The Bacon Has Exploded…

Well, it’s been two days now since the Bacon Explosion detonated its way into our hearts and stomachs, and I think it’s safe to say that we’ve all done some pretty heavy thinking since then. The smiles have faded; the lipids have been processed, and the question we’re asking is “What now?” Some people would say, “What’s the big deal? It was just bacon and sausage cooked together.” If you weren’t there, you can’t understand. Those people haven’t felt bacon shrapnel tear through them and their comrades. They haven’t slogged through the sausage muck, knee-deep with only Tecate and gourmet root beer to keep you going. They didn’t also decide to throw a chili grenade on top of the Bacon Explosion. We did. We spit grease in Fate’s eye, and had enough left over to give to the dog so it would have a nice shiny coat.

Sure, we fought our hardest out there: we just did what we had to do. We don’t ask for a lot of recognition. But when we came back from battle, people didn’t know who we were, what to do with us. We can’t relate to people any more. They’d say, “Go eat something else. Stop going on about it. It’s in the past. Have a baby carrot or something. ” That’s like telling a skydiver, “Hey, Mitch – you’re grounded for life.” It’s like telling a fireman, “Sorry, Red – you just can’t save any more lives.” It’s like telling a matador, “Jose – there are no more bulls.” Once you’ve lashed bacon strips together like a tourniquet above a wound that is inexplicably bleeding sausage instead of blood, then you’ll know what I’m talking about. Then you can say you’ve walked a mile in my applewood-smoked moccasins.

This is my life now. This is who I am. I’ll tell my grandkids about the time, all those years ago, when I fired a slow-motion bacon bullet right at my chest. And they’ll ask, “How did you do that, Grandpa? Did you travel through time?” And I’ll say “No, we didn’t have time travel yet, kids. It’s a metaphor.” And just then, my heart will explode through my chest cavity, drenching those kids with the ruby fruit of my battle-hardened arteries. And they’ll understand. They’ll understand.

You can run, but…

Prayers do get answered. Sometimes a little late, but I cannot WAIT for this barbecue. From Harper’s:

House Judiciary Chair John Conyers has placed former Bush political advisor Karl Rove under subpoena. Rove is being brought before the Judiciary Committee to testify about his role in the U.S. attorneys scandal and a number of other matters, including the suspiciously political prosecution of former Alabama Governor Don E. Siegelman. His appearance date is February 2. The Associated Press reports:

“I have said many times that I will carry this investigation forward to its conclusion, whether in Congress or in court, and today’s action is an important step along the way,” Conyers said. The change in administrations may affect the legal arguments available to Rove, Conyers said. “Change has come to Washington, and I hope Karl Rove is ready for it. After two years of stonewalling, it’s time for him to talk,” Conyers said.

Read the rest of this delightful, delightful news here.

pygmy goats and the president

So, I’ve been thinking pretty hard for a while about quitting my job and raising pygmy goats. I wish I could say that this was a joke, but when you’re trapped in a cubicle or an office, the mind tends to wander in odd directions, and mine just happens to be wandering towards something that looks like a petting zoo, without children. I think a personal pygmy goat-based stimulus package is exactly what this taxpayer needs. My mother would no doubt worry, “But what about benefits?” Oh, there are some great benefits:

It’s money in the bank, if by “money”, you mean “adorable things”, and by “bank”, you mean, “your eyeballs.” And really, with the economic system crumbling around us every day, is the idea of a currency based on general happiness such an awful idea? How about raising pygmy goats in Fort Knox? When was the last time you saw a gold bar jump and twirl its little hooves in the air?

Admittedly, I have a somewhat loose understanding of the financial system, but someone should pitch this to Larry Summers stat.

In related news, everyone should check out whitehouse.gov, and take a look at the rural agenda. Not only is it a lovely website, but the administration has some pretty solid stuff on the list, including helping organic farmers, regulation of emissions from large farms, and anti-monopoly protection for small family farmers. I seriously doubt that much forward progress will be made in the first term (doesn’t hurt to hope a bit), but the fact that it’s on his radar is heartening.

Now, if we can just get my pygmy goat stimulus package on there, we’ll be knee deep in clover. Which my pygmy goat will promptly eat.

Mr. Shepard Fairey does what he does best. Via Towleroad.

Words of Wisdom

Suddenly, in Santa Monica, it all became clear. Thank you, license plate. Thank you.

(Please do not judge my filthy windshield. When I’m done CHILAAX-ing, I’ll clean it.)

A True Gentleman

One thing never goes out of fashion: being a man with impeccable manners and taste. When the ultimate arbiter of such matters, Google, (sorry, Mr. Blackwell – you’re dead) is asked to define “a true gentleman”, the results are stunning.

