The Swamp

P.D.X. wrote:Eh?

http://www.cnn.com/2011/CRIME/01/05/ari ... index.html

The level of incompetence here is shocking - and hilarious.

Speaking of which, the latest comedic incident from the office of Toronto's buffoon in chief: http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/toronto/s ... ended.html

(By the way, can someone PM me to explain how to put names on the links I post?)

Pruitt wrote:(By the way, can someone PM me to explain how to put names on the links I post?)

Just quote this to see the magic.

Assuming that's what you meant.

This whole never learning how to drive stick thing is really biting me in the ass.

If having to acclimate to a German way of driving with a learning curve sucks, doing it while operating a vehicle you can't fully control yet is a total no-go. I feel like a bitch asking the rental car company for an automatic. The last thing I need is to get into an accident.

It isn't like I have never I've tried learning. I have, on several vehicles in several locations. But I just can't fucking get it. If there's a slight decline where I'm stopped and I start to roll back, I panic. Switching from reverse to first in a small area, I panic. It sucks. I don't want to get into an accident day 3 in Germany.

Plus the rest of this transition is totally overwhelming. All my shit is here, but since I can't get outta my lodging room because I don't have a car, I can't scout out places to live. (I only get 30 days of temp lodging and they want me to track how I'm contacting people and what I've done every 10 days.) Making my Jeep German road standard is going to suck. I have a custom bumper with a winch on it. In Germany I need front and back plates. Plus it's lifted with big tires. I may have to buy all seasons and switch them out. On a recommendation from my cousin, I brought it. (He was here for 2 years and would've killed for 4WD during the winter). Oh, and might I add that the car inspection is the most dreaded thing here? So those 2 things I mentioned won't be the only things wrong with it. I'll get 30 days to fix whatever's messed up, but after that I'm screwed. Then, it didn't help that as soon as I left the passenger terminal I found out that I'm not working where I thought I was and then I'll be working somewhere else that isn't there for the first 5 months on top of that.

Luckily, a previous supervisor is here and he is more than willing to drive me around. But with the 4th coming up next week, everyone and their mother will be doing what I'll be trying to do. So yea. This transition is rough. But after that, it's all beer and doner and random festivals.

My terrier was cooped up all day so I took her to the park at night for a romp. She was running like a puppy, having a great old time when suddenly she disappeared behind a shrub.

I ran over and saw her looking completely blissed out as she rolled in the muddy dirt at the base of the shrub.

Not mud.

Johnnie wrote:This whole never learning how to drive stick thing is really biting me in the ass.

come on jonnie, if Laverne can do it.. so can you!

Just saw a sign while driving that read:

"RIGHT TURN ON RED ONLY AFTER STOP"

Isn't that the rule anyway? Come to a dead stop, then turn right. At least that's what I thought.

Consider mowing the lawn. Then? Not mow lawn. Rather opt for the ancient Buddha notion of sitting around and contemplating not mowing the lawn instead of mowing the lawn. Tea. Then some nodding; perhaps someone will show up and actually praise this.

The lawn will eventually realize that its own carbonfootprint kills other lawns and it will mow itself, as now by mandate lawns are conditioned to identify themselves as lawns; so if I mow the lawn, with a lawnmower, I'd be destroying the planet, and multi-layered lawn rights, so goes alarmist logic. Let's see what happens. Hang on. Let's try this on. This may work as an excuse.

Assume some Buddha serenity sort of comfort position. Adjust ankles. Fix balls. That's better. Look beyond the lawn. Know that any thought, even lack of thought, is some sort of action. You are not inactive, no, you are philosophising. Approve of lawn marriage.

Sit near lawn. Contemplate lawn. Consider becoming one with the lawn. Contemplate the sweaty effort of a landscape haircut you would not even give to your own screaming kid. The lawn may mow itself; that is what Bhudda would have convinced the lawn to do. Although the lawn may have replied nah. Perhaps they really were on to something, those rock solid statues of eternal blank. What the fuck else did they know and keep cowering at for a thousand years? Hell of an accident. Something decided to make shapes out of rocks and cheap bronze; probably lesser metals than that which comprised your lawnmower. Didn't affect the gardening much. So why did they why? Maybe they had cookies, too. That would account for an extended snack pause. Tea, cookies. Worse things happened. To rocks or the rest of us.

Gak. It's still all there.

