Wednesday, June 30, 2004

Oh, and one more thing...

oh yeah (almost forgot),

while I am mulling over a name for the New Character, she asked that I remind everyone she totally digs chick-on-chick action. In fact, I distinctly remember her writing (just today, in fact)

"And tons of girl-on-girl, please. I can't imagine living a day where there wasn't at least some girl-on-girl. God, I love that stuff. I even like writing it; girl-on-girl. WAHOOO! Yep, if there's one like I like, it's girl-on-girl. Beyond a doubt. Girl-on-girl is the thing for me. And midgets. I dig midgets, too."

Weird, huh?

We have a Fancy New Character!

On rare occassions you meet someone so profound, so intriguing, so bigger-than-life, you simply must write about them. That, or you've eaten Indian food with them. Either way, they need to be shared; their fancy pants are simply too beautiful not to share. But, how to share such majesty? How do you possible share with the masses someone who makes such deep and insightful statements as,

"A giant schlong would make you very popular here in DC."


"Country Roads my ass."

We are truly lucky to know such genius.

Now all she needs is a name...and to get drunk.


Occam's Razor and the X factor...

Because my life is so interesting and fun, fun and interesting things happen to me constantly. Quite often several of those things can happen nearly simultaneously, almost appearing (to the untrained eye) as if I have my life together. Huh? You want examples? Ok.

Last night at 9:43, I was eating filet mignon, drinking a $200 bottle of wine (vendor-sponsored dinner meeting. Tee hee hee.) At 10:39pm, I was cruising blissfully with my top down, en route to the local for a pint with Garrett. At 11:06 I was supping said pint, albiet slowly because of the earlier activities. At 11:11, I saw TK421. Yes, that's right, TK421 appeared at the local. (For those not in the know, refer to an earlier entry entitled "The Irony of Life: A Quartet of Misery Performed in Eighteen Minutes".)Could it be? Could it possibly be TK421 had entered the fray once again? Well, yes. Sort of. Technically, she entered the bar. But she never actually made it inside, as someone called to her, and she promptly left. Sigh.

On with the show.

At 11:53 I was in another local, sipping yet more beer (At this point I had had five different types of alcohol over the course of the evening. Prep work for my sojurn with The Silver Fox.) We were trying to enter a game of darts, to no avail. At 12:10 or so we wound up at the local meat market, drinking (gee, imagine that.) Fuzzy wuzzy!

Well, I think I've painted a fair picture of the scenario up till then. So, what happens now? There is a postulate named for the 14th century English logician and Franciscan friar who formulated it, called Occam's Razor. In its original form, the principle is

Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem. (Remember, 14th century friarspeak here. All God, latin, n' booze.)

English translation,

Entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity.

Simply stated,

Of two equivalent theories or explanations, all other things being equal, the simpler one is to be preferred.

We shall apply it here, to my situation last night.

Let's examine the facts.

a. I've been drinking.
b. I'm all dressed up in my fancy pants and tie.
c. I'm having a great time.
d. I've seen TK421.
e. I'm headed for a bar I usually don't frequent.

Well, as O's theory states, what is the simpler answer to "what happened next?"
Of course! Something 'bad.' It's gotta be that way.

What was it?


Staring me straight in the face; screaming as she plowed through a crowd to get to me and Garrett, where she would remain smotheringly so until my departure.

And, Y.

Drinking with her, unable to chat with me.


A volte dovete ridere semplicemente.

Monday, June 28, 2004

And 4...

Four of my favorite baseball quotes.

4. Some people are born on third base and go through life thinking they hit a triple. ~Barry Switzer


3. If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant's life, she will choose to save the infant's life without even considering if there are men on base. ~Dave Barry

2. I've come to the conclusion that the two most important things in life are good friends and a good bullpen. ~Bob Lemon, 1981

1. Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good too. ~Greg, age 8

Jeezum crow, will Friday ever get here?

Saturday, June 26, 2004

We're down to T-minus 5...

Ahhh. I've finally caught up. Five more to go. The Silver Fox grows ever closer.

The Five Worst Baseball Uniforms

5. 1975 Cleveland Indians Road uniform: Bright shocking red jersey and pants. Blue sleeves, socks, and belt. And, arguably the straw that broke the camel's back for me, "Indians" written Wampum-style. That's more cliche than Doc Brown dressing up Marty McFly as 'Atomic Cowboy' in Back To The Future III. Yuck.

4. 1956 Cincinnati Reds Road uniform: Although the belief that a player or team can truly "strike fear" into an opponent is a fallacy, having a logo that resembles a cross between the Pringles guy and a gay train conductor can not possibly help in any way. And for God's sake, the friggin' thing is smiling. That, and the Wicked Witch of the West socks. The worst part of it all, for me, is that it adornes the away jersey. Right. The challenge of playing in another team's stadium isn't enough. Naw, we need the punishment only wearing Mr. Gay Pringles Train Man can bring. By the way, this jersey lasted exactly one season.

