who don't speak English. Then I had her explain why the keyboard wasn't laid out in alphabetical order. Yes, I am a bit of a dunderhead.

Well, the first year that we were married we both worked for the world's largest photocopier company and one day I was just too sick to go, so I stayed home and she left to bring home the bacon. I moped around the house for most of the day and I just couldn't find anything to distract me from the fact that I felt terrible. Daytime t.v. sucks, we didn't have any movies that I hadn't seen, and I just couldn't concentrate enough to read, so I took a couple of slugs of NyQuil and turned on the computer. This was my first time messing with the thing by myself as I was always afraid that one wrong keystroke would ruin the thing, but being under the influence of a small overdose of cold medicine had emboldened me.

I went to the Internet. I kept hearing what a modern marvel this Internet thing was, and how it was rapidly becoming the grand repository for all of the knowledge that mankind had gathered to date, almost surpassing the Great Library of ancient Egypt. I had also heard that it was overflowing with porn.

So I tightened my robe around me and took a swig of my hot tea and went to see what was out there. I clicked on the little box that was where you typed in what you were looking for and put in every dirty word for anatomy I could think of. Nothing. I tried a different tactic. I typed in the name of an disreputable men's magazine. Aha, results! There on our little twelve inch screen were breasts of a grossly disproportionate size. This was interesting in much the same way as seeing the ocean for the first time. It was very large, made a lot of noise, was fun to dip into, but leaves a very bad taste in your mouth. I was quickly bored and went to seek out something that would really interest me, namely the three hundred page gun catalog from Heckler & Koch. I left the porn website, or so I thought, and began looking at fine, high quality firearms that I would never be able to afford. At the bottom of the page for H & K was a button where you could have them send you this glorious catalog of guns, right to your very door, for five dollars shipping. I poked around a bit until I found the page where you send them your name and address and your credit card number to cover the shipping. I filled it out and sent it off. The screen went blank. So I did it again. Name, address, card number, etc., and sent it off and the screen went blank again. After the third time and I still got the same blank screen, I gave up and took a nap.

At the end of the month when Flannery was doing the bills, she called me over and asked me, point blank, why I had purchased $200 worth of porn time from Hustler, not once, but three times. I didn't have an answer because I was busy wondering why the hell my new gun catalog hadn't come in the mail yet. For a long time I didn't use the computer without supervision, and rightly so.

In the fifth year of our marriage, just after my four years of computer probation were up, I heard of the phenomenon of using Google to find yourself on the web, so I tried it. I put in my name and sent the search engine looking for me, just out of the perverse curiosity of seeing if I was listed and what people were saying about me. It pulled up a long list of names but only one was even close to the way I spell mine. Without really reading the fine print, I clicked on it and as I was waiting for the page to change I noticed that it said, "see SoandSo nude!" The page changed and suddenly I am presented with some young, buff looking Englishman who is obviously displaying himself for the entertainment of the same sex. Now keep in mind, I am using Flannery's work computer and I am doing this at our kitchen table and my pregnent wife and our little girl are in the next room playing. I scramble to close this offending website and as I do, six more of the same ilk, or worse, pop up. I keep clicking on the little x's in the top right hand corner and for every one I close, I get three more. I'm sweating, I'm swearing softly, and the panic of what is going on is really starting to set in as I can hear Flannery grunting as she is struggling to get her distended self off the sofa. I'm clicking at a furious pace but I can't seem to get pictures of young men doing things in the barnyard off the screen. If Flannery sees this, she is going to think that I have gone to play for the other team because she is no longer desireable now because of her present condition. I have spent enough time around pregnent women to know how fragile their ego is at this point.

In a stroke of brilliance I yank the power cord, but it never occured to me the damn thing has a battery. Sure the images fade a bit, but there are still groups of sweaty men rolling around in the hay. I poke the power button and the computer stays on. I hold down the power button until the screen turns a welcome black. I look up to see Flannery over my shoulder and I blanche. "Found some porn have ya?" she says as if she was commenting on the heighth of the corn this time of year. I try to explain, it was a simple mistake I sputter, I was looking for me and this pops up and they just keep coming, I couldn't stop them, Oh God! I don't want a Divorce! She smiles and turns the computer back on and with a couple of clicks turns the pop ups off and then gets a Diet Coke and heads back to the living room without another word.

God Bless her, she is a good ol' girl, in as much as I'm a computer dufus.

Doc

Some New Words For Your Next Brannigan

Sorry I haven't posted more often but I've been having trouble wrestling the computer away from the kids. I just can't seem to peel them away from it. I'm going to have to buy one of my own, that's all there is to it. Just goes to show I'm like everyone else, I don't have my tax refund yet and it is already spent.

