Beyonce Admits Lip-syncing

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Pretty bad when even Beyonce lip-syncs to Beyonce.

Could have been worse. Beyonce could have lip-synced to Roseanne Barr's singing of the Star Spangled Banner.

Actually, I think I might pay money to see that ...

My Blog in 2012

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This time last year, I decided to spend less time writing content-mill dribble and focus on learning how to writing. Some ideas surfaced as public posts. A few of those garnered a surprising number of views. Who knew so many people wanted to know about P'zolo?

The numbers tracked by Sitemeter.com look promising. I have no idea how many of those views are people and how many are bots trolling my site.

Also, I've had a large number of visits from Russia, especially these past couple of months. Why? I have no national secrets here. Much of my money is already extorted by our American mob; so, sorry, Russian mobsters.

Are people in Russia that curious about a boring American? How about a comment or two? Please.

How do you handle cheese on fire?

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"A road tunnel in northern Norway will be shut for several weeks after a 27-ton truckload of sweet goat's milk cheese caught fire."

You just can't make this stuff up. It took firefighters 4 days to put out the molten cheese. Not too long of a time when you consider that some of the firefighters had to get fondue sticks, another group had to stop for bread sliced into cubes, and every one else had to bring the wine and a piano for sing-alongs during the feast.

All went well. When a reporter asked one of the firefighters how their efforts were going, he replied, "It's not gouda, but it's not too baa-aad either."


Sorry. Sorry. I just heard a popular rapper wail a "song" full of puns. It was terrible. Of course, puns always get a bad rap ...

Are you a babe magnet?

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My friend considers himself a babe magnet. He just doesn't realize his magnetic polarity is more repulsion than attraction.

My Instant Indoor Pool

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Today's home adventure started when I opened the door and stepped inside into a shallow pool. This would have been a great experience except I wasn't wearing swimming trucks. More importantly, I don't normally have a pool in my house.

Thanks to my washing machine hoses, water had gathered on the floor and traveled to the door to greet me. To show my thanks, I dashed to the washer and frantically twisted the shutoff valves to end my indoor waterway.

Because my house is almost 60 years old, all of the "shutoff" valves have aged into "reduce to a aggravating trickle" valves - the politest term I can type here. This means finding a bucket large enough to catch the continued flow of water while I rush to the store for plumbing supplies. So I disconnected those faulty hoses from the washer and shoved them into the washer's tub. Later, a run of the rinse cycle would remove all evidence of a leak.

With the errant water under control, I sped to my trustee low-priced venue. Lucky for me, Wal-mart is only five minutes away.

Amazingly, Wal-mart still sold the same brand of washer hoses that I installed two years ago - the same cheap "warrantied for 5 years provided you still have the original receipt" hoses.

Original receipt? Given Wal-mart's high quality fares, why would I hold to a receipt? Obviously, I must had bought a rare defective set of hoses. "What are the chances of another bad purchases?", I thought as I paid for my new set.

The scary part came after installed them. Water and plumbing have never been close friends of mine. So with my washer on the left side of my head and the hot/cold valves on my right, I scanned side-to-side inspecting each connection as I slowly turned the water on.

When I had the water pressure fully on and saw with no leaks, I breathed a sigh of relief. Success!

I then learned something new. When cheap hoses give way and begin drenching you in stereo, you can't shut the water off fast enough.

I ended up spending another hour doing what I should have done in the beginning: replacing Wal-mart's $14 pretend plumbing with Lowe's $20 professional set of hoses.

Fortunately, this time I had Wal-mart's receipt.

The Battle Begins

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As I got up out of the chair, I felt very light-headed. Not to worry. My blood pressure wasn't at 9-1-1 levels. I simply had had 5 pounds of hair removed by my barber.

That's what happens when the joys of work keep you from getting a haircut. My last one was before Halloween. Scary.

It also didn't help that I had begun to enjoy my long, flowing, artificially-colored brown hair. I looked like an older, sexy Fabian - if Fabian had a stressful day-job, graying hair, early stages of wrinkles, and no sex-appeal. Aside from those minor differences, people would consider us twins. Especially if those people were blind.

Regardless, the other day my boss was fretting over the upcoming investors meeting. When he saw me, he remarked that I looked a little too shaggy. I said, "Great, you be Scooby-Doo and we'll solve this mystery of 'our vanishing paychecks while the company has record profits.'" ... to myself. With maturity comes the knowledge of when to be a smart-ass and when keep certain thoughts suppressed.

My boss continued by saying my "unconventional mane" might suggest that I have a beef with the company. I said, "Great, I was planning to begin my presentation by offering hamburgers to the investors."

This, I said out loud. Sometimes, you have to push the envelope - even if it might contain a pink slip. Besides, I understand McDonald's double cheese burger has some cow. (I read that on the Internet. So it must be true.)

