You May Already Be A Winner.

But chances are, if you're reading this, you're probably NOT a winner. I'm just sayin'.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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This is one reason (or two) I love living where I do .
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This is one reason I despise living where I do.
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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.
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Seriously, a little something for the ladies. No refunds.
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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?