3. 1973 Philadelphia Phillies / 1974 Chicago White Sox (all jerseys): ok, you're probably assuming a tie here, right? Well, you're right in that it's a tie, but on a technicality. You see, I'm almost convinced they're the same uniform. And not only are they virtually the same uniform, they're both bad. Although I have to dole out credit to whoever picked the colors. At last, powder blue and crimson. Thank God. Apparently, the general managers went to the same pajama party. Sitting around drinking dad's vermouth from the bottle, listening to Ritchie Valens records, giggling over boys they want to bring to the prom, they both had the same idea simultaneously; these pajamas would make the most darling uniforms! They are, in my admittedly elitist opinion, unattractive uniforms. The fact that two teams (one in each league) happened upon the same essential unform makes these uniforms both Super Mega Ultra Unattractive uniforms and a sign the end is near.

2. 1975 Houston Astros home or road jerseys: At least they tried to be colorful. And they weren't bashful about it, either. Perhaps the uniform design was intentional on the part of the owners. Nolan Ryan wore this uniform, and he could throw about 102 mph. So, to an opposing batter, a pitch would look like a perennial coming at them really fast. And, after all, who'se intimidated by a Geranium, no matter how fast it's going? Yep. 5,714 strikeouts; 3,879 mistaken for flowers. Oh, and as an added bonus, the player's number is on thier thigh. Nothing quite likw having a number near the old ding-ding.

1. 1978 San Diego Padres 3rd uniform: I can see it now. Before each game, the announcer would fire up "September" by Earth Wind & Fire and boom out, "ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, stand up and put your hands together for your Chocolate-stained Thunder!" Speaking of train wrecks, have you seen this uniform? Subcutaneous fat meets Rear Admiral Brownfinger. Imagine being enshrined in the Hall of Fame wearing this accident. Rollie, I'm so sorry.

Ok, a few disclaimers. First, I mean no offense to fans of the teams mentioned. If you don't believe me, take a look at the 1998 Boston Bruins alternate jersey; I bleed too. Also, I found an exemplary website on the history of baseball uniforms.

And I admit, I was a little tougher on these choices than I needed to be. My opinions here don't take into account periodic trends, and other stuff like that.

There you have it!

T-minus 6...

Sorry I missed yesterday, all. Let's bang it out.

My Six Favorite Pitches

6. Four-seam fastball: Ok, back me up here. There are few things in life more rewarding than throwing pure, unadulterated heat past someone, right? There are two wonderful qualities to the four-seamer. First, the batter sees four parallel seams coming right at them. Second, it rises slightly if thrown properly. To a mediocre or inexperienced batter, this has the desired effect of seeming to come at their head. Tee hee hee. Why is this not higher on the list? Well, given that my fastest four-seam topped out in the low eighties, it wasn't super effective. I had to rely on off-speeds more often than not. And, as my life unfortunately reflects, chicks dig the fastball.
5. Cutter: often dba as the "slurve," this pitch has the velocity of a pure-bred fastball, but curves slightly away from the side it was thrown from. I always like screaming confusing things when I threw this pitch, like, "I'm gonna cut you so bad, you gonna wish I no cut you so bad!" That could possibly explain why my cutters rarely made it over the plate, and instead sailed off into the crowd.
4. Knuckle-curveball: This is truly a bitchin' pitch. Made famous by Mike Mussina, it is thrown like a curveball, but you bend one finger to induce an erratic arc. I would have possibly rated it higher if Mussina wasn't a cocks*cking Yankee. (Just kidding, I would have rated it number 4 anyway.)
3. Screwball: Another fav, although my coach forbid me to use it. For those of you unfamiliar with the mechanics of pitching, try an experiment with me. Mimic throwing a ball. If you are a righty, notice how your hand and forearm either stay parallel with your body, or lean slightly outward. Ok, now, do it again, except turn your wrist and arm inward. Feel that awkwardness in your wrist? Feel the potential for disaster in your elbow? Yeah, that's why I was forbidden to throw it. This pitch has destroyed more arms than chronic masturbation. The good news, though, is that when it is well-thrown, it curves back towards the side it was thrown from, and almost always works.
2. Eephus: Also known as the 'blooper.' A really f*cked up pitch to watch. It lost its popularity around forty years ago when hitters started more regimented workouts and training routines. The Eephus (pronounced "Eephus," I mean, "E-fus") has one defense; it crosses the plate at an angle almost impossible to hit. The pitch is thrown in a huge, sweeping arc. Seriously, a good eephus would reach somewhere around fifteen feet at its apex. The idea is for it to drop exactly at the inside of the plate. Supafly pitch.
1. Forkball: Most commonly known as a 'splitter,' this little gem bailed me out of countless jams when I was a lad. The grip used causes the ball to drop off late in its arc. It is an especially nifty pitch when thrown sidearm, as the delivery causes the pitch to break down and out almost diagonally. I throw an amazing forkball. (oh, by the way, replace "I" with "Roger Clemens." I'm always doing that. Hello, is Walter Mitty home?)(Incidentally, my forkball is above serviceable, but then again I am a mere shell of the man I once was. Well, a fatter shell, anyway.)

