Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Slouching Towards Turkey Day...

I'm trying to decide whether to go outside and drive 8-foot copper grounding rods into the semi-frozen tundra or simply sit in my office and stare at the aquarium. In short, my brain is not getting any traction this morning. I can't think of a single snippy thing to say about anyone, not even Anne Curry. Rather than deprive you of the morning dose of sarcastic thought, I searched the internet and came up with some nasty words about NYT columnist Maureen Dowd that I thought fit the bill. From Fred Reed:
I read with ashen resignation that Maureen Dowd, the professional spinster of the New York Times, will soon birth a book, no doubt parthenogenetically, called Are Men Necessary? The problem apparently is that men have not found Maureen necessary. Hell hath…. Clearly there is something wrong with men.

I weary of the self-absorbed clucking of aging poultry.

Why is Maureen hermetically single? For starters, she is not just now your classic hot ticket. She’s not just over the hill, but into the mountains, to Grandmother’s house we go. She probably gets more daily maintenance than a 747, but she still looks as though a vocational school held an injection-molding contest and everyone lost. That leaves her with only her personality as bait. The prognosis is grim.
Damn, I wish I'd said that, although in truth I can't say I've ever given Maureen Dowd that much thought. Thanks to the whack jobs at The Gun Zone for the link; this week, TGZ also includes the worst whorehouse joke ever told...read it here.

Since I'm clearly brain-dead, I've also decided to do some experimental SHOOTING GALLERY audio podcasts [YES! SG In Your Pocket!]. I just ordered the appropriate audio stuff for my iMac from Amazon, so hopefully I'll be able to offer up the first version in December. Somewhere down the road, I'm thinking of a video podcast that adds details to the show...that's right after I get my first CLONE!

BTW, got my gen-u-wine official amateur radio callsign from the F.C.C. this week — KC0VLH. That kinda sucks, doesn't it? I'll apply for a vanity call sign after I pass the test for the top-tier Amateur Extra license, hopefully in December, depending on when I get my brand spanking new dirt cheap scientific calculator from HP so I can figure out the square root of -1 without becoming nauseous. BTW, the letter from the FCC gave my Sweetie a brief jolt..."Oh no," she though, "What has he been saying on that show of his?"

Finally, I'm waiting around for some rebound springs from Brownell's before I start deconstruction my S&W 1917 with the sticky trigger. Speaking of Brownell's [how'z dat for a slick transition, Bubba?], back when I was talking about my most recent trip to GUNSITE for the S&W 250 class, I failed to mention that Pete Brownell, the third generation of that legendary firearms family to run Brownell's, absolutely smoked the class. Go order some gun parts so he can buy more ammo!

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

No Mike, THIS is the worst whorehouse joke ever:

A guy goes to a two dollar hooker and winds up with a bad case of the crabs. He goes back to the whorehouse to complain about the crabs, and the Madam says, "Whaddya want for two bucks? Lobster?"

- Rob, just visitin' from The Gun Zone