I don't have the patience for this. I'm Zen, sure, but nowhere near whatever the fuck Zen actually means. Not working out, this, the back yard. Nor Zen. Look again. Tasks? Tasks. Fail to mow daisies? Yellow sprouting sneeze nuisances; a trillion senseless idiots crossing Grand Canyons looking for a place to happen. Knee-high to me but head-high to Finnegan the Saluki puppy; he's under-thrilled and recoils from the scent. Better get at that. Fire up the Toro. No matter. Fail again. Fail better. Fail satisfactorily. Fail appropriately. Fail pleasingly. Admit that the lawn is a never-ending revenge on your simple existence and you only trim it because you don't want to look like the local meth dealer and the 80-year old willnotdie across the street mows her lawn weekly so why can't you? Don't use the word "fail" because kids sucked the life out of that word applying it to far lesser significance. No matter. Try again. Try what? Try finishing packing. And? To move? Where? Does it matter? Somewhere. Elsewhere. Yeah, the lawn. The lawn will correct itself. Fuck the lawn.

There is no lawn.

I have had a small issue with my left hand, for about 6 years. Specifically, it is in the tendon area, going to my ring finger. In the last year, it has gotten increasingly worse. My left ring finger will not bend back very far, and there is some lumps on the base of my ring finger, and also on my ring finger. I cannot wear my wedding band.

The doctor, a hand specialist, has pronounced this as Dupuytrens Disease. It affects people mainly of Northern European descent (Pay attention, Scottie.) Flesh tends to adhere to the bones, restricting the movement, until the hands almost grow shut. Out of the three corrections for this malady, supposedly the best is the use of a ($3000) vial of some such chemical, put in by needle, around the effected area. this chemical partially dissolves the flesh attached to the bone. It is a 2-day procedure. The first day, the chemical is put in, and the hand is bandaged so there is no movement. On the second day, I appear, and they take my fingers, and force/tear the flesh from the bone. They may or may not give me some painkiller the second day. I will be out of action for 2-5 weeks, as far as golf, etc.

On July 18-19th, I will have this procedure done. It is a very good thing that I am right-handed.

Note that I told them, that if they did not give out painkiller, I would furnish my own.

HDO45331 wrote:I believe Indiana still has blue laws. No sales of beer or liquor on Sunday.

Only sales in restaurants. And no carry out. Still can't sell cold beer at the grocery or gas station.

HDO45331 wrote:On the second day, I appear, and they take my fingers, and force/tear the flesh from the bone

Holy shit that sounds horrific.

rass wrote:

HDO45331 wrote:On the second day, I appear, and they take my fingers, and force/tear the flesh from the bone

Holy shit that sounds horrific.

I almost peed my pants when he told me.

Hence the pain killers. Theirs or mine.

HDO45331 wrote:The doctor, a hand specialist, has pronounced this as Dupuytrens Disease. It affects people mainly of Northern European descent (Pay attention, Scottie.) Flesh tends to adhere to the bones, restricting the movement, until the hands almost grow shut. Out of the three corrections for this malady, supposedly the best is the use of a ($3000) vial of some such chemical, put in by needle, around the effected area. this chemical partially dissolves the flesh attached to the bone. It is a 2-day procedure. The first day, the chemical is put in, and the hand is bandaged so there is no movement. On the second day, I appear, and they take my fingers, and force/tear the flesh from the bone. They may or may not give me some painkiller the second day. I will be out of action for 2-5 weeks, as far as golf, etc.

Sweet gak. That's harrowing.

It's circulation.

I'm a mere idiot. But let me tell you something that happened to me as North European of Viking blood descended that might well relate to your current malady.

Circa 1988, the two middle fingers of each of my hands went terrifyingly blanched. Not permanent but periodic; each would turn from active to death-like, horrifying. One moment pinkish and then suddenly empty, deceased in appearance. Dead fleshness. As if part of me died twenty years previously. They'd function, sure, numb but bloodless, freakishly. Left and right both; ringfinger and cuntfinger on each hand as ghostly undead figures. Long I'd stare at them. I was terrified. Looking at each was as if examing a long dead body, bereft of life yet paradoxically fixated. Not merely white but stone-dead cold. I took to shaking my hands as if warding off some unpleasantry, over and over, fight some life into them, hold them below gravity center, anything, shake shake shake, just to see some blood in my fingers. Yet, they just looked, well, dead. Was this because of hockey fights? Diet? Some disease? Why, just why? And it would not cease nor solve itself.

Wanna know the irony? I was playing MacBeth on stage at the time.

Went to a doctor because I was mortified at mortifying.