I also reminded him that my looks might be unconventional because everyone else at that meeting would be bald. Not the best look on our 55-year old human resource director - Mrs. Winklestein. Even so, with her at the meeting, I figured my long hair wouldn't attract much attention. The investors would spend more time reflecting. So to speak.

Still, my boss gently suggested - "gently" on this side of threatening unemployment - that, if the powers-that-be ever consider pay-raises, I could be a hair's width away from having my extra efforts, my unpaid overtime, and my subtle attempts at ass-kissing wiped out.

As I got up out of the chair from our little chat, I felt very light-headed. My blood pressure was "You win this time" over "This isn't over".

Giving Drunk Sailors a bad name.

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Tonight, the talking heads on TV ranted about Congress and Obama spending money like drunken sailors. Really?

I have many friends in Navy. They drink. They know to stop when they ran out of money.

Happy new calendar day!

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Last night, I watched some of the craziness on television: a sparkly Ryan Seacrest covering for Dick Clark, an aging Jenny McCarthy attacking anyone in a uniform, and the highly-hyped performance of Justin Bieber. I listened to my neighborhood erupting into a combat zone of celebratory explosions. And, of course, I read the overflowing repetition of Twitter's obvious trend for the evening - "the fiscal cliff". Sorry, "Happy New Year".

Were the Mayans this enthusiastic when they changed their 2 ton stone calendar? I'm sure someone started their new year with a hernia. Not to worry though. The Mayan priest/doctor easily fixed that painful hernia at sunrise when the calendar changer had his heart sacrificially ripped out.

Of course, these days we don't have to worry about those kind of heart breaks at year's end. We have the more agonizing holiday ritual of "Sorry. It's not you, it's me."

I'm not saying that the Mayans didn't get worked up last night. At least one group wet themselves when the year's number increase by 1 - that party pack of girls named Maya. (Or Maia. That missing "I" in team has to go somewhere.) Justin Bieber's appearance may have helped their fervor a little too.

Anyway, this year I resolve not to make any resolutions. What's the point? When I break the word down, I get re-solutions. "Re" as in "again". And, "solutions" as in "something that you've already fixed". Why would I spend time fixing something all over again? Do we really need to live by motto, "if it's not broke then ... you didn't try hard enough."?

Maybe that's why we make "resolutions". We didn't fix it right the first time. Maybe that's why the ancient Mayan civilization disappeared. They didn't make a resolution to meet Justin Bieber. And fix him. Hopefully, our modern group of Mayans (and MaIans) have a better chance.

Cowpocalypse averted!

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Do you avoid drinking milk? Well, let me thank you. Our gracious overlords - sorry, our federal government has reached at least one agreement today and avoided a potential cowpocalypse.

Yes, federal taxes will take more of your hard-earned money. But it's not like you were spending your dollars on dairy products.

So consumers of that delicious moo juice thank you for the sacrifice of your idle funds. Now, milk-drinkers won't have to hand over extra moolah to pay $7 a gallon for their favorite beverage.

You have this country's udder gratitude!

"From each according to his ability, to each according to his need." Enjoy the decline.

When Being Down Is A Good Thing

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The other day I caught my dog chewing on my feather comforter. I was going to yell at him but he already looked a little down in the mouth.

Oh well. Time for a new comforter filled with the best insulation possible. Not that pink stuff you fill your walls with - it tends to give me hives. No, it has to be the best insulator possible - down. Ever see a duck wear a sweater? I rest my case.

For the moment, with the cold weather here, I trying to cover up with my dog. Still, I need a soft, warming blanket that won't whimper when I'm trying to sleep. Besides, it's difficult to fluff a dog. But not as difficult as taking a comforter for a walk ... more like a drag. (Even though cleaning up afterwards is a cinch!)

So I begun shopping and have learned one thing: You know inflation is bad when the price of down is up!

True story ... mostly

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I think the eye doctor at Walmart is purposely messing with people. At his entrance way in the parking lot, he's placed a billboard advertising his services. The words are the same sized except for the last item. It's printed twice as big as and reads “foreign objects removed.”

As I walked by this sign, a good ol’ country boy behind me pipes up in an inappropriately loud voice. He asks his companion, "Does this mean the doc’s gonna remove the Mexicans?”

Upon hearing this, two approaching Hispanic guys slow down. They stare at redneck with the friendliness of "do we need to kick your ass?", then they read the billboard. One amigo says to the other, “Si, what a good idea! I hope they start with my mother-in-law.”

This Veteran Salutes a Sad Good Bye to You, Norman Schwarzkopf

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RIP to America's last great general: Norman "Stormin'" Schwarzkopf. When "Shock and Awe" was more than lightning and kittens (awww).

