I would have updated sooner, but I really didn't feel like it. Still don't, as a matter of fact. But I figure if I don't put something out here every so often, the few eyeballs I've managed to attract thus far will lose interest and go back to surfing for goat porn.

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Thanks to all for participating in the photo caption from a couple of weeks past.
Out of all the submissions, "BEER RUN" was my favorite.

Even still, I feel like I need to throw out a few of my own. So I will...

"Hey bro, why is your van leaking all that chunky oil onto my carpet?"
or
"No, goddammit! I said get dressed for an A-LIST party!"
or
"Jerry, I don't care if we ARE a 'Full-Serve' gas station! You can fire me if you want to, but I'm not pumping that guy's gas."
or
Dave finally found a way to stealthily masturbate in public.

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While I think ponchos have their place in this world (namely Clint Eastwood movies), I've never wanted to own one myself. Until I saw this ad, anyway. Now I'm not so sure.

Bitch aint even COLD.

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So, apparently if you're a celebrity needing to kick start your flagging career with low-cost PR, dying is one surefire method.

re: the 'Inside' section... Why can't it be both? Zombie Princess in Morocco! I smell a Mike Bay movie.

Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Billy Mays, and MJ have all recently cashed in on the "free publicity" death train. A bunch of whore mongering, prima donna media sluts, if you ask me. Obviously their deaths are just transparent last ditch efforts to reignite guttering careers. And apparently, I'm not supposed to say anything unkind about ANY of these people now that they're gone. Not even the awesome food poisoning joke about trying to swallow an 8-year-old wiener. Somehow, their recent passing temporarily shields them from our scrutiny and mockery, as we try to remember the good things they brought to this world. Even that alleged child-rapist, Billy Mays. [\sarcasm]

Quite a few people have told me over the past week that they felt emotionally effected by the passing of Michael Jackson. I would wrinkle my nose and comment that I was more broken up over the passing of Ms. Fawcett, which would typically elicit confused looks from whomever I was talking with. But Michael Jackson was the KING of pop! or Thriller was the best selling album ever! or He was so dynamically talented! or some variant thereof is usually thrown back at me. And I'll grant that those things are true.

But here are the twin forks of my counter argument:
1) Farrah Fawcett never (allegedly) molested children.
2) I've never tossed off to a picture of MJ in a red bathing suit (also allegedly).

But now that MJ has passed, it occurs to me that I might actually be able to listen to his music without thinking about the horrors he inflicted on others (allegedly). Maybe.

MJ's Wanna Be Starting Something and a 1978 lo-fi demo of Don't Stop Till Ya Get Enough.

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While recuperating from sinusitis/summer cold/H1N1 on the couch yesterday, I attempted to watch television between the hours of noon and four. After flipping between the talking heads on the various cable "news" channels (and an occasional stop on MTV to watch some show about women who are into douche-bag guys), I was about ready gouge out my own eyes. Then, I rediscovered CSPAN. No commercials, no scrolling distractions, no shouting matches, just experts dully covering facts about issues. I hadn't watched CSPAN in about ten years, and I'd forgotten how much I enjoy it. And how easily it can lull me to sleep.

I think I'm in love with that channel. If I could find a way, I'd totally fuck CSPAN. And it would be hot, and sweaty, and droning and dull.

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Mark Mawson's photo study Aqueous is pretty cool.

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Try not to blow your thumbs off this weekend. Contrary to popular belief, they won't grow back for at least a couple hundred years.

From someecards. Just like it says. Duh.

And some old 90's vintage Grunge, themed for the holiday....