Archive for April, 2010

Somebody please make this into a movie (or bring me coffee)

Posted in Uncategorized on April 29, 2010 by tom

If you remember, in 1999 the world was swept with Y2K hysteria.  People expected great cataclysms and gnashing of teeth as all computers failed and airplanes fell from the sky. It passed with barely a yawn.

One country music fan named Jimmie Lee Erhart was worried, too.  Erhart wasn't concerned about the possibility of social collapse, but the over-wussification of country music.  Erhart, Professor of Genetics at Vanderbilt University College of Medicine, determined that the current reign of "Nash Vegas" music must not go unchallenged.

He made some calls. One night, deep in the mountains between Nashville and Chattanooga, Dr Erhart was visited by four special travelers. The Highwaymen, too, were worried about this wussification, and they swore an oath to preserve the Outlaw tradition. Dr. Erhart wasn't alone in his mountain lair that night.  With him were Annie Laurie Hawkins–drunk 32 year-old countergirl at an East Pittsburgh, Tennessee, truckstop/fireworks outlet–and Tammy Jo Owens, hard-working waitress at an I-24 Waffle House.

Annie Laurie's job was simple–collect sperm samples from each of the Highwaymen.  (For Annie Laurie, four sperm samples was a slow Friday night, especially with the rohypnol Dr. Erhart added to her Jack Daniel's)

Tammy Jo, however, was a sacred vessel. She didn't drink to excess or do drugs.  She worked the late shift at the Waffle House–scattering, smothering, and covering hashbrowns for cross-country truckers–and took classes at Humbolt County Community College, working towards an LPN degree.  Tammy Jo had all but raised her four younger sisters after momma ran off with the traveling Gospel quartet, and daddy started drinking.  Tammy Jo loved babies.

Good thing.

Because Tammy Jo Owens would be impregnated before the night ended.  Dr. Erhart carefully mixed the sperm samples Annie Laurie collected for him–decorum precludes describing the methods she used, but there were no complaints among the Highwaymen–then ran the stuff through his special "spunkfector" process, combining the best traits from each Outlaw. Songwriting from Kris Kristofferson, voice from Johnny Cash, Attitude from Waylon Jennings, and the impossible longevity gene from Willie Nelson.  Tammy Jo had no idea what hit her: Dr. Erhart chloroformed her outside the Waffle House, and Kristofferson flew them to the lair in his Bell Jet Ranger helicopter.

The next morning, Tammy Jo awoke with a headache.  She was home in her bed.  Waylon and Johnny Cash had set up her apartment to look like she'd had the flu–a NyQuil bottle with the top off, empty BC Powder packets in the bathroom garbage can, glass of orange juice by the bed.  Willie had his daughter Paula Carlene call the Waffle House impersonating Tammy Jo, telling her manager she was deathly ill with the flu.

Several months later, Tammy Jo gave birth to a baby boy. She was going to name him Robert after her father, but somehow the birth certificate read "Shooter."

Shooter was an ornery but loving little boy.  Tammy Jo finished her LPN training, and went on to work at Rebel Ridge Nursing Home.  It was funny, but Tammy Jo seemed to win a lot of things from country radio stations.  She won a new Ford truck from a Nashville station.  She won a brand new home from Country Music Television.  Funny, though, she didn't remember entering either of these contests.

And every night, when little Shooter–now ten years-old–goes to sleep, the spectral forms of Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings watch over him, whispering song lyrics into his ear.

(and this is what happens when the 7-Eleven soda fountain spits out grape soda instead of Diet Mountain Dew–no caffeine, and sugar=insanity)

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Posted in Uncategorized on April 25, 2010 by tom

Had to share this, which is exactly what would happen were I to purchase such an item.


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Saturday Update

Posted in Uncategorized on April 25, 2010 by tom

I was chatting with my dear friend and Vox neighbor Ginger Sister, when up popped the topic of Voxing.  We both lamented that we've been negligent in our posting habits.  I haven't been posting much because my home computer died, and I either have to write at work or try and type big thoughts on tiny little DorkFone buttons. 

Ginger Sister has a far different reason.  It started with a beer after work with Dave, the guy who works in Ginger's hospital's kitchen.  Well, one beer turned into 15 beers and 5 Jägermeister shots, as happy hour became extremely happy hour.  Tempus fugited, and before Ginger knew it, Tami the bartender was giving last call.