Ban Movies to Prevent Violent Behavior

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Recently, the news is full of everyone wanting to save the world by banning their favorite vice. Among the top ten near-criminal behaviors are images flashed into your innocent eyes - movies.

Yes, we all know that watching movies causes violent behavior. But what do you expect?

On one hand, you surrender 2 hours of your hard-earned income, another 2 hours of your brief life watching a badly-made movie that has no refund. Who wouldn't feel a tad frustrated? Especially when you could have stayed home and watched bad over-the-air television for free.

Or, you listen to your best bud say that only a moron would sit through your favorite flick. Who can blame you for winging a DVD or two at their empty noggins?

Forbidding movies would probably help the world become a better place. But then what else would we blame our bad behavior on? Pictures of our parents?

At least, I tried.

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Every so often, WriteToDone.com promotes a writing exercise called "Scene Stealers:Telling a Story". They give you a opening scene; you try to mold it into a story (or at least a plausible introduction) of 350 words or less.

I took Monday's challenge and entered my attempt. I hoped that someone would give some needed direction or constructive criticism. So far, nothing.

No criticism is the worst. Your efforts weren't good enough for Pulitzer Prize, or bad enough for the death penalty. At best, your efforts earned a "Meh" of indifference, but nothing motivating enough for a couple of key strokes in your direction.

And so, for all of the Russian visitors this blog has been getting this past week, here was my entry. I ran out of my 350 word limit, so all you get is an intro.

All comments are welcomed.

Monday's exercise was: "Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?"
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Ron etched another line in the wall of the mud hut that had been his home for the last 31 days. When would the nightmare end?

Certainly not today as the hatch on the top of Ron’s muddy confinement opened. In dropped another body to share the misery of Ron and 12 others in the dank cell.

“Hi, I’m …,” said the new arrival. He was immediately interrupted with a grumbling “Ron. Yeah, we know.”

Everyone in the cell was named Ron. In the spirit of bureaucratic efficiency, the prison system kept those with the same first name in the same cell.

“I used to lived with idiots”, thought Ron angrily. “Now I’m surrounded by mo’Rons.”

But what could he expect? These are the days of A.P.P.L.E. – Agency for the Protection and Promotion of Leafy Edibles.

A.P.P.L.E. originally began as a Federal department dedicated to regulating and taxing vegetables. After the latest round of elections, A.P.P.L.E. had an expanded role: They could inspect your house for signs of plant abuse.

For example, any potted plants found over or under watered earned you a few weeks of “reeducation”. Reeducation meant a muddy confinement in the ground so you would come to appreciate your photosynthesizing brethren.

If dead plants were discovered in your home, you spent the rest of your life in the ground. Then you were buried to become plant food as a fitting retribution.

You could escape arrest. These enforcers of A.P.P.L.E. were rotten to the core. Paid with enough greenery showing Benjamin Franklin’s stern face, these corrupt investigators would look the other way. But a quota – either arrest or personal funds – was going to be made.

They caught Ron with a dusty, dirty, faded plastic fern in his apartment. When he couldn’t pay the extortion, the unsmiling A.P.P.L.E. police jailed Ron for “the simulation of an unnatural act towards living vegetation”.

31 days later, Ron made another line in the muddy wall. The lines didn’t count his time stolen by idiotic political whims. Another line simply added itself to Ron’s escape plan.

But what! There's more!

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It wasn't like I was watching during the late-night times - those wee hours when you're open to all sorts of suggestions. It was mid-morning with a mind already sharpened by a fifth cup of coffee. Yet there it was on the TV: a sleek, seductive infomercial offering incredible solutions at impossible low prices. And it promised to help me overcome a decade's long inconvenience.

10 years ago, I woke to a house full of smoke. The wiring in my then 40-year-old stove had shorted out. The burner had begun a threat to quick-fry itself and my home into a crispy, crackly crunch. I jumped out of bed in time to introduce the stove to the fire extinguisher. Ten years after flipping the stove's circuit breaker, I've fed myself very well using an old two-burner hot plate and microwave oven.

One of the downsides living is watching dependable objects become less dependable. Besides my body, I mean. My two burner hotplate has become a one burner, finicky heater. My microwave still works as well as long as you add in a few extra minutes for cooking, and hang around to reset it every so often.

That's why the infomercial for the Nuwave inductive cooker caught my attention. The ad had me at "but wait there's more!"

They started with a single high-tech burner making five star chef out of a fry cook for just three easy payments $33.95. Plus shipping and handling - an unmentioned extra 30 bucks.

"But wait, there's more!" They also would throw in several pots and pans at no cost.

"But wait, there's more!" If you call now, they would throw in a second inductive cooker. As long as you pay the shipping and handling of another $30.

"And if you call in the next few seconds…", They would "give" you another set of pots and pans. Again, as long as you pay yet another shipping and handling charge of 30 bucks.

