28 October 2009

Blow Town

Chances are looking favorable that I'll be leaving town for the weekend. And not just some two-dimensional flattened copy of me either. No, this will be a real jaunt, featuring the official human-meat version of Krëg. I'll probably do off-the-wall things like eat food and look at stuff. Possibly some walking around and drinking things. I'm a wild-man like that. An animal.

Unlike most of my attorney-encouraged "getaways" where I lurk in a cabin while searing off my fingerprints with a clothes iron, this short break is welcome and purely recreational. Anyhow, I'll try to remember to take a camera or something, and I may even have the wherewithal to use it. I promise I'll give y'all an undetailed, rambling, and sketchy account of my wanderings when I return.

In the meantime (assuming I don't post again before I leave), amuse yourselves by looking at Black And WTF or Halloween In The Time Of Cholera, and marvel at Halloween costumes of yesteryear.

Also, feel free to answer the question from my last post, if you haven't already.

"We're gonna need a bigger fly-swatter."

27 October 2009


If you can make it through the first 2:15 of this clip without experiencing some violent psychotropic reaction, you've got a leg up on me.

An appearance by KISS shortly thereafter saves the day. Well, as much as a KISS appearance can save anything.

Quiz time: What's your favorite Halloween memory?

I'll start...
My grandmother once fixed my plastic/vinyl Spider-man costume using blue and red electrical tape. I had somehow torn out the costume's crotch while putting it on. Anyhow, that's the day I learned that tape came in different colors, cheap costumes are problematic, and grandmas can fix anything. Even a crotchless Halloween costume.

20 October 2009

You May Already Be A Winner.

But chances are, if you're reading this, you're probably NOT a winner. I'm just sayin'.

According to highly unreliable chatter on the Interthing, I may have been either cloned or vivisected, and then mailed across the country. It's about damn time some part of me got a vacation.

As many of you may have noticed (much to your chagrin), I fixed my comments problem, and I can now get back to peppering your comments section with my off-color contributions. It turns out that maybe it was just some user error (though I admit no guilt) of having too many accounts and passwords and being logged into too many different sites at once. Maybe. But probably it was still somehow the fault of technology, and not the result of my actions in any way.

I know quite a few people who are in to fantasy football, and on occasion they have asked me if I'd like to join. My total lack of knowledge and interest in professional-level football notwithstanding, I have a few basic issues with the notion of fantasy football.

First, I often ask participants what they find so compelling about fantasy football. "It makes the games more interesting," is the bullsh!t reply I most often receive. I like to point out that betting on a game doesn't inherently make the game any more exciting. A checkers match isn't suddenly more riveting when there's $100 riding on the outcome. It's the same damn game, only some ignoramus decided to risk a chunk of cash on something arbitrary. And instead of/in addition to money, you're pissing away your time. [sarcasm]Whoohoo, what wild and interesting fun.[/sarcasm]

Second, if I'm going to indulge in something that refers to itself as "Fantasy Anything", that 'anything' will not involve any men other than myself. Sorry, no non-Krëg dudes allowed in any of my fantasies.
Not even this one.

Just piles of human females, Wesson Oil, and Milton Bradley's Twister. Maybe someone remembered to bring a riding crop or something. Point being, barring a traumatic brain injury, my fantasies will hopefully never include shoulder pads and jock straps.

Two of my coworkers play a little game which they call "The Morning After Jam Night". They find a Internet article with an interesting headline, and humorously speculate that the article reflects how the neighbors/police/media found me Tuesday or Saturday morning. Last week's front runner was pretty awesome.

This is one reason (or two) I love living where I do .

This is one reason I despise living where I do.

I couldn't help but notice that some television network has reanimated the rotting corpse of the old mini-series "V". Even though my health insurance has diagnosed me with the awful precondition of enjoying a piece of good science fiction (an ailment scientists have classified as "geeky" or "loser-ish"), I am still apprehensive about this new version. I was pretty damn young when the original aired, but I remember enough to realize that it was mind-numbingly terrible.

Riding the tide of Star Wars popularity, the original series featured nefarious rodent-eating lizard biped-humanoids covered in faux human flesh. So, I guess you could say it was exactly like Desperate Housewives, except set in the 80s. [rimshot] Also, apparently this post-disco Flock Of Aliens got a discount on Micheal Jackson's 'Thriller' apparel and Blublocker© sunglasses. You know, because they wanted to fit in.
A timeless look.

I'm sure much like any other 80s fad, it seemed trendy at the time.

In the new-redeux of V, apparently the people in wardrobe took advantage of a fire-sale on the glut of unemployed-executive-banker clothes at the local consignment store.
A timeless look for the colorblind stockbroker.

I'm sure, not unlike its predecessor, this new show will hold up nicely in the ensuing decades, and if humans DO ever meet aliens, scholars will marvel at how on-the-mark the producers at ABC were with their depiction of an alien species. (cough)

Having not seen the new show (but still overly-willing to bad mouth it), I can't really say how it compares to the original: if it will examine society's xenophobia, lampoon 1930s/40s era facist Nazi Germany's government, or even if it will sate the ravenous appetite of the world's reptile fetishists. Right? Because everyone knows how unlivable, overbearing and dickish Fedcral Reserve Employees sauro-freaks can get when they can't get a little "green scale-tail". Wait, you DON'T know? Just me? Hmm. Moving on then...