Thursday, June 24, 2004

And two bad ones...

1. BankOne Ballpark, Phoenix: Imagine traveling in the desert. It's hot, you're hot, no end in sight. And then, on the horizon, you see a vision. Your spirits perk up, and you run to it. As you get closer, you realize it's a really big, sterile box. But you go in anyway. You see the roof is open, and the air conditioning is on full blast, which makes as much sense as positioning the diamond caddie-corner to the box itself, creating a shape not normally found in nature. Now try to picture yourself surrounded by 30,000 retirees in purple and green who don't know baseball from thier medication keeping them alive, with their grandkids waving plastic rattlesnake heads packed with beads at nothing in particular. The pool in center field everyone is crazy about? Let's just say from 50 feet I could make out the ring of scum around the inside. One saving grace though, and this keeps BankOne from the bottom; lining the concours, around the entire ballpark, is a banner that pays tribute to every ballpark ever used in major league history, even the torn down ones. That was really cool. It helped dull the pain of being surrounded by people who were never loved.

2. Memorial Stadium, Philadelphia: Imagine BankOne Ballpark had a toilet. One that it forgot about. Five minutes before gametime, I was the only person the the main bathroom behind home plate. I won a hot dog because I had a Red Sox hat on.

T-minus 7 and counting.

Ahhh, baseball. The sweet sweet pastime. The great Americana. Can anything really compare to the smell of the grass of the outfield, the roar of the crowd, or the crack of the bat? In preparation of my trip with The Silver Fox, here are my 7 favorite ballparks.

My Seven Favorite Ballparks

7. Jacobs Field, Cleveland: I would have liked this place a whole lot more if it wasn't packed with Indians fans. I give them this; they are extremely knowledgeable, apparently trading grades four through six for a baseball education that would cripple most. They can't seem to distinguish Red Sox fans from Yankees fans, even when the Yankees fans are in a bar wearing pinstripes, and the Red Sox fans are screaming "Yankees suck!" and throwing beer and appetizers at them. (I swear, Snuggles and I stopped talking to a young boy at the pre-game bar with his dad because of his affiliation. A damned child, for God's sake! And still the Cleveland fans chanted "chowderheads" at us incessantly. Like I said, a good indication more has been spent on beer and [bad] chili dogs than on education in that town.)
6. Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles: Like an ugly chick wearing hot shoes, a great oasis in a less-than-savory place. I must admit, I've never been, but the name sounds like a great ballpark, doesn't it? "Dodger Stadium." Say it with me. "Dodger Stadium." Ahhh. It's like having your feet rubbed by the aforementioned ugly chick, but because of the positioning, you only have to look at the hot shoes.
5. Camden Yards, Baltimore: The park is beautiful, and rightfully the blueprint for new ballparks. The concours are huge, the food is above average, and the warehouse is endearing as hell. Overall, it's a comfortable, great place for me to watch my Red Sox win.
4. Comerica Park, Detroit: From the bowels of hell itself rises a gem. Surrounded by Dante's fourth or fifth level (wherever auto assembly-line workers go), rises a park festooned with Tigers of all sizes and materials. There's lots to do for the kids, and the beer is really good. In center field, gigantic wrought iron tigers flank the oversized scoreboard. Plus, it's next to Hockeytown, USA (Joe Louis arena.) Blue-collar meets fancy-pants.
3. Wrigley Field, Chicago: I must concede, I've never been. But any park with that much history has to be great to be in. Also, The Silver Fox gets all misty-eyed when he regales us with tales from Wrigley. He likes to be held.
2. PNC Park, Pittsburgh: I think PNC gets so many points because it was the first ballpark I saw outside of Fenway. Otherwise, the park itself is gorgeous. The seating is spacious, the amenities are plentiful, and they bring beer to you! You can see Pittsburgh's skyline from almost anywhere, and they have a great catwalk just out of center field. Oh, and me and Snuggles got absolutely loaded and met some life-size pierogis. Mine was Angry Pierogi. I have pictures.
1. Fenway Park, Boston: The beer is ridiculously expensive, the seats are meant to accomodate people from a century ago, and the bathrooms are travesties. But, the Pesky pole, Teddy Ballgame's red seat, the Green Monster; it's home, man.

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

T-minus 8 and counting...

In 8 days, The Silver Fox and I embark on our sojurn across this great land to suckle at baseball's great teet. In honor of this event, I will begin a countdown.

This one's for you, Silver Fox.