Thank goodness for the Internet. I did little research on the Nuwave offer. The company has an excellent reputation for delivering the first inductive burner. As for their "but wait, there's more" enticements, not so much. Fortunate for my bank account, I read several recent reviews and complaints of unshipped merchandise and of customer filings with the Better Business Bureau.

That's the seduction of infomercials – a good one makes you think you found the easiest, cheapest solution to your most nagging problem. But a little research keeps you, and me, from getting burned.

This is what we should ban.

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Forget guns, ban bullets. Yes, you can make guns illegal. But some idiot will figure out how to use Legos to fire bullets at the innocents. Then we will have to ban Legos, depriving children of yet another evil influence that we adults survived.

So, with bullets illegal, guns will be nothing more than expensive clubs. Can I get an Amen!

Not that psychos will stop using guns to hurt people. But when those psychotic bullies attack, THEN we can ban guns without worries from the NRA. Then we can forbid all manners of club-like objects, such as hammers, large twigs, and small, overweight dogs. Even fuzzy toys won't be able to escape legislation (I'm sure you'll agree that Tickle-Me-Emo was not meant to leave bruises).

All this banning gets us closer to the source of problem: unstable idiots. Of course, we can't forbid all fools. That would wipe out almost all of our bureaucrats. Where would our country be without the irresponsible telling the responsible how to live their lives?

Still, our goal lies in detecting and controlling unstable individuals. Since most of us want easy answers and simple solutions, let's go with band-aid options. Let's fix a symptom instead of the problem. The sooner we ban bullets – including that gateway projectile: BBs – the sooner we can think we are living in a safer world.

At least until the next horrific incident.

Wendy Liebman tweeted:

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"Slept like a pig today."

That happened to me once when I was camping on the ground. A storm passed through during the night and I awoke in mud puddle, squealing.

Anyway, I hear mud is great for the skin. Blemishes rarely touch pig skin. Of course, the same can be said of this year's Kansas City Chiefs. With their 2-and-11 record, maybe their avoidance of the pig skin is a religious decision.

One of Today's pseudo-americans: Roy A. Cooper

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It's official. The North Carolina Supreme Court ok'd their government to arrest you for gambling on video sweepstakes. However, you are strongly encouraged to play NC lottery.

I want to thank all of those pseudo-moralists: those dedicated to an American version of the Taliban. Thank you for watching out for me and my fellow citizens. A big thanks to you, Roy A. Cooper, NC Attorney General, for leading the fight to protect us from ourselves ... except in times when it benefits the state's revenue.

Heaven knows I'll easily succumb to those evils of gambling that aren't link to those sacred words, "North Carolina Education". (Is it ok to use that titillating word, "succumb"? At least, until you ban it.) So, praise be to the NC General Assembly and their supporters for all of hypocrisy legislated under the name of freedom.

I'm taking a gamble by posting this. Will I offend? Gamble or offend, either brands me as a criminal under NC law.

How To Dodge A VERY BIG Bullet.

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As I type this, a three-mile wide asteroid 4179 Toutatis is whizzing over our heads at a scant 4,000,000 miles.

You probably know that the moon is almost 240,000,000 miles away. So, on the planetary scale of things, we dodged a bullet.

If you would like to thumb your nose at Toutatis (or moon the asteroid), you can go online to the Virtual Telescope where they have real-time view of this ballistic rock.

But wait! There's more. In 2015 and 2029, the asteroid 99942 Apophis will zing over your scalp. If its path varies by as much as 2000 feet, then the year 2036 will be a treat you won't forget. Imagine the excitement as you watch the gentle impact of planetary bodies - equivalent to a few thousand atomic bombs.

Notice I said "you" instead of "we". Given my family's history of lifetimes under 70 years, I have a better chance of building my escape pod than I do of being around to shake your hand and say, "Well, it's been nice knowing you."

Of course, by 2036, humanity might have solved all its differences. The people of the world will live as one universal love-fest. Then it's a simple matter of getting everyone - especially those even mildly considering a membership with Weight Watchers - to shift over to one country and jump up-and-down. Repeatedly. With the force of almost 10 billion people madly stomping on Spaceship Earth, our planet could shift ever-so-slightly out of the way.

And on a collision course to the sun.

I guess I should shake your hand now. Well, it's been nice knowing you.

Guess why today is special.

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The Inter-web is a-buzz with news of those magical numbers 12/12/12, which happens to be Kiam Moriya's birthday. Today is extra special because Kiam entered this amazing world at 12:12.

But wait, there's more! Today is his 12th trip around the sun. WOW!

Not only that, his favorite number is ... 5. 5? He ought to lose a present over that. Maybe that $12 check from Grandma.

Anyway, I'm hoping he has dozens and dozens of happy birthdays - which is 144 - which a gross ... way to wish someone happiness.