Ginger Sister pulled a wad of hundreds out of her bra, tossed two on the bar, and walked outside.

Across the parking lot, a giant Escalade with tinted windows revved its engines and flashed its highbeams. The Escalade pulled up. The driver rolled down her window. Ginger broke out into a grin.

"Lindsay freakin' Lohan?"

"Ginger freakin' Sister?"

The two BFF's hugiggled.  Dave smiled awkwardly. 

"Get your ass in here girl.  Who's the geek?"

"Dave from work."

"Dave from work, I'm Lindsay from boarding school.  Now get your ass in the back."

The Escalade smelled like patchouli and sex. As she pulled out on Old Brickyard Road, Lindsay reached into the cooler between the front seats, pulled out two wide-mouth bottles of Mickey's Malt Liquor, and handed one to Ginger.

"Good Lord! I haven't drunk the chug-and-chuck Mickey's since we stole the Headmaster's Benz and drove to Atlantic City."

"I KNEW you'd remember, Gingie, even though you were so drunk you ended up yarking all over the back seat."

"It wasn't the beer, Linds.  It was watching you make out with that Portuguese croupier while you drove."

"Yeah, yeah."  The two redheads clinked bottles, then chugged the contents all in one.  Lindsay belched basso profundo.  Ginger Sister laughed, opened her window, and nailed a street-sign with her empty bottle.

"Nice one.  Watch this!" Lindsay sped up, pulling alongside a pickup truck.  Now going 80 miles an hour, she eased left, then threw the bottle into the truck's bed.  The alarmed truck driver veered into the emergency lane and stopped.  Lindsay waved and kept on driving.  Ginger Sister grabbed two more Mickey's from the cooler, passing one to Lindsay.

"I've really missed you, Gingie."

"Me too, hon."

As the Escalade strayed into the other lane, Dave coughed nervously in the back seat.

"Oh, fuck off, Dave from work." The girls laughed.

The radio started "Sweet Child o' Mine," and Ginger shrieked.

"This is my favorite song!"

"Mine, too! Don't forget, I was with you in Vancouver that night!" shouted Lindsay, reaching for the volume knob.

The two girls sang along at the tops of their lungs.


In the back seat, Dave had gone from drunk-giddy to drunk-grumpy. "Can you turn that down?"

Lindsay reared her head back and laughed.  "Fuck off, Dave from work, ya fuckin' weenis."

The girls laughed; Slash wailed; Dave groaned.

Old Brickyard Highway merged into I-69.

"HAH! We're 69-ing," Lindsay shouted.  Ginger laughed, opened her window, and nailed an exit sign with her empty.

"Damn, girl.  Great arm."

"Thanks." Ginger opened two more beers and handed one to Lindsay.

"Um, where are we going?" Dave asked from the back seat.

"Oh, Dave from work.  You are such a killjoy."

"But I have to work tomorrow!" Ginger drained the last from a fifth of Old Crow, turned around in her seat, and smashed the bottle across Dave's head.

"Call in sick," she purred, as Dave collapsed in a bloody heap. 

The girls laughed. "Let's go to Canada–I'd love some bacon."

I-69 gave way to I-94, and on to Detroit.  At the border crossing, Officer Gary St.John of the RCMP walked up to Escalade. Immediately, he recognized Lindsay Lohan and Ginger Sister–their 2008 transcontinental spree of vandalism, petty theft and public urination is still taught at the RCMP Academy. 

"YOU! You're THEM!"

Lindsay gunned the Escalade, crashing through the barrier, and speeding into the Ontario night.  The big Caddy ate up the road, till Lindsay spotted a landmark she recognized.  Ginger SIster opened a pint of Evan Williams and took a weary swig.

"Hang on, toots. We're going off-road."

Lindsay pushed the 4X4 button on the dash, and turned down a narrow, weedy track. The Escalade bounced and creaked for about a quarter mile till they came to a small cabin.  Lindsay stopped in front of the cabin. "I have some guns stashed here.  Let's load up.  And I gotta pee."