My 8 Favorite Pitchers

8. Mitch Williams: He's not on the list for any accomplishments; he was a moderate pitcher at best, and a sloppy closer at best as well. No, "Wild Thing" is on the list for no other reason than his control was so sketchy and erratic, he would scare the absolute crap out of batters. You could actually see the fear when they came up to the plate. Coupled with his wild hair, he was a pleasure to watch (except for the '91 World Series when he blew it against the Blue Jays, giving up the home run to Joe Carter. Boo.)

7. Tim Wakefield: Any fan of the Red Sox, or knuckleballers, will agree; the boy can pitch, and he has the work ethic of a horse.

6. Rollie Fingers: Have you seen the moustache? He helped epitomize the role of "relief ace." 17-year career, 341 saves, and a bitchin' moustache.

5. Randy Johnson: Any man that stands 6'7", can throw 100mph, and scares John Kruk is ok with me.

4. Dennis Eckersley: The Eck, another treasure the Sox once had, displayed an uncommon side-arm delivery that lasted him throughout his starting career(149-130), and as one of, if not the, greatest relievers in baseball history (390 saves.)

3. "Three-Finger" Mordecai Brown: At the age of 7, Brown was playing on his uncle's farm and got his right hand caught in a corn shredder. His index finger was amputated above the second knuckle, and his thumb and pinkie were both impaired permanently. While chasing a hog a few weeks later, he fell and broke the third and fourth fingers on the same hand, both of which healed unnaturally. This accident led to the distinctive nickname, "Three Finger Brown." It's eerie how much his story mirrors my sex life. Sigh.

2. Dent "Cy" Young: nicknamed "Cyclone" because of his blinding fastball. 22-year career, 511 wins, and over 7,300 innings pitched as a Red Sox. I loved that man.

1. Nolan Ryan: The "Alvin Express" accrued 5,714 strikeouts (still the record) and seven no-hitters over a 27-year career. His last no-hitter came at the age of 46. He owns or shares 48 Major League records, some while wearing one of the worst uniforms in the history of professional sports (Houston Astros of the 1980's.)

Cutting-edge Midget Theory.

This is correct. I have a theory on midgets. I couldn't tell you why I have a theory on midgets, but that doesn't detract from my having one. And here it is.

"Any given scenario, no matter how somber, morose, or gruesome, will be rendered comedic immediately if a midget throws a pie at the protagonist of the situation."

Go ahead. Try to prove me wrong. I've logged myriad hours over my years to disprove this theory. In fact, if noone has any objections, I'd like to consider it an axiom. Just think...

Bunny's Midget Axiom

My mom would be so proud of me.

Tuesday, June 22, 2004

And Abba played on...

Hello, my little monkeys. Hope you all had a great weekend. Mine was most interesting.

Friday: Whilst enjoying a pint at Castlebay, I was told by a female stranger I "Look like
someone I haven't met yet." Now, I'm no fancy-pants gigolo, but if that's a
pick-up line, it's the worst one I've ever heard, and I know something about bad
pick-up lines.

Saturday: I was at a friend's wedding on Saturday. The day was beautiful, and the ceremony ended at 130. The reception didn't start until 3pm, so a few of us went downtown to a sea-side bar called Pusser's. We sat out next to the piers and had a few fruity drinks. We then realized open bar started at the reception at 2, so we went post-haste to the reception only to learn the reception started a 4, not 3, and the open bar started at 3, not 2. So, like all good soldiers, we sat at the bar and drank bourbon until 3, when we went into the reception and hit the open bar. About three hours later, we had cleaned them out of bourbon. Felling absolutely no pain, we let slip the dogs of war. Although I don't remember doing so, evidence has it on good authority I went to all the bridesmaids and convinced them to dance with each other. I then grabbed a piece of wedding cake, an additional drink, and went out to the dance floor where I simply stood there, eating cake and drinking bourbon, watching them dance. Oh, and trying to get them to smell each other. Go figure. Oh yeah, and the after-party at McGarvey's was pretty much the same. I vaguely remember the bartender telling us we had polished off thier bourbon as well. Eek. On a positive note, the vivacious and always pleasant "shiny eyes" Abigail showed up and we amused each other until one of our other neighbors showed up. You see, I was wearing the little bell you ring at a wedding to get the couple to kiss. On an ill-advised bet from Mike, I donned the bell and pretty much drank free all night for it. Well, anytime a girl rang the ball, I got a smooch. Good plan, right? Well, the neighbor is a guy, and rang the bell before I could stop him. Yikes. Abby thought quickly for me (she's such a trooper,) commenting on what had to happen. The neighbor smiled and said "ok!" and planted one directly on Abby's lips. Yikes redux.

Sunday: Slept in, with the intention of going out on Mike's new boat with John, and perhaps Abby. At noon, I was good to go. Abby couldn't make it, so I sat on my doorstep for four hours playing my guitar drinking beer. As it turns out, Mike's boat died about 300 yards off-shore, and John had dropped his phone in the ocean, so they couldn't call me. Tee hee hee.