Anyway, since I've been denied my digital reading, I've gone back to the old fashioned kind, an interesting book called "Totally Weird and Wonderful Words" by Erin McKean. I'm always looking for new ways to add to my paltry education and this seemed like something that might be fun to share. The book is laid out like a dictionary which is nice for those of us who have a short attention span, but I'm only as far as K, so I reckon there will have to be one more installment. So without further ado:

• brannigan [bran-ig-in] a drinking bout, a spree or binge.
• crapulous [krap-yoo-luhs] relating to drunkenness or the drinking of alcohol. adj. crapulent. noun, crapulence. It comes from a Latin word meaning 'inebriation,' itself based on a Greek word meaning 'drunken headache.'
• drazel [drazz-zle] a slut.
• drinkdom [dringk-dum] the influence of the alcoholic beverage industry, or the power of drink.
• epithymy [i-pith-uh-mee] a rare word meaning 'desire, lust.'
• ergophobic [er-guh-foh-bik] someone who fears work.
• Fescennine [fes-suh-neen] an obscene or insulting song or verses.
• furciferous [fur-sif-er-us] an adjective meaning 'like a rascal.'
• halch [halch] to hug or embrace.
• houghmagandy [hahk-muh-gan-dee] sexual intercourse with a person one is not married to.
• ithyphallic [ith-ee-fal-ik] an adjective meaning 'indecent, obscene,' from association with its other meaning, 'having an erect phallus.' It comes from the practice of carrying a phallus in procession at festivals of Bacchus.
• jargogle [jar-goh-gle] an obscene verb meaning 'to confuse, to mix up.'
• jirble [jur-ble] to spill liquid by unsteady movement of the container; to pour liquid from vessel to vessel.
• jumentous [joo-men-tuhs] a very rare adjective meaning 'resembling horse's urine.'

In further updates I will provide a plethora of words meaning fornication. Now who can use the most of their new-found vocabulary in their comment? The winner gets a halch, or a drazel, their choice. Also any fescennines would be welcome too.

Doc

The American Center

This morning I was awoken by the telephone. I opened one sleepy eye to glance at the little screen to see who was calling. The screen read "The American Center", and cut off there. I'm sure if I bothered to answer the phone I would have learned what center they were refering to, but even half asleep, I knew they were going to want some of my money, and I just don't have any to spare.

So I hung up on them and went back to sleep.

As I drifted back into slumber, the words "The American Center" kept rolling around in my head. I wondered what I would find at the American center? As I drifted into R.E.M. I knew what I'd find.

Nougat. Lots and lots of nougat.



Doc

WACKALOONS: The Best Idea I've Heard All Damn Day.

Please, take eight minutes of your time and give this a gander. I have always respected George Carlin for his wit and insight, but after seeing this clip, I think he needs to be on the ballot. Although, should his idea be put in place, my next post may be from Colorado, but that's okay. I like Coors beer.

I don't know if this would work, but T.V. would be a lot more interesting.

Doc

Do Not Invite Me to Your Parties...

If for no other reason than this: I sing and dance like Joe Cocker. I do. It was only at 11:53, Oct. 17th, 2007 that I made this discovery, but I can quickly see why I have rarely ever been invited to a second party thrown by the same person. Granted, the right music has to be playing, such as "Pink Cadillac" by either Bruce Springsteen or Aretha Franklin, "Detroit is Burning" by John Lee Hooker, or anything by The Refreshments, B.B. King, Tom T. Hall, or AC/DC; but sometimes, much like Tina Turner, "any old music will do."

I was cruising Youtube and came across this clip of Joe Cocker at Woodstock and it was as if the veil had been lifted from my eyes. It was like watching a home movie that I am in, but never remembering when it was shot, where it was, and who all these people are. I'm not sure, but I think Mr. Cocker's recollection of this show might be a little vague as well. Just a guess 'though.



Yep. That's me, right down to the air guitar. I could never sport those sideburns, but I've found enough change in the sofa to buy a tie-dyed T-shirt, and with any luck, my hairline will start to receed any day now. Hell, I could go as Joe Cocker for Halloween. I've got all of his moves down and didn't even know it.



Doc

P.S. The Author is available for birthdays, square dances, bar and bat mitvas, and even the opening of new malls, off ramps, and bridges. Contact us early as some dates have already been reserved.



**Editor's Note** In no way do we here at SZ,tcob endorce "getting stoned." This is a highly immoral and harmful act. Trust us. If you find that you are being assaulted by your friends and neighbors with small chunks of limestone, quartz, fieldspar, marble, sandstone, flint, or even lava rocks, there has been a poor choice or some bad judgement in your recent past. Look into that and stay off the drugs. **Editor's Note**

Gentle Reader, It Saddens Me...