The girls walked into the cabin.  While Ginger Sister visited the little girls' room, Lindsay slid aside a giant bookcase, revealing a small arsenal.  Uzis, an M-16, a pump shotgun with a sawed-off barrel, and more handguns than Plaxico Burress's glove box. Lindsay tucked a Glock 9mm into her waistband, and grabbed an Uzi.  Ginger tucked the sawed off shotgun into her trenchcoat, slid a Beretta into her left pocket, and smiled as she picked up the big, chromed .44 Magnum.

"Aww, Linds.  You remembered!"

Lindsay gave her friend a kiss on the cheek. "I remember how heartbroken you were when we had to throw Betsy down that Toledo storm-drain."

Ginger smiled, remembering all the store windows they'd shot out and drunks they rolled.

The girls walked outside, only to see three rabid caribou, tearing Dave's flesh from his trampled carcass.

"Looks like Mr. Wonderful got out to pee at the wrong time," Lindsay mused. Ginger shook her head, then noticed that Dave had her pint of Evan Williams in one of his hands. 

"That thieving mother…" Ginger pulled out the Magnum, and shot the caribou dead. She gingerly (grin) stepped over a caribou carcass, and grabbed her bottle out of Dave's hand. She smeared caribou blood on her cheeks, guzzled the rest of the whiskey, threw the bottle high in the air, and with a primal yell, blasted it out of the air.

The shot echoed across the woods. Then there was a click, and a soft, deep voice said, "Ms Lohan? Ms Sister? Real slowly now, I need ya to put your guns on the ground, and put your hands up."

The girls looked at each other, then saw that there were nine more Mounties walking slowly from behind trees. Lindsay shook her head, and gently set the Uzi on the ground.  Ginger followed suit, and the two old partners-in-crime were taken into RCMP custody.

The Mounties found a gram of cocaine in the glove box, and a rocket-propelled grenade launcher in the back of the Escalade, not to mention three dead caribou, and the well-gnawed dead Dave.  Ginger Sister was charged and convicted on two counts of littering–a third degree felony in Canada.  Lindsay Lohan pleaded out to one count of Accessory to Littering, a misdemeanor.  She paid a $5000 fine, and as a public service, was forbidden to make any more movies for two years.  Ginger Sister just finished her prison sentence.*

Which is why she hasn't voxed much. 

Like I said, I've been busy at work, and my home computer died.

So that's why we haven't written more.

Have a great weekend.


*-I should mention that Ginger Sister's only imprisonment was in this ridiculous story. Oh, and Lindsay Lohan didn't do any of this junk either…this time, anyway.


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Words, Glorious Words

Posted in Uncategorized on April 17, 2010 by tom

I've known my entire life that I'm just not quite like the other kids in the proverbial class.  Other than being Hagridian in stature, of course, and being utterly clueless in interpersonal relationships.  The language has always fascinated me.  I like words, but sometimes I find myself using words that cause people to look at me askance.

Herewith, a partial list of confuzzling words and phrases I use:

