Recall

After boxing last night, I stopped to fuel up my Toyota.  I had changed back into my street clothes (bluejeans, white t, cowboy boots) and thrown on a jacket to fend off the brisk evening air.  I went through the standard motions at the pump:  sliding my card, selecting "yes" for receipt, selecting the grade, tasting the gasoline, putting the nozzle between my legs and delicately but intimately penetrating my car's freshly uncorked gas-orifice-hole while emitting a faint moan...  You know, the typical things EVERYONE does when they fill their tank.

You should see me refill the radiator...

After topping off my car, I gently pulled out the still-dripping nozzle while sweetly whispering "I love you, baby" to my car, then climbed back behind the wheel and noted my mileage on the receipt.  Placing the receipt in a huge pile of its brethren (I'll update my MPG spreadsheet one day, I swear to Thor), I dropped into gear and got on the road.

Something was wrong.

At first I thought perhaps it was bad gasoline.  About fifteen years ago, the same purveyor had a large batch of bunk petroleum that caused fuel pump failures in almost every car that so much as drove past the place.  But the chain-store's reputation paid a heavy price from that incident, and they have had an overly paranoid quality control unit ever since.  So the only bad gas in my car was probably the result of my dinner (bangers & mash).  [Man, those obvious, low-hanging-fruit jokes are always the best.]

My next thought was that I needed to check Toyota's recall list once again to see if perhaps my make and model had been recently added.  I guess it could happen, however unlikely, that my accelerator would suddenly develop problems after so many years and untold thousands of miles of trouble-free operation.  It was possible, if not plausible.

The more I analyzed the "something is wrong" feeling, the more I began to realize that it WAS the accelerator.  It was immediately popping up when I raised my foot, no matter how quickly I pulled it away.  "Holy crap, my car has design flaws that have proven fatal in some instances.  It's late, I'm tired, and now I'm running the risk of becoming another statistic in a massive recall campaign."  My brain went from sleepy to panicked in a hurry as I contemplated my options.  "Man, it's almost like the accelerator is stuck to my boot!"

Then I tried to move my boot left and right across the gas pedal.  It would not budge.

Goddammit.

I stepped in gum.

...   ...   ...   ...


But maybe that's just the fix that Toyota needs for their accelerator issues:  A stick of Juicy Fruit on the soles of your kicks - problem solved.


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Help yourself to these images:

Without Warning

No one told me.  Seriously.  I thought what I was doing was in the best interest of everyone.


You see, I have a dirty mind and a crass mouth, and a hard time reining in either one.  It's not really a secret, and I make no apologies for the abominations generated by my head.  And, I can still see how it could easily offend some people. In fact, sometimes that's the point.

Like how my mind instantly converts "Slippery When Wet" into 

the FAR more hilarious expression "Shit And Fall Back In It."

Yet I assure you, I was looking out for the delicate feelings of faceless, nameless people when I told Blogger I wanted to enable their Adult Content Warning.  "This will be great," I told myself.  "I won't have to apologize to nuns or justify myself in front of a federal judge or listen to crying kids tell me how I 'made baby Jesus cry'.  Perfect solution."

And so I selected the option in my settings window and never gave it another thought...

Until today.  Today I decided to "View Blog" and then (after clicking through the Adult Content thing) start clicking on "Next Blog" just to see what other interesting blogs I could dig up.  It's a maneuver I try about twice a year in order to see what the other random prisoners of Blogger are up to, leave a few non-sequitur comments, and try to milk a slightly less pathetic number of followers (to no avail).

Four of the first five sites I visited using the above method were exclusively devoted to spanking and leather (not either, both).  The fifth was just pictures of naked women from India.  Now, whether or not these sites made me uncomfortable or became instantly bookmarked is beside the point.  The point is, Blogger now assumes that I'm into some kinky-sex-tricks without my specifically and directly informing Blogger that if I am.

Actually, I suppose that's not entirely true.  There are a number of possible explanations for my adventures through assland. 

The first is that everyone except Captain Paddle And The Bare Assed Bandits abandoned Blogger in favor of some other venue.  Judging by the amount of complaining I hear from bloggers about Blogger for its free and functional service, that is an equally sad and real possibility.  People will complain about any damn thing if you give them enough time."These free and flawless diamonds just don't sparkle much on cloudy days.  They must be shitty."  Still, it seems unlikely that everyone just up and left one afternoon.

