Research has led to the discovery of one of the heaviest elements yet known to science.
The new element, Governmentium (Gv), has one neuron, 25 assistant neurons, 88 deputy neurons and 198 assistant deputy neurons, giving it an atomic mass of 312.
These 312 particles are held together by forces called morons, which are surrounded by vast quantities of lepton-like particles called peons.
Since Governmentium has no electrons, it is inert; however, it can be detected because it impedes every reaction with which it comes into contact.
A minute amount of Governmentium can cause a reaction that normally takes less than a second to as long as 4 years to complete.
Governmentium has a normal half-life of 2-6 years; it does not decay, but instead undergoes a reorganization in which a portion of the assistant neurons and deputy neurons exchange places. In fact, Governmentium’s mass will actually increase over time, since each reorganization causes more morons to become neurons, forming isodopes.
This characteristic of moron promotion leads some scientists to believe that Governmentium is formed whenever morons reach a critical concentration. This hypothetical quantity is referred to as critical morass. When catalyzed with money, Governmentium becomes Administratium, which has half as many peons but twice the number of morons.
Science is amazing sometimes,  isn’t it?

I’m a bad Santa, a Grinch and yuletide curmudgeon of the highest order and I admit it.
Just the thought of this most blatantly commercial and candy-cane-twisted holiday sends me running for my dimly lit cave high on Mount Crumpit.
I’ll level with you and say that in my icy-cold heart I will always harbour a love
for the Christmas holiday with its ‘peace on earth, goodwill toward men’ mentality
but jeepers creepers how many lameass Mercedes Benz commercials can these ding-a-lings make?
Even if I had the dough I would never put a giant red bow on an SL550 and give it as a present.
You gotta be one hell of a pretentious douchebag to pull that one off.
I hardly ever watch TV and at this time of the year, even more so.
Television is where your radar picks up on all the subliminal horseshit this holiday has sadly come to represent.
Every year I try and trick myself into believing that I still hold close the personal ties of holidays past.
I’d be better off sticking my head into a steaming pile of reindeer shit.
Working retail does little but mar and mutilate a spirit that’s sadly on the ropes anyway.
I don’t hear the silver bells and I can’t see the blinking colored lights (unless they’re from a cruiser pulling me over for a busted taillight, Merry Christmas, ossifer)
Maybe it’s a psychological omission on my part, a defense mechanism to keep me from losing my plate of milk and cookies.
I should have dumped this post to Crumpit when I had the chance but I also felt it was only fair to explain my ‘month of December’ frosty sense of discontent.
If you visit here around the holidays you’ll notice that Mick gets very quiet.
I choose to leave my thoughts in a quiet place where silent snow falls, stars twinkle and the moon is always full.
It’s only in this blue crystal space that I build my sky-high snow forts of thought, ideas dripping like icicles in my frozen castle of winter words.
Maybe this will be the year that I somehow find a way to melt the walls of snow I’ve piled high, my vast emotional fortress of sorts.
Maybe this will be the time I find the absolute truth that lives peacefully inside a holiday I can honestly say I miss.
Then reality taps me on the shoulder and says, “Read This, Grinch.”
Yeah, we’re off to a brilliant start.
And people wonder why I despise this holiday and what it currently represents.
God help us, everyone.
I’m going back to my dimly lit cave, thank you very much . . .

truth, masquerading
honesty is a false face
cuts my bleeding soul . . .

This day has found me disillusioned with various aspects of my life.
I am sadly discovering that in the blogworld, things aren’t always what they seem.
Seriously contemplating some time away from this place that I truly love, if only to figure out just what the hell I’m really trying to accomplish here.
I may be back tomorrow, I may not.
Right now, I just don’t know.
Pleading the fifth and I’ll leave it at that.
Much safer that way.
Until next time, be well folks.

I’m all about the giving some days and today is one of those days.
Got a website for ya.
I just can’t keep this stuff to myself.
There is a specific reason I mention this but I’ll get to that in a few minutes.
If you want a real good laugh; do not pass go, do not collect $200 and go straight to hotchickswithdouchebags.com.
The site tagline is “Pictures of hot chicks with total and complete douchebags. With commentary.”
It is hysterical, imho.
The concept is fairly straightforward, find a guy that thinks he’s way too sexy and photograph him as he poses with some randy lass.
I thought of this website after seeing this narcissistic little prick get on the train.
He walks likes he’s on a freaking runway and I just want to stick my foot out into the aisle and watch this candyass fall flat on his face.
Yeah, he’s a gem. I have to laugh because I’ve actually seen him unsuccessfully try to pick up several women. (Dude, you’re on a train.)
He’s married as well, not that it really matters.
He is by all counts the quintessential HotchickswithDouchebags poster boy.
I’d love to see him hook up with Blondezilla.
Oh, wait a minute, that’s a different site altogether.
I think it’s NastyasschickswithDouchebags.com, but I could be wrong . . .
Right Said Fred knows all about it
btw- the guy in the picture won the highly coveted HCWD Choad of the year award.
And my, my, my wasn’t it richly deserved?

I’ve never been a morning person and don’t think I will ever be.
it usually takes and hour or so and several strong cups of coffee before I’m even semi-lucid.
Hell, I have a tough time deciding between grape jelly or peanut butter for my English muffin.
On days like that I just go with some butter
(maybe a dab or two of vegemite, an Aussie condiment that is slowly growing on me)
This morning I was running a bit late when I got to Boston and stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts for a simple breakfast sandwich.
The girl behind the counter was of oriental persuasion, an important detail as you read the foillowing conversation.