- Do you smoke?
- Yes, about 10 or so cigarettes every day. Or I could be deceiving myself. It's possibly 12 or 15. Do hot knives count? Are bong hits cigarettes? I inhale pleasant toxins.
- Are you active?
- Physically? Oh, yes, very. Politically? Not in any substantial fashion.
- How do you treat it then?
- Hmm?
- Well, what do you think you should do?
- What do I . . . ?
- Yes. What is your own cure? What do you think we should do? Ointments?
- Hey, for fuck, that's what I'm asking you!

Never got a proper answer. Not all doctors are HODADS. Although many are.

How did it go away? And I have to underscore that looking at one's own pale dead-appearing flesh is harrowing. It just, well, stopped happening. Out of the blue as quick as it arrived. Scottish bio-eccentricities.

Here's the thing. Nordic people have inevitably annoyances with their extremities. Fortunately this does not affect the penis. Yet, fingers and toes? Wrists and ankles? Yes, it will happen. And the older you get, the more likely you are to be afflicted in those regions.

Blood circulation.

Allow me to speculate mopronically. Thousands of years of evolution in a particular climate and then transplanting a few mere generations to a different climate? Odd things will happen. Not typically life-threatening; consider these things to be exploratory transplant adjustments.

I've never heard that from a patient.

"Do you smoke?"

"Do hot knives count?"

Paula would still be at it if only she taught fundamental hot knife work:

HODADS and hot knives. I'm learning so much tonight. By HODAD, are you referring to the surfer slang for a poser, or a 1950's greaser? Those seem to be the 2 major definitions.

What does one smoke on a hot knife, BTW? Hash? Opium?

The Sybian wrote:HODADS and hot knives. I'm learning so much tonight. By HODAD, are you referring to the surfer slang for a poser, or a 1950's greaser? Those seem to be the 2 major definitions.

What does one smoke on a hot knife, BTW? Hash? Opium?

Hands of death and destruction. HODAD. Inner circle doc name for bad docs.

Knives? Hash. The best way to do hot knives is to, yes, insert two blades in a stove's element. Heat them to red. The heat of one knife picks up the hash; weld them together causes an explosion of smoke that you inhale. Take your previously constructed big soda bottle (you've cut this in half, inverted it, stuck some ice in there, made an inhale nozzle) and two or three hits sets you off for the evening. Or morning. Depending on how you roll. I always was straight up off the blade but note that the dude in the clip uses a toilet paper roll.

For a Canadian . . . it's kind of like Ice Hockey. You do not need an explanation. You simply do it being born knowing it.

Wanna hear a funny story?

One day, back home, my parents are away and it is mid-summer. A buddy of mine shows up with a gram of hash. So we fire up the knives, right? Get completely fucked. And then an RCMP car pulls into the driveway. Cop knocks on the front door. Paranoid? Oh yeah. Because they're coming to get us, right? Somehow they know. The fact that they are idiots doesn't surface.

- Are you William Scott MacKinnon?
- Me? No.
- Are you sure?
- Yep. Pretty sure that I'm not whatever you just said which I don't remember and get the fuck out of here.
- Mind if I look around?
- Mind if I play around with an Enfield?
- So you're not William Scott MacKinnon?
- {words to the effect of} It takes a village.

Cop goes away; realizes he fucked up. Doesn't apologize. Typical. Moron. Anyway . . . we are in the clear right? Hot-kniving hash, smoking our brains out, Enfield 303 loaded to the teeth on the back deck just for kicks, and this is not going to happen again. The chances of another RCMP cruiser pulling into the driveway are now off the charts. Right? Clear air space. At least 20 knife hits pass. Stereo jazzed. Just about to start feeling comfortable. But the dumbcop starts to figure out that he smelled hash. Slowly he circles back. At the time, I was oblivious and relieved and cranking Metheny. So I've got this iced plastic cone held down while my buddy takes one red hot knife and picks up a bit of hash, holds it against the other knife, smoke occurs and I take it down to my toes . . . and then I hear a car door close.

Mom.

And then another car door.

Oh, yeah, that guy.

The mom cops. Simultaneously. Dammit. Spit exhale cough allatonce trying to find an open kitchen window. Chanceless.

Guess what I tried to use as an excuse. We were making a pot of tea. Now, really, what would your explanation be?

Well, yeah, we were trying to figure out how to prepare a Hollandaise Sauce for your surprise party but you ruined it!

Belief? None, of course.

And then you get bitched out by your church-going Mom and a law enforcement employee while higher than the Hubble Space Telescope.