  • Askance: (adj) with skepticism or disapproval, "I find myself using words that cause people to look at me askance."
  • Confuzzling: (adj) confusing and puzzling, "To me, women are inherently confuzzling."
  • Hagridian: (adj) unusually large, half-Giant, "Not only is Tom Hagridian, his head is the size of Neptune."
  • Recalcitrant (adj) stubborn, "Ana-Sofia Vargas was recalcitrant in her refusal to obey."
  • Peripatetic (adj) prone to wandering, "I couldn't farm, because (the supervisor) was all peripatetic and shit."
  • Shitfuck (interjection), Gosh.
  • Sugarbooger (noun), darling, honey, "I need a hug, sugarbooger."
  • Head full of puddin (noun), serious lack of common sense or intelligence, "Jeez, that woman marrying Larry King must have a head full of puddin."
  • Unconscionable (adj), lacking in conscience, "Neglecting to brush HRH Ana-Sofia Vargas would be unconscionable"
  • Coño (interjection), Well….this one I picked up from a friend who got it from some Puerto Rican friends.  In this context, it means "damn" or thereabouts.  However, in other Latin American countries, it's synonymous with a rude term for the female genitals. Yikes.
  • Amenable (adj): disposed or willing to comply, "After I said "Me cago en el coño de tu madre," the Latin gang member was amenable to cutting out my pancreas. 
  • Not your/my/his/her/their first rodeo, syn for "I know what I'm doing, dumbass."
  • Not even the sharpest SPOON in the drawer, "Is stupid."
  • Balls! (interj), "RUBBISH!"
  • Nardsack (noun), a place where men carry "RUBBISH!"
  • Bereft, (adj), deprived of, "The dying plant was bereft of water."
  • Oh, hell's bells Orv (I had a boss who used to say this, and somehow I picked it up) "Oh, hell's bells, Orv, that's an ugly-ass dress."
  • Obfuscate, (verb) to muddle, "Your language is bereft of clarity, thus obfuscating your point."
  • Precisely (adv) exactly.  "So, you're saying there's never too much gravy on the country-fried steak?" "Precisely!"
  • Chubbalicious (adv) womanly, "_____ isn't one of those pipe cleaners–she's chubbalicious."
  • Fucktard (noun), Idiot, "That fucktard brought my chubbalicious girlfriend mashed potatoes bereft of gravy!"
  • Megalonmaniacal (adv), afflicted with delusions of grandeur, "What a megalomaniacal fucktard that Napoleon was."
  • RUBBISH! (interj), "Balls!"
  • That's comedy (Another one my former boss used to say)
  • Reduviidae (noun) the family of true bugs
  • Punkin, (noun) syn for Stacey, ie "Hey, Punkin. Wanna grab dinner Sunday?"
  • Sugarplum, (noun) beloved one, "Don't worry about a sitter, Punkin.  You can bring the sugarplums too."
  • Spectacular (adj) awesome, "You want to? That's spectacular!"
  • Y'all (noun), you (singular or plural), "Y'all know what a dodecahedron is?"
  • Dodecahedron (noun) a polygon, "In geometry, the rhombic dodecahedron is a convex polyhedron with 12 rhombic faces. It is an Archimedean dual solid, or a Catalan solid. Its dual is the cuboctahedron.  What are y'all, stupid? "

I'm sure there are more words and phrases I abuse.  Feel free to add any of these to your own jargon, or leave any of your personal favorites in Comments.  I leave you with two odd sentences involving beer:

From The Daily Mail (UK): "The Duchess of Cornwall cracked a bottle of beer–brewed by the sub's crew–on her prow to officially name the "boat," in Navy jargon before she was gingerly wheeled out of her shed at the stately speed of one meter per minute."  O_o

And from a story about city workers who took 500 cases of expired beer from a Columbia, MO, landfill: "City officials say they still don't know what happened to the beer."  Um…DUH?

Have a great weekend!

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Famous Clown Missing: World Rejoices!

Posted in Uncategorized on April 16, 2010 by tom

Okay, that's not nice.  Ronald McDonald was a perfectly wonderful human clown-being, whose Ronald McDonald Houses have brought aid and comfort to families in their times of need. 

Mr. McDonald, of course, lived in a a different time, in a McDonaldland ruled by Mayor McCheese, a talking cheeseburger.  The chief of the local gendarmerie was Big Mac, a good natured Irish two-patty burger with 1000 Island dressing.  Poor Big Mac was  plagued by the Hamburgler, who specialized in grand theft sandwich, and Captain Crook, a pirate who wreaked his own sort of havoc on the land-locked McDonaldland.  Oh! And there were Goblins, strange jellyfish-looking creatures who stole French fries with no regard for personal property laws or sodium intake.  Apparently, the only two residents of McDonaldland were noted clown, Ronald McDonald, and the Grimace, a giant, mentally challenged purple carpet.

You'd think this would be why people object to Ronald McDonald: because he's creepy and lives in a strange, crime-riddled neighborhood. It's worse. 

Imagine my confuzzled shock when I visited, and found the following headline:

The disappearance of Ronald McDonald

Oh, dear Lord, they killed him? Abducted him? Sent him to the retirement place where Amelia Earhart and Howard Hughes reside? All because he was odd and lives in a self-created world that makes Willy Wonka and Michael Jackson and their respective kingdoms of lunacy seem sane?

Nope.  It was because of people like "academic" Raj Patel, who opined, "Ronald is more of a Hamburgler, dipping into our pockets with our children’s fingers."

Sorry.  There are plenty of reasons to retire Ronald McDonald.  He's had a long and accomplished career, and it's time to hang up his floppy shoes. But for cryin' out loud, let's make him go away because he's creepy, not because he's robbing children. 