Friday, June 18, 2004

Another list!

Ok, we here in Maryland have perhaps a slight bit too much free time on our hands. In an effort to share with you all (plural, Jesse) and perhaps spread the love, here are the only 22 acceptable reasons to wake one of us up at 4am.

22 Acceptable Reasons To Wake Us Up At 4am

1. Somebody died
2. You gotta have it (and, to be clear, by “have it” I mean “get some,” by which I mean “intercourse.”)
3. I’m on fire
4. There’s a midget loose in the house.
5. Your roommate just got some, and he needs to tell you about it.
6. The TV that previously had scrambled porn on the porn channel has mysteriously started showing clear porn for free.
7. Your roommate is about to get some, and wants to have some sort of pre-game show, which comprises telling you about it.
8. Your roommate remembers getting some, and wants you to know about it.
9. There’s a fire down at the old beer mill.
10. There’s an emergency A.F.C. meeting.
11. A nuclear holocaust will be starting on the east coast at 430am.
12. Two dogs are humping in the backyard, and it’s really funny.
13. A dog is humping a cat in the backyard, and it’s really funny.
14. You are being humped by a cat or a dog in your “backyard” and it’s really funny.
15. Your “backdoor” is traumatized from your humping the now-clear, porn-prone television while watching your roommate hump a midget cat.
16. You are considering hosting an “A.F.C” anonymous meeting (the A.F.C.A.,) but want to do it again to make sure you WANT to quit.
17. Schwinger is parading around the neighborhood in a dog suit looking for a little bling-bling (by which I mean “action,” meaning “getting’ it on,” which signifies his desire to “lay it on the line,” or, “taking it for the team,” which means “peeling the banana,” otherwise known as “parading around the chocolate Millenium Falcon lookin’ for some wookie,” which is commonly referred to as “having anal sex with a strange man who has no intentions of calling you the next day, and you’re okay with that, and so you make sure to try everything you’ve been thinking about because once you’re married you can’t be parading around the neighborhood looking for wookie.”
18. Will’s made either a Chateaubriand or a rippin’ lentil soup.
19. At approximately 4:02 you will poop your pants.
20. Your roommate is about to poop his pants and a friend wanted to let you know to ready the camera for obvious blackmail reasons.
21. Jenna Jameson stumbled into your living room and would like some sandwiches, only by sandwiches I mean something else.
22. Will is dressed up like Shakespeare again and lecturing the town drunk on "asides."

And that's about it, unless you can think of another?

They're droppin' like flies...

Hello, my little monkeys.

I hope this Friday finds you well. For me, today is a little disconcerting. Tomorrow, yet another good friend is shuffling off his mortal coil, and marrying.

Disturbing? Perhaps.

Unnerving? Absolutely.

It almost doesn't make any sense. How is this happening? With this (God willing) successful marriage, the pool is down to (team Massachusetts) me, The Silver Fox, and Snuggles. (Sorry, K, but you're involved with Roscoe, and thus removed from qualification.) In Maryland, it's me, Lipstick Mike, Big John Holmes, and Clark. (Same here, everyone else. You don't count because of your situations.) Why do I count twice? I just do. But, think of it this way; that makes me twice the weiner.

And, actually, The Silver Fox is involved. Now, its me and Snuggles.

God help us.

For all the ladies out there, special insight: I can understand if your initial reaction is to dive for the phone in a rutted frenzy. Just relax. We're here, and you still have your shot. You see, when you draft one of us, you're drafting a quality veteran player, not some dipshit rookie who can't rub yer feet worth a damn. Our pedigree is such that you can sit back, and actually watch your life improve the minute you interact with us. And you'll notice immediate benefits: ATM machines will suddenly give you more cash than you ask for "by accident," people will seek you for advice, and there is a good chance you will become a rock star. Besides, once you let us put our filthy man-paws all over you, its all over...

So, good luck, ladies. We're judging you on poise, creativity, and effort.

The line starts in the back.

(Hey, you know what? I feel better now.)

More bad ones...

Adding to the list of horrible characters...

Riddick in Pitch Black
Everyone in The Fast and the Furious

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

If I only had a list...

I was just reading The Silver Fox's entry Cast of Characters, and I felt compelled to create one of my own. (If you want to see his selections, go to good stuff.)

So here it is, my list (in no particular order) of favorite characters, literary or cinematic.