It seems that the price of beer is going up. In a short article in Newsweek they cite the fact that farmers are planting more corn for biodiesel, and a lot less barley. Less barley, means a higher price for the crop come harvest time. Prices for barley are up 79% in 11 months.

They also mention higher demand for steel for kegs, and glass. The U.S. reports keg shortages as well as the price of the average pint up 3.8%. Scottish and Newcastle, big time brewers in the U.K., raised prices 3.9% in March. In Feb. Hieneken predicted the cost would rise 7-8%. In Germany at Oktoberfest a liter was $10.90, up a dollar from '05. And get this, South African Brewers, yes Miller Beer Inc. has had trouble getting glass as well as having trouble filling orders. To make up for the whole mess, they are going to raise their prices.

Now as I see it, this is a powerful encouragement to start recycling, and if you have an old keg in the basement, you know, left over from your college days, now might be a good time to turn it in.

And if you are like me and get tired of mowing so much grass every summer, now might be a good time to consider having a garden next summer. Just sit down with your loved one and explain how you want to plant the whole backyard in barley so you start brewing your own beer in the fall. Tell them how it can be a project that the two of you can share together and how this will be good quality time. If that doesn't seal the deal, appeal to their logic and thriftyness. Tell them that this will save a lot of money out of the family budget, as well as get the kids "back to nature" and get them out of the house and doing something useful. It that still dosen't quite convince them, then promise to name the beer after them and throw them a party.

If any of this works with your loved one, tell me. I need something good to get Flannery to go for it.

Doc

The Tangled Webs We Weave: Part IX

My friend Megan comes out to the Sunday night rave party with me occasionally and has now decided she wants the bartender, Mike. So she writes her number down and asks me to give it to him. I take it to Mike and he says "I don't call girls, they call me" and won't take the number. I asked him "what the fuck kinda answer is that?" He just shook his head, gave me my drink and told me to go sit down and figure it out. So the next time I get back to the bar, I ask him if he would like Megan to call him and I will give her his number. He dodges the issue and says that if I promise to write a story for my magazine on him and the club, he will have a Cleveland Browns party just for me here at the bar during the first pre-season game. He says he'll let me paint his head like a Browns helmet for the party too. And he writes down his phone number and gives it to me. So I ask him, "do you want me to give it to Megan and tell her to call you?" And he says "Take the number and do what you want with it." Again, I asked what the hell that was supposed to mean and was once again told to go sit my ass down and figure it out. I didn't give Megan the number, I told her it was just the number to the club so I can arrange a meeting about the story. I still don't know whether he wants her to have the number or not so I just kept it. The story thing isn't going to work out until at least November or so.

The good news is that Bookbag saw all this and was left more than welcome to draw his own conclusions. haha...the "big talk" will have to come soon:

"So what's with you and Mike?"
"Nothing as of right now. I haven't had the time to call or see him, so until that happens, I can't really say anything. Why?"
"Oh, I just figured if you were hooking up with Mike that you were done being after me."
"Mmmm. Sort of, yeah. I guess it's just become less that I care because I'm after you and more that I care because I'm concerned for your well-being and I don't see things turning out very well for you. I think you're going to end up getting hurt, and if I keep pursuing you I'm going to get hurt too."
"Why? What do you mean?"
"I just-I see your life getting worse before it gets better. I think you're setting yourself up for a situation where you're going to get stuck in something you can't get out of. I'm sure you do love your girlfriend, but you have no job, no way to support yourself, and nowhere else to go. Even if you did want to leave her, you couldn't. See, she's getting tired of being the girlfriend. She wants to get married and you really don't. One of three things could happen here and none of them look good for you...or me, for that matter.
She's gonna get tired of pushing the marraige bit and just boot your ass onto the street and be done with you. Kind of like an ultimatum: marry me or get out.
Or, she'll tell you she wants a baby and blow the hole wide the fuck open. I know through direct conversation that her biological clock is ticking and that she's starting to think about it...and she's only 27. That instinct is only going to get worse as she gets older.
And if you don't want a marraige and you don't want a baby, she'll do what she can to ensure that you do get her pregnant (condom broke, forgot a pill, etc.) and then you might as well marry her. You're stuck for the rest of your life and she's gotten everything she wanted anyway.
Regardless, it just sucks to be you, period. Let's face it, it would in your best interest to be with me, but it's in my best interest that you just stay with what you got."

Last Saturday Night...

I was hanging out at the Tiki. It was me and Frank and John and Michelle. Michelle asked everyone how they saw time. She saw time as months laid out in a patchwork pattern that repeated annually.

I see time as a helix that rotates up a year at a time, kind of like a waterslide in reverse.

How do you see time?