My right to privacy

There's some sort of art-type festival going on down the street from me. Every twenty feet or so, another painter has his or her easel set up as they paint a scene from one of the many busy storefronts.

As I walked past each, I was sure to hold my hands up over my face. A friend asked me why I was doing this, and I told him it was because I didn't want my face seen in any of the paintings.

I have rights too, you know.

I only had a couple beers!

But I don't remember doing this at all!

Do the British have coffee tables?

Someone wanna check into that for me?

Indiana F***ing Jones

Still haven't seen the new movie, and not sure if I ever will because I've always thought that Jock (the pilot from the beginning of Raiders) should have been a more developed character, but for you Indy fans out there who just can't seem to get the theme song out of your head, check out the recently discovered secret lyrics to the song.

Recommended Reading

I'm not much of a "techno-thriller" kinda guy, but after what seems like years of Glenn Reynolds recommending Weapons of Choice and by chance having a gift card burning a hole in my pocket, I finally decided to pick it up.

I'm done reading it now, and can't wait to move on to the sequel in the trilogy, Designated Targets. Not quite sure if it should be classified as alt-history or sci-fi, but it's certainly not about a bunch of lizards mucking about WWII.

(Also good, by the way.)

If you're a regular fan of great literature (which I only am when hitting on the thick-black-framed-glasses-lady-types) or never read at all (which I am...well, I never am), but have fond memories of The Final Countdown, I'd suggest picking this one up at your earliest convenience.

PS - The author of Weapons of Choice is also a blogger. He's Australian, but if you're willing to accept that English is his second language, you might also enjoy that.

What a stupid game

While not as bad as pissing on someone's grave (or the fact that he or she may soon be in one), it's almost as insensitive to turn the unfortunate event into a scavanger hunt to find the people who are.

Just stop. It's become an ugly game of oneupsmanship nobody should be playing.

Is this a protest or are you just happy to see me?

Flat Iron Steak?

Yay?

Nay?

Ever try cooking it yourself?

How'd you do it?

What's your favorite cut of beef?

Ever been in a men's locker room?

Eat your heart out, Al Gore

This weekend I think I may have left a carbon footprint the size of Texas.

Saturday I mowed my lawn with my tremendously inefficient lawnmower that seems to spew smoke the whole time.

Today I put my electric lawn edger to use, followed by my electric weed eater and cleaned up with the electric leaf blower and what I'm certain was several hundred gallons of water pumped through a jet nozzle.

The yard looks great.

The other side of the camera

Now we know who O'Reilly was talking to.

"I don't publish comments from anybody that I suspect is black"

I'm linking to this site because I want to remind all those who wish to claim racism at every turn what pure, unadulterated racism truly is.

This is a person with whom there is no point in discussing race. This is someone who truly sees no deeper than the color of one's skin.

It isn't a politically incorrect remark here and there. It's not about a joke made that didn't quite work the way it was intended.

It's disgusting. It's vile. It's reprehensible.

The greatest justice that could possibly be served to a jackass when he or she expresses their First Amendment rights is for everyone to be absolutely clear on how big a jackass he or she is.

And we've got a pretty damned big one here.

I promise I'll call!

...the best that any Democratic presidential candidate has been able to manage with Iraq is to make what I think of as the high school sex promise: I will pull out in time, honest dear.

P.J. O'Rourke, via Instapundit.

A Guilty Conscience

There's this guy named Reinholdt.

He claims that if he doesn't have processes expressly written down for him to review whenever he performs a task, no matter how many times he may have performed that exact task in the past, he won't know how to do it correctly. Even then, he rarely follows the instructions, so even if everything is appropriately documented and readily available at his fingertips, there's a pretty good chance he'll screw something up in the end. And sometimes, for no apparent reason, Reinholdt just makes up his own rules.

We've gotten used to how Reinholdt operates. Whenever something goes wrong, we're pretty certain he's at fault. All incoming mail is sitting in the OUT box? Seems ol' Reinholdt didn't bother reading the huge sign that says "OUT" right above it. Two and two are supposed to equal four, but suddenly they come out to seven? Oh, looks like three days ago Reinholdt messed around with the laws of mathematics. Every number in the phonebook now has a four-digit area code and ends in a letter? Reinholdt thought he saw once that was the right way to do it.

We try to be gentle with Reinholdt. After all, he's a pretty nice guy. So whenever he pulls another one of his doozies, always managing to somehow best himself, we attempt to respond in a diplomatic manner. Once the problem is fixed, we gather everyone in a room, talk about how things are working out, pat some people on the back, remind folks about the bowling party next week, wish Darlene a happy birthday, and, oh yeah, one more thing: just want everyone to remember that the access door to the fusion reactor should be sealed before firing the thing up.

Thanks.

Later on Reinholdt corners me in the break room as I'm digging through the fridge looking for my lunch that was most likely eaten by someone else.

"I know you were talking about me," he says out of the blue.

"Huh?" I respond, my head nearly entirely in the crisper.

"The fusion reactor. The access door. Keeping it shut."

I pull my head out. "Oh. That. No...not necessarily. I just thought it was a good time to remind everyone of that very important policy."

"Well, it's just that, at my last job, we always left it open. At least a crack."

"You left the lead-lined three-foot thick access door to an operating fusion reactor open at all times?"

"Yes. It's how we kept things cool in there."

I'm a little dumbfounded. Once again, Reinholdt has managed to justify, at least to himself, an idiotic mistake.

"Well, regardless, I wasn't talking about you specifically anyway. Like I said, just a friendly reminder I thought everyone could stand to hear."

"Are you going to put out a memo re-iterating that? It might help me remember to do it."

I'm getting frustrated. I tried not to single him out as the offender to save him a little dignity. But there he stands, admitting his guilt to something he wasn't even directly accused of.

"I really don't think that's necessary," I tell him, "considering there's a huge sign on the door telling everyone not to ever, EVER, leave it open. Besides, it was just a reminder. I don't want to push the point."

Which I wouldn't have to do if he would just let it go.

"Hmmmmmmmmm..." He stands there, just staring at me.

He doesn't seem to want to walk away. I want the conversation to end. I had my say and it's done with. I start rummaging through the refrigerator again in a vain attempt to find my lunch. I make a sound of frustration.

"I think I ate your lunch on accident," he says.

(NOTE: This is pretty much a true story, only names and details have been changed to protect identities. For instance, there's nobody I work with named Reinholdt, and my employer stopped using OUT boxes some time ago.)

Inspiration found here.

Why conservatives are happier than liberals...

...in nine panels.

This is all a bunch of hooey

From Plaisted Writes:

Both Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton are much more interested in the party’s strength and the nation’s future than they are in their own personal ambitions...

Still not sure what to think about Obama, but Hillary Clinton has about as much interest in ensuring her party's strength and nation's future as she does in snuggling up with Bill at the end of a long day on the campaign trail.