1. Bucky Turdgeson, Dr. Strangelove
2. Burgess Meredith's "pop", Grumpy Old Men
3. Inspector Clouseau, The Return of the Pink Panther
4. Indiana Jones, Raiders of the Lost Ark
5. Hannibal Lecter, Silence of the Lambs (particularly the book)
6. Phileas Fogg, Around the World in Eighty Days
7. Dante Allegheri, The Divine Comedy
8. Cyrano de Bergerac, Cyrano de Bergerac
9. 'Pinhead', The Hellbound Heart
10. Leland Gaunt, Needful Things
11. Clark W. Griswold, National Lampoon's Vacation
12. Inspector Danvers, The Frighteners
13. Reverend Scott, The Posideon Adventure

And, for the hell of it, a list of the worst.

1. Jar Jar Binks, Star Wars The Phantom Menace
2. Jack Dawson, Titanic

Well, that's enough, isn't it?

The Legend of Katie Stumblepants.

I have had numerous requests of me to tell this sortid tale of lies and deception. And so, like all good men, I am caving in. So gather 'round, my little monkeys, and listen well...

So there I was.

Sitting in the local (the finest pub in Quincy, MA) sipping a pint or three with The Silver Fox (dba The Mason), and Kevin. It's late; like, 1 am or so. The band has just wrapped up for the night, and we are getting ready to do so ourselves. We are sitting at the round-top directly inbetween the exit and the men's room. It's loud. It's smokey. It's everything you are envisioning. As we worked on our lukewarm Belhaven and Miller High Life, a woman approached the table. With the grace and poise of a baby being hit with a cat, she slung arms around me and The Silver Fox (another great story, by the way,) and introduced herself as Katie. We said hello, she said hello and once again introduced herself as Katie. This seemed to please her, so she left.

minutes pass...

the band decides to play one more song...

Katie stumbles back in to use the rest room...

The girl's bathroom is about 50 feet from the table we're at, so we have mucho tiempo para veer la chica quando regresa a nuestra me.....wait a minute. I switched to spanish, didn't I? How embarrasing. Sorry.

The girl's bathroom is about fifty feet from the table we're at, so we have ample time to see the girl when she comes out. She's loaded, and she riccocheting off patrons and bar stools alike. About halfway to us, she sees us, and her eyes light up. Abandoning all caution, she approaches, arms spread wide. The following ensued...

Katie Stumblepants: Hey! Whoo! Zowie!
The Silver Fox: Hello, Katie.
KS: You know my name? Cool. BZANG!
Kevin: Time to go, huh?
KS: I can't! My sister left without me! She was going to pick me up but she left me!
K: Whoa. That sucks!
Thirsty Bunny: Yeah, that sucks a lot.
KS: I'm drunk!
TB: Yes, yes you are.
(TB,incidentally, is the victim here. And, I'm not just saying that because it's me. Well, replace "not saying that" with "saying that.")
KS (looking directly at TB): You need to get your life together.
TB: What?
KS (looking at TSF now): You've got straight lips.
(TSF goes to say something, but KS pounces far too quickly, almost preternaturally)
KS (back at TB): You look like James Woods.
(TB is stunned into silence.)
KS (to K sitting [wisely] silent across the table): You're ok.
K: Gee, thanks.

At this point Katie Stumblepants saunters over to Kevin and slings her arms around him. After a life of searching, she has found her man.

K: Oh no.
TSF: Yep.
TB: Enjoy!
K: Help me.

(TSF goes into the men's room. Minutes pass, TB goes in because the sight of K being accosted by KS is nearly overwhelming.)

TB: Hey, why are you just standing in here?
TSF: I'm not going back out there.
TB: Yeah, me neither.

(TB and TSF stand in the men's room, holding the door for passersthrough, smoking and drinking a beer.)

TSF: This is ridiculous. I'm going out there.
TB: Okay, here we go.

(TB and TSF exit the men's room to immediately find KS trying to something to K's hand that resembled a cross between licking your own feet and coughing up a hairball.)

TB: Oh, God.
TSF: Uh, did we interrupt something?


K: NO!!!
KS: YES!!!

TSF: Well, uh, Katie, we called you a cab.
KS: Oh, I don't need a cab! Kevin will drive me home.
K, TSF, TB: What?
KS (snuggling up to K): Yeah, he'll drive me home.
K, TSF: I don't think so.
TB: I think that's a wonderful idea. Goodnight, Kevin!
K: Shut up, TB!
TSF: Well, Kevin, it does sound pretty tempting!
K: Well then, YOU take her home!
KS: But, Kevin, I want you to do it!
TSF, TB: Yeah, Kevie-wevie! Take her home!
KS: Take me home, Kevin!
K: I, uh, can't.
TSF, TB: Why? You're single and live alone. Why not?
K: You'll pay for this.
TB, TSF: Yep, just not right now.
K: I, uh, oh, look! The cab is here!
KS: But aren't you...
K: Cab's here! Goodnight!
KS: But...
K: Bye!
KS: Can I at le....
K: Bye!

(KS leaves the bar dejected and alone. K promptly smacks TB and TSF. Like I said, I am clearly the victim here.)

End of Scene.