Hey, ladies – the ascot and vest says, “I know which one is the salad fork,” and the stained leather apron says, “And when I cut your corpse up for dinner, I’ll keep things tidy.”

Sometimes it’s important to recognize that all you need to be a true gentleman is a bullwhip, an amorphous tribal/sea creature tattoo thingy on your shoulder, and the ability to go down on fat women for hours at a time.

Screw that G4 private plane bullshit with the pressurized cabin, hot towels and stripper poles. This blue-jeaned bird of prey is flying a Tinkertoy back to his Caribbean island where he’s gonna bang your girlfriend pale.

If you stand up and look at the picture from above, you can totally see the dude’s wang. Go ahead. Try it. (Unsurprisingly, it’s also a black guy with his hands folded. It’s like the Billy Dee Williams Commemorative Russian Nesting Dolls set.)

Pirates were filthy, disgusting rapists and brutes who spread death and disease from stinking port to stinking port. It’s good to see that nothing has changed.

Amour Toujours…

They’re just so in love. It really reminds you of what’s important, doesn’t it?

Cagney and Lacey: 1, My Brain: 0

This is a direct quote from an idle moment of speculation today:

“Who was the other actress in Cagney and Lacey? I remember Tyne Daly, but who was the blonde? Oh, wait: I remember. Sharon Gless. Hmm. How the fuck did I remember that? I’ve never even seen that show. I don’t even know which one’s Cagney and which one’s Lacey, but I remember that Sharon Fucking Gless is one of them. Hell, why do I know Tyne Daly? I’m sure they’re lovely people and apparently the show was pretty good, but I didn’t watch it. Why does my brain retain that knowledge, but refuses to remember the name of perfectly nice people that I have literally just met, or how to get places that I have been numerous times? Is my brain desperately crafting synapses to make sure that despite my drinking, I will always be able to remember Sharon Gless and Tyne Daly in case I get caught in some sort of trivia-based death match? Thanks a lot, brain. Shit. I missed the exit.”

The Most Boring Man in the World – “Dragons and Turkey Legs”

The Most Boring Man in the World lived with the fear that in the middle of saying something, he would vomit. He knew he wouldn’t vomit in a comical, cartoony spray, which, if done in public, would cause enough collateral damage to allow him to escape the situation by running very fast, much like Batman throwing a smoke bomb and shooting up into the ceiling. Instead, it would be a convulsive burp-like vomit that came without warning and would leave him covered in something that looked like creamed corn and/or beets. This had never actually happened, but this fear alone was the reason that The Most Boring Man in the World rarely said anything at all.

Seated in his regular seat on the bus, he looked out the window. They pulled up to a stop, where he could see a man with no legs sitting against a parking meter. The bottoms of his jeans, which were cut off below the fly, were covered shut with duct tape. The Most Boring Man in the World was suddenly possessed with the urge to run off and grab the man, throwing him over his shoulder like a backpack, like Chewbacca and the broken C-3PO in The Empire Strikes Back. Then he realized that the man with no legs might not have seen that movie, and might not understand the gesture.

The bus doors opened and people trudged on. A woman with a high-cut lacy shirt and a long flowing skirt sat down next to him. “May I sit here?” It seemed a strange thing to ask after she had already sat down, but he just nodded, and turned back to the window. The bus lurched forward.

“Would you like a banana?”

He turned back to the woman, who was holding out a slightly underripe banana that she’d pulled from a pocket on her skirt. Panic rose in his gut.

“I have tons of these, like I’m a monkey or a chimp who’s escaped from a zoo that’s right next to a supermarket and has been looking through his cage at all the people who are leaving with bananas and thinking, ‘oh, man, when I get out of his zoo, I’m gonna get a nice apartment and fill it with bananas.’ Of course, my reason for having them is pretty simple. I’ve got braces, and when I get them tightened, they’re all I can eat. See?”

Smiling, she showed him her braces. “The thing that really bugs me is that they’re not authentic. I work at a Renaissance Fair on the weekends, and instead of walking around singing like I used to, I get worried that I’m going to affect people’s experience by taking them out of the moment, when they see me in my bodice and chain mail gloves, but then they see my braceface, they’ll be all like, ‘hey, what kind of Renaissance Fair is this? Queen Elizabeth never had braces!'” She made a mock-indignant face like the angry tourists might make. “It also makes eating turkey legs super hard.”

Paul Newman: 1925-2008

I only have two heroes, and one of them is dead. This picture is from my favorite movie, Hud, and if you haven’t seen it, I’d appreciate it if you watched it.

Here’s a link to the Hole in the Wall Gang Camp’s website, Newman’s camp founded for children with serious diseases. If you’re so inclined, you can make a donation.