Serious buzz harsh.

duff wrote:

HDO45331 wrote:I believe Indiana still has blue laws. No sales of beer or liquor on Sunday.

Only sales in restaurants. And no carry out. Still can't sell cold beer at the grocery or gas station.

Holy shit that sounds horrific.

AB_skin_test wrote:

duff wrote:

HDO45331 wrote:I believe Indiana still has blue laws. No sales of beer or liquor on Sunday.

Only sales in restaurants. And no carry out. Still can't sell cold beer at the grocery or gas station.

Holy shit that sounds horrific.

Post of the day.

Who (or what) in the hell is Scoish Velociraptor Maloish?

HDO45331 wrote:Who (or what) in the hell is Scoish Velociraptor Maloish?

HDO45331 wrote:

AB_skin_test wrote:

duff wrote:Only sales in restaurants. And no carry out. Still can't sell cold beer at the grocery or gas station.

Holy shit that sounds horrific.

Post of the day.

Finally! The sound of one hand clapping!

rass wrote:
Holy shit that sounds horrific.

Post of the day.[/quote]

Finally! The sound of one hand clapping![/quote]

I just had a Rockford Files flashback.

rass wrote:

HDO45331 wrote:
Post of the day.

Finally! The sound of one hand clapping!

I can't decide if Rass realizes that wasn't his or not.

I didn't realize until yesterday that Michigan was the first state to ratify the 21st Amendment.

AB_skin_test wrote:

rass wrote:

HDO45331 wrote:
Post of the day.

Finally! The sound of one hand clapping!

I can't decide if Rass realizes that wasn't his or not.

No, HDO gave you the clap.

Also, it's pouring and I have neither an umbrella nor a raincoat, but did find Manhattan's tiniest Starbucks, so I'm dry, $2 poorer and antsy.

Think Guy Fieri has any happy hour specials?

rass wrote: No, HDO gave you the clap.

Good one! That went right over my head.

rass wrote:Think Guy Fieri has any happy hour specials?

The Vodka Donkey Sauce is sublime.

The Sybian wrote:

rass wrote:Think Guy Fieri has any happy hour specials?

The Vodka Donkey Sauce is sublime.

I went with* the Quadka Donkey Sauce. Tequila, amaretto, sambuca and Honeyed Dewers with a splash of ranch dressing. Surprise, no vodka!

*no I didn't

Twitter is starting to track you like facefuck.

I just learned that one of my all-time favorite books, Travels With Charley, is not completely fact. Maybe, mostly fiction.

Go ahead, life. Keep punching.

So I'm in the middle of moving, right? And I put a bunch of junk out on the curb with a big "FREE STUFF" sign.

This morning, as I was leaving the house, I see this homeless sort of dude, garbage bags hanging on the handlebars of a rusted bike, picking through the flotsam. I said "Hi, feel free to take all of it! Take whatever you want."

He has a paperback book in his hand. I had put out a large box of books. It's a copy of Orwell's Animal Farm. "Good novel", I said. "Yeah", he says. Then "You don't have a first-edition hardcover of this, do you?".

Do I what? Well, if I did, it wouldn't be out on the fucking street, eh?

I double-took at this. Seriously? Yes, seriously. He asked again. He'd take it if it was a first-edition hardcover. Then he just dropped it back in the box and wandered away.

When the hell did the homeless get so selective?

Fuck me, do you want an autographed first-edition?

Hey, can I give you a few shirts? Well, are they Armani?

Start around $1500:

http://www.bookride.com/2007/01/george- ... -1945.html" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;

I have a first-edition (British) hardcover of 1984, semi-ironically. No idea what it's worth and I ain't selling. Probably enough to gas up the '95 Yukon. Partially.

The combination of your avatar being a Dodgers uniform coupled with Davoin Shower-Handel is frankly unnerving.

I have a first edition Infinite Jest. Is it worth anything? Yes. Is it worth more to me right now no matter how much it is worth? Yes. I could be wrong but I think DF Wallace is going to be the (dead) Salinger for a whole new generation and a first edition pristine Infinite Jest could be worth real money one day. But regardless I'm psyched to own one of few 1st editions worth owning in the last 20-ish years

I mean this as nicely as possible, Brian, but you're out of your fucking mind.

Scottie, you move a lot.

AB_skin_test wrote:I mean this as nicely as possible, Brian, but you're out of your fucking mind.

You're probably right. But I'm hanging on to that thing for another 50 years just in case.