Then we can work on that phantasmagoric plastic-faced Burger King freak.

Happy Friday!


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Saturday Mental Chex Mix

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on April 10, 2010 by tom
  • Some,  unusual things happen.  Today just seems to be one of those days where my brain is operating in a different format than the world.
  • It’s sorta like seeing “Pushing Daisies” after watching 24: the over-saturated colors made everything dreamy.
  • No, I didn’t drop acid before work.  I’m just high on life (and Diet Dr Pepper)
  • And what was Dr. Pepper’s background? I can’t imagine he was an Endocrinologist, Psychiatrist, or especially a Dentist (sugar and caramel coloring are typically not prescribed in the Dentist’s formulary).  In the list of common medical specialties, you don’t see “Pepper” between “family practice” and “Internal Medicine.”
  • When I worked at the TPC Prestancia, we had a member who was named Ronald Doctor.  He was an Optometrist. 
  • He was Dr. Doctor.  No lie.
  • When I was in high school, I underwent a two-day testravaganza at Eckerd College’s Career and Personal Counseling Center.  Their results strongly recommended that I become an Optometrist.
  • This would be brilliant! I’m intelligent! Personable! Kind!
  • …and I have this thing about eyes. 
  • Seriously, eyes freak me out.  When a Visine commercial comes on TV, I either look away or change channels.  When my own Optometrist (Dr. Shettle) told me I needed glasses, he offered to fit me for contacts.
  • I laughed my ass-tigmatism off. 
  • Strangely, I’m not squeamish.  Blood and guts don’t bother me.  I cut a wart off of my own ankle once.  Dear Lord, after the Fournier’s Gangrene adventure, nothing freaks me out. 
  • Except eyeballs.  I don’t get it.
  • So I was thinking…this huge battery of tests and interviews decided I’d be perfect for the job that I’m organically incapable of doing.  What does that say?
  • Sometimes, I feel like I’m a giant collection of data.  If you ask me a question, I’ll answer it.  There are billions of infobits in my noggin, swirling around. If you could go into my mind with a broom, and organize things, you could probably make a case for any number of ideal career choices.
  • The thing is, having the data doesn’t mean the conclusion is valid.
  • It’s the same way that I like peanut butter, shrimp, and jalapeno cheese dip, but I wouldn’t want them combined in a bowl.
  • I’m a walking non sequitur.
  • Were I to ponder what makes humans human, I’d describe us as a "mind" (giant swirls of individual data nuggets (thoughts, memories, factoids)) controlled by a powerful, intangible force or "soul."
  •  The new Dorkphone Ultra-Turbo 9500 XL has taken a picture of the mind and soul:

  • Basically, the “soul” is what makes us use the data nuggets the way we do.

  • For example, a vector-borne biomedicist’s soul might use mosquito data nuggets  to control malaria or dengue fever in poor countries.  My tom soul just thinks bugs are cool.
  • Oddly, bug eyes never annoyed me.
  • Holy shit, maybe I’m really an insect!
  • If I were, I’d want to be in family Reduviidae.  They look like bugs from a Transformers movie.


    • And they’re what entomologists call “true bugs.”

  • Proper.  Don’t mess with us, else we’ll pop a proboscis in yo’ ass, ‘cause we’re the True Bugs.
  • I apologize for the previous sentence. 
  • So today is one of those days where things look odd.  A large fuzzy cat ran out from under my truck.  I’ve seen her before—my neighbors and I feed her and give her water—so I wasn’t freaked out or anything.  But it was a little odd.
  • Then I saw the real-life wheelbug.
  • In actuality, it was a guy on a ninja motorcycle, speeding up MLK.  He (the biker, not Dr Martin Luther King) was wearing a backpack, out of which extruded the handles of two softball bats.  These handles extended above his shiny black helmet, thus resembling two antennae.
  • A day that starts with a Speedy Ninja Bug blasting north at 80 mph just has to be interesting.
    • I just hope said bug’s guts wash off of my windshield.
  • ‘Cause the True Bugs don’t play nice with Speedy Ninja Bugs, savvy?
  • Once again
  • …sorry.
  • Have a great weekend!
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    Ana-Sofia Vargas does NOT approve of this (Wind wouldn’t wake up)

    Posted in Uncategorized on April 2, 2010 by tom

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