See what I mean? An amazing story, huh? I can't, for the life of me, figure out how the three of us haven't been snagged by either hot chicks or Hollywood by now.

I hope you enjoyed this tale. If you're all good and I get beer, I might regale you next time with the The Silver Fox

Courtney has spoken...

Those in the know at ThirstyBunny Chronicles Ltd. congratulate Courtney on being the first actual comment submitted to this blog. Her comments, and comments of those like her help make this blog great. Her response was especially poignant for three reasons...

a. She submitted arboretum as a favorite word.
b. She referenced Roseanne Coggeshall.
c. She might possibly know who Roseanne Coggeshall is.

So, Courtney, a hearty huzzah! to you. May your newly founded tradition be frequently followed.

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

Ticket to ride white line highway...

"...Tell all your friends, they can go my way
Pay your toll, sell your soul
Pound for pound costs more than gold
The longer you stay the more you pay
My white lines go a long way
Either up your nose or through your vein
With nothin to gain except killin your brain!"

Ah yes, Grandmaster Melle Mel. In my opinion, one of the best rap songs ever written. Am I qualified to say such a thing? Sure, why not? I'm single. I'm white. And, I can remember life before rap! Go figure.

Orang dang diggedy dang di-dang
Orang dang diggedy dang di-dang
Orang dang diggedy dang di-dang
Diggedy dang di-dang diggedy dang di-dang.

Diggedy dang di-dang, indeed.

Wednesday, June 09, 2004

Linguistical improbabilities

Sup, fools?

Today's babble centers around language.

The english language is a wonderful, glorious, bass-ackwards communication tool. There are beauties everywhere. James Joyce thought cuspidor to be the most beautiful english word. Wilfred Funk's list includes thrush, lullaby, and gossamer.

For Roseanne Coggeshall, it can only be sycamore.

Personally, I like ignite, tenacity, and anisotropic.

What's yours?

Some stuff to think about.
Cabbaged and fabaceae, each eight letters long, are the longest words that can be played on a musical instrument. Seven letter words with this property include acceded, baggage, bedface, cabbage, defaced, and effaced.

MOW, SIS, and SWIMS, when written in upper case letters, have 180 degree rotational symmetry.

Strengths, nine letters long, is the longest word in the English language with only one vowel.

The word chincherinchee is the only known English word which has one letter occurring once, two letters occurring twice, and three letters occurring three times.

Spoonfeed, nine letters long, is the longest word whose letters are arranged in reverse alphabetical order. Trollied is an eight letter word with this property. Seven letter words with this property include sponged and wronged.

DORD is a non-existent word entered into the second edition of Webster's New International Dictionary by mistake. The following is taken from The Story of Webster's Third: Philip Gove's Controversial Dictionary and Its Critics by Herbert C. Morton (1994):

"When the guidelines for etymology in Webster's Third were nearing completion, Gove took time out to add the story of dord to the lore of how things can go wrong in dictionary making. Dord was a word that had appeared spontaneously and had found a quiet niche in the English language two decades earlier. It was recorded in Webster's Second in 1934 on page 771, where it remained undetected for five years. It disappeared from the dictionary a year later without ever having entered common parlance. The facts, which had been established years earlier through a search of company files, were as follows, as abridged from Gove's explanation.

The lack of an etymology for dord, meaning "density," was noted by an editor on February 28, 1939, when he was perusing the dictionary. Startled by the omission, he went to the files to track down what had happened and what needed to be done. There, he found, first, a three-by-five white slip that had been sent to the company by a consultant in chemistry on July 31, 1931, bearing the notation "D or d, cont/ density." It was intended to be the basis for entering an additional abbreviation at the letter D in the next edition. The notation "cont," short for "continued," was to alert the typist to the fact that there would be several such entries for abbreviations at D.

A change in the organization of the dictionary possibly added to the confusion that followed. For the 1934 edition, all abbreviations were to be assembled in a separate "Abbreviations" section at the back of the book; in the previous edition words and abbreviations appeared together in a single alphabetical listing (which is how they again appeared in the Third Edition.) But after the original slip was typed for editorial handling, it was misdirected. Eventually, it came to be treated with the words rather than with the abbreviations.

Th editorial stylist who received the first typed version should have marked "or" to be set in italics to indicate that the letters were abbreviations (D or d). But instead, she drew a continuous wavy line underneath to signify that "D or d" should be set in boldface in the manner of an entry word, and a label was added, "Physics & Chem." Since entry words were to be typed with a space between letters, the editorial stylist may have inferred that the typist had intended to write d o r d; the mysterious "cont" was ignored. These errors should have been caught when the word was retyped on a different color slip for the printer, but they were not. The stylist who received this version crossed out the "cont" and added the part-of-speech label n for noun.