The most important question this new mini series raises is a question that society has been asking itself for quite some time now: What the fuck happened to Marc Singer?
"Yeah, what the fuck happened to me?"

Dude was pretty much on top of the world in the early 80s. Prior to his role on the original V, he played The Beastmaster, a streetwise pimp high on blow mystical Fabio precursor that could communicate with an array of animals because it was the 80s and people would swallow any premise, no matter how ridiculous. Video and photo records from that time suggest he managed mind control over creatures through a mysterious combination of angry squinting and chest oil, and he also rolled through town in a bad-ass Cadillac. Admittedly, I might have watched The Mack right after Beastmaster and confused a few plot points.

Here's a little something for the ladies: (sadly, that 'little something' is Marc Singer)
"I swear to Buddha, if this bird shits on my hand one more time..."
[Angry squint!]

Not long after these early eighties 'successes', he disappeared. Maybe, in what scientists term 'The C. Thomas Howell Effect', the world just quit noticing Marc. Or perhaps it was just one of society's reflexive defense mechanisms; ignoring a rising-star/hack much like they would repress a horrible childhood trauma or step over a bum on the street. Ignore it, and it will go away*.

But he's gone now, and God and the Internet only know to where. The current career possibilities for Mr. Singer are only as narrow as your own imaginations: Porn star, truck driver, kosher hot-dog vendor, chainsaw repairman, soft-spoken priest turned vigilante, forklift operator at a dildo plant, underprivileged inner-city youth, prom queen in a small Iowa farm town, Ralph Macchio's only dependable roommate, or Secretary of the Interior.

I personally like to imagine he's some combination of all of those. Plus, it's easier to imagine a new life path for him than looking up what he actually now does for a living. Wait, it isn't? Score another point for technology.

*Note: The above idiom is NOT to be used in the treatment of herpes or syphilis.

Seriously, a little something for the ladies. No refunds.

SUBJECT: Blogger awards

Seems like I'm always seeing people giving (or nominating) blogs awards, regardless of any actual merit.

So, I've cooked up a few of my own. Feel free to award these new and totally awesome awards to yourselves and each other. You could tell your friends some lies such as "I nominated you for a prestigious Krëg Blog Award, but I'm not sure you'll win. Competition is stiff for a KBA." Then later you can tell them they won and just email them whatever JPEG you deem most tasteless.

What are your award choices? Well, I'm glad you asked, internal rhetorical questioning narrative plot-device voice! Just take a gander at THESE:

In retrospect, I probably should have included more baby photos in that one...

Much like a handjob, this last award was really just for me to give to myself.

So, what awards did I forget? What custom award would you like me to make for YOU?

08 October 2009

Blogger Hates Me

Blogger has tweaked something within the past few days, in what I am certain is an effort to piss me off.

I don't know what they have changed, but I find myself no longer able to leave comments on anyone's page. I would suspect this "no comments" development to be the result of court-ordered sanctions against me for repeated online lewdness, except my lawyer helped me dodge that bullet by successfully arguing that I am human in no demonstrable way, and therefore not subject to the laws of people. I used the same argument to refuse his legal fees.

But seriously, Blogger has shit the bed on me, perhaps for the last time. Every few years, I get bored with a particular blog site, and move on to a new one (my ex-blog sites include MySpace and Xanga). I just get bored and need a change, so I move on and set up shop somewhere else. I have been about ready to ankle this Google-owned interface for over two months now, and the ONLY thing that's been keeping me coming back is the enjoyment of commenting on the posts of other bloggers. Such as you, dear reader.

Now I can't even do that. I don't know what is preventing my always witty (read: shitty) remarks from reaching your comments sections. Perhaps it is the crazy amount of restrictions I impose on the Internet using many Firefox add-ons (script-blockers, ad-blockers, cookie-killers, etc.). The problem might fade if I used Internet Explorer as my browser, but I'll eat a handful of soggy cocks before I use ANY version of IE.

Further, without being able to comment on other people's pages, there is little chance of increasing my readership. Not that I care about such things. But still, pretty much an impossibility.

So, until I either solve this problem, cancel my Blogger account, or put a bullet through my motherboard in frustration, please know that I really WANT to leave you some comments. But I can't.


Meantime, here's a couple of images to reflect upon.

Mmmmmm. Baconhenge.

Peace out, yo.


06 October 2009

I Hope That If I Found The Strength To Walk Out

You'd stay the hell outta my way.

This clip was sans our banjo player, acoustic guitar player, clarinet player, and violin player. So basically that's only half the band.


It is apparently time for my annual PPP (Phall Phlegm Phest).

Allergies > Sinus infections > Excessive phlegm production > Chest congestion & sore throat > Me being sick as hell (physically sick ... My psychological illness is pretty much year-round)

I think I coughed up about a half pint of "fluids" Saturday alone.

On the upshot, my doc says I don't have swine flu. Yet.