A second possibility is that when I enabled the Adult Content Warning, Blogger instantly assumed I was uploading photos of my weirdly half-shaved, half-tattooed crotch.  Here again, I can see the inclination to stereotype anyone using the Adult Content Warning as a pierced fecalphile; there are a lot of freaks out there, and grouping them together helps maintain order in society.  However, just because I use words like "cockshits" or "dickbeard" it doesn't make me a gimp-rubber (someone who rubs gimps, not a substance extracted and vulcanized from gimps).

Third, I've been assigning choice labels/tags to a few of my posts, and perhaps that controls the direction in which the Next Blog button points me.  I've decided to test that theory by including some choice labels in this very post.  I'll put on a white lab coat later, and analyze the results.

Finally, the most chilling thought is that before Google/Blogger sends me on my Next Blog journey, it first scans through my previous posts and picks out keywords and themes in order to give itself some direction.  Which would indicate that there is an algorithm out there stained black by my barely-coherent, half-drunk rantings...
So when SkyNet becomes sentient in 2016, the first things it may seek out are butt beads and Pabst.

"I need Sarah Connor and a tube of lube."

Anyway, that's why I've disabled the Adult Content Warning again.  And just in time for this lovely post.

Happy Saint Patricks Day.

Friday Audio Visuals

First the Visuals...

In addition to angering PETA, I suspect that sitting in this chair will open a gate to hell.

_________________________________________________________

...Then the Audio


In case someone has not already informed you, music totally kicks ass. Even the music that you don't like kicks ass. It may not kick YOUR ass, but then, this world isn't all about you. So stop being such a self-centered a-hole all the time. Jeez.

For example, while personally I might find the music of Dave Matthews or Jack Johnson or John Mayer to be limper than a transvestite's cock at the Playboy Mansion, that doesn't mean there aren't plenty of women* out there who frequently finger their bean to the dulcet tones of this lifeless strain of acoustic adult contemporary vomit. Some people like it, some don't. I'm squarely in the "don't" camp. I like my music to fall to either side of that genre: slower and more mournful or faster with some growl and some teeth. I'm convinced that the Mayer Matthnson Band's music is what the house band plays in the musically flaccid limbo of weak-sauce purgatory, probably while everyone eats vanilla yogurt and stares into their cell phones. I can't help but think that this music is the "adult" equivalent of the Jonas Brothers; easily packaged lowest common denominator garbage. Anytime I catch a track from one of those artists, I find stirring within myself feelings that usually culminate with a huge yawn or a moderate dump.

(*Note: clearly the men who willingly listen to those artists have gaping manginas.)

But I will allow that there are people who are fans of that style of music and musician, a few of whom may even be regularly sober. It takes diff'rent strokes to move the world, Willis. Yes it does.

But just like "it's not all about you" it's also not all about me either. Except ... this is MY blog, so I guess it is all about me. So let's talk about a few songs that I like. And by "talk", I mean I'll write words, and then you'll read them.

... ... ...

Besides the ludicrous uptick in new and never used gym memberships, the dawn of the new year is also remarkable due to the engulfing flood of music blogs posting their "best of the year" collections. As such, it's a fine time to go catch up on the cream of the previous year.


Here are two of my favorites from 2009. One is by the son of actor Anthony Perkins, but totally reminds me of a dylan/springsteen/costello hybrid (in a good way) instead of Norman Bates.

Elvis Perkins - Doomsday

The other is by a recently deceased supporter of my new favorite charity, Sweet Relief. I'm kinda bummed I didn't get into this guy until after he died.

Vic Chesnutt - Flirted With You All My Life




Although both of these songs are written from a personal perspective, they approach the subject death in two strikingly different ways.

One is an upbeat, flippant-attitude, horn-heavy, toe-tapping good time (once it gets going). It is an overwhelmingly positive song that somehow gives a light feel to a very heavy topic. I'm not sure if it looks at death through the lens of naivete, or is just too damn positive to let even death kill the mood.

The other seems a good deal more personal, and (to me) therefore a bit more moving. When he sings about cancer and his mother, Vic Chesnutt pours out so much of himself that he actually makes me want to punch Death square in the cock-knuckle.

Oh, and not like you could tell from listening to that track, but Mr. Chesnutt was paralyzed from the waist down at age 18 in an accident that left him with limited use of his hands. That was in the early eighties, about six or seven years BEFORE he cut his first album. Looks like Vic grabbed Adversity by both balls and then slapped it around until it became his servant.


Kinda makes me feel like a mangina owner myself, considering what a total hack I am even with my two perfectly functional hands.

Anyhow, there's some music fo yo ass. Now you can get back to whatever self-involved thing you were doing before you foolishly surfed here.

Happy March

Caption this.

Then mourn how us puny humans were not similarly endowed.