"As soon as someone else entered the pronunciation," Gove wrote, "dord was given the slap on the back that sent breath into its being. Whether the etymologist ever got a chance to stifle it, there is no evidence. It simply has no etymology. Thereafter, only a proofreader had final opportunity at the word, but as the proof passed under his scrutiny he was at the moment not so alert and suspicious as usual."

The last slip in the file -- added in 1939 -- was marked "plate change imperative/urgent." The entry was deleted, and the space was closed up by lengthening the entry that followed. In 1940 bound books began appearing without the ghost word but with a new abbreviation. In the list of meanings for the abbreviation "D or d" appeared the phrase "density, Physics." Probably too bad, Gove added, "for why shouldn't dord mean density?"

A footnote indicates the excerpt above was based on Philip Gove, "The History of Dord," American Speech, 29 (1954): 136-8.

Fascinating stuff, this language is, eh?

See you tomorrow, monkeys.

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

A brief vindication.

Howdy, monkeys.

Ok, a few thoughts today. First of all, I just finished reading the Mason's inciteful entry on Boston's public transportation "improvements" involving random searchies. You can too, at Anger boils within. God, that pisses me off. How is it that these fancy-pants "lawmakers" can do whatever they want, and yet, I cannot? Unfair, I tells ya.

Other noteables: as you may have read my harrowing tale involving near-certain death, the deer that invaded Annapolis returned, and this time I have proof.

Ha. Take that, nay-sayers!

Lastly, I want to salute both the Mason and the future Mrs. Chuck's-Last-Name (Shannon.) They take immeasurable amounts of time not only making their blogs look respectable and interesting, but also filling it with useful and insightful thoughts.

My blog, on the other hand, is the rough equivalent of the output from a retarded four-year-old chimpanzee that has attempted to drink its own body weight in bourbon and wound up yacking on his own shoes.

Alas, the time has come to go. Before I leave, remember this....

Saturday, June 05, 2004

I'm not afraid to ask the big questions...

Someone has to ask the tough questions. Someone has to find out; to dig deep and reveal things that, while potentially unpleasant, need to be exposed. I'm that guy. So, guys and gals, sleep well tonight knowing Bunny is on the case...

Thursday, June 03, 2004

Yummy Frenchie...

Fancy a Lillet with a slice of orange?

Yeah, me too.

I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go...

Sup, fools?

Been a few days since the last entry. Nothing new to report, other than the hangover has subsisded, and I even managed to have another six or seven rum drinks Monday night. Yep, bunnies learn hard.

We are eeking closer to Heather's wedding in MA, and I am happy to report there have been no rumours of dead Chucks. Seems she'll actually go through with it! Good for her. Chuck is the only human being I've ever met who could likely withstand the sheer force of a full frontal Heather attack. They make a smart couple.

Tuesday, June 01, 2004

A treatise where rum is concerned. Oh, and watch your language.

Oh my head. My poor, poor head. For those of you who attended the Bash, you understand. For all else, I have a most furtive suggestion; whenever sipping a delicious zombie, try at all costs to remember how much sugar these freaking things have in them. (A hint: a lot.) I realized this as I was floating roughly a quarter mile above myself, riding the sugar high and trying to look down women's shirts (not very effective at an altitude of 1,300 feet.) The Moustashe Bash was a great time, and a special thanks to all the ladies who voluntarily donned 'staches. I love you all.

I think my luck may be turning slightly. At one point on Sunday, I had many lovely ladies hanging on to my every word as I regaled all with the tale of "you need to get your life together." Yep, if I learned anything in my life, it's to take any advantage you can get. And if the Legend of Katie Stumblepants can help me now, I'm prepared to make it happen. On particuar lovely lady was there. Her name is Abigail. Abigail is a Navy pilot. That, coupled with her infectous laugh and shiny blue eyes make her rock. For some reason, she felt the need to beat me up over my fondness for Peter Gabriel. Her wit is quick and pointed. I respect that. I vowed revenge. Oh, and did I get it...

On to Sunday. I decide to make some sauce. And since I'm making sauce, I might as well make a lasagna, right? (Right now, the Mason is nodding his head in complete understanding.) Furthermore, I decide to invite some neighbors, which includes Abigail.

I set the sauce to simmering, and Jason and I head up the street to invite Abby. As we are walking up the street, we decide chicken cutlets would compliment the lasagna perfectly. But, we need the requisite bread crumbs and chicken. We arrive at Abby's door and knock. After a moment, she opens the door, and we invite her. She readily accepts, and asks if she can bring anything. I joke around and say, "well, we could use some chicken breast cutlets and Progresso Italian Style bread crumbs, if you have any!" To which she replies, "well, I've got chicken, but it's frozen, so I'm not sure if it'll work." So, of course (I swear to God, Dan, this was an accident) I reply, "well, may I examine your breasts?"

As she clutched her chest in repulsion, Annapolis came to a grinding halt. The only sound to be heard was Jason laughing and pointing at me.

Although I don't remember, I don't think I cried.