DD: I hep you?

me: yeah, an egg, cheese and ham on a croissant, please.

DD: you want coffee?

me: no.

(DD turns and says something to a co-worker before turning around)

DD: What kind sandwich you want?

me: Egg-Cheese-Ham-Croissant

DD: you want coffee?

me: (louder) NO.

(DD gets called by another co-worker and I’m getting a tad worked up)

DD: What kind of meat you want?

me: HAM!

DD: you want coffee?

me: “for the third and final time, no, I do not want coffee and if I did I would say, “could I please have a cup of coffee?” (muttered under my breath: “Christ-in-a-sidecar”)

Wonder why I never go to DD’s?
(expletives deleted that I refuse to write, but know that there are many)
God, I hate mornings . . .

Most of the time I’m able to let the daily bullshit and banter sift through the cranial grates inside my cue ball noggin but on occasion I get a difficult clinker that won’t pass through.
I have to take it out and look at it and figure out why I can’t mentally digest it.
Case in point: the other night I was surfing the net for the latest in the way of books on Alzheimer’s disease; a simple and innocent task, right?
Imagine my surprise (and horror) to find a book titled “Alzheimer’s for Dummies”.
Needless to say, my searching was over for the night.
I’d found a seriously incongruous clinker that fueled my rage against the literary machine.
I was livid.
This was a subject much too close to home for me and to see it reduced to a ‘manual for dummies’ format personally devastated me.

“Dummies” manuals cover a range of topics: Chess, Poker, MSWord, Windows Vista and Grammar, to name but a few.
But Alzheimer’s disease?
Personally, it was unthinkable.

Why not “Breast Cancer for Dummies”?
How would that go over?
Believe me, I know.
I’ve lost too many friends to the disease and I would be outraged at the total lack of compassion and sensitivity used in publishing such a book.

Never mind.
What the hell is going on here?
I must be losing my mind.

I’ve checked out the contents of the AFD book and I’ve no doubt the author’s intentions were good.
But . . .
So this is what’s it’s come to?
Christ in a sidecar, I’m almost speechless here.
File this one under “roll up that manual and insert forcefully into your keester, sideways“.
But maybe there’s a “Dummies” guide for that as well.
Hey, if ICHC can get a book deal, why the hell not these buttmonkeys?
IMHO, those suffering from this disease deserve an apology from these inconsiderate ‘Dummie’ assholes.
Do I know what I’m talking about here?
Yes, I think I do.
All too well . . .

~m

It was so cold this morning (2º, to be exact) that I saw a politician walking across Boston Common with his hands in his own pockets.
Seriously, it’s friggin’ cold up here.
I’m not complaining, just stating a fact.

But what really frosts my junk are the people that feel a burning desire to remind me just how cold they are with their witty and unoriginal-as-shit banter.

“Cold enough for ya?”

Man, I love that one. Never hear it before either.
No, it’s not cold enough for me.
I love it when my testicles turn a bright navy blue, fall out of my scrotum and shatter on the ground like Christmas ornaments.
And I really love it when I can’t feel my face or my legs. That’s great.
I like it even more when I break off a key inside a padlock preventing me from opening the store where I work and then I freeze my everloving ass off waiting for the too busy locksmith to come and sawzall the goddamned locks so I can get in. (truth)

So, is it cold enough?
Damn it, dude, shut the hell up and go build an igloo. Step AWAY.
Yeah, it’s cold enough for me.
I lied.

The temperature dips into single digits and people just fill up with all kinds of stupid.
And yes, I can hear you.
Why don’t you and the wife move to Florida?

Idaho. Alaska.

~m

Evyl and I have decided to offer our services to all the gentlemen types currently surfing the web looking for something interesting to read, watch or do.
We’ve started something of a manblog to be sure but it has so much more to offer than that.
At Evyl and Smoke there will be no syrupy sweet posts, no sentimentality and a no holds barred policy; a very different place than here at Smoke and Mirrors.
Oh, and absolutely ‘no bullshit’.
This is a place where I can let my hair down
(funny, so to speak, even though we’re two guys with cueball noggins)
Women, cigars, sports, beer, booze, good eats, guy gripes and chili recipes will rule the roost.
Both of us aren’t quite sure where this thing will go but it’s been a blast so far and we’ve decided to finally go public with it.
We’ll leave it up to you as far as linking to us.
We are, first and foremost, gentlemen.
BTW- We decided on an anonymous system in terms of posting and commenting thinking it might offer a bit of devious fun because you’ll never really know who is who.
I’m honored beyond belief to team up with the likes of Evyl.
He pulls no punches yet you always know where you stand.
For now, I’ll just welcome you to our new abode: Evyl and Smoke
Stop by and at least say hi.
And yes, it’s most definitely a guy thing.
And that’s alright by me . . .

~m

He gets to South Station early on Saturday and Sunday mornings and takes out his weather worn piece of cardboard that reads:

Homeless and Hungry – Will work for food

Thank You & God Bless

“Matthew 25:40″

And although he really wanted to write “Acts 9:5-6″; the Matthew quote will possibly bring in 15 to 20% more revenue from the schmucks that actually know what it means and that’s damn easy money. Damn easy money.

“Help a vet, buddy?”

He’s been on the streets for so many years now that it surprises him that he’s still doing it. Sometimes he even feels guilty and that oddly surprises him even more. But it doesn’t stop him.
He does look pathetic, though. Or so he hopes . . .

“Any spare change, M’aam?”

He’s wearing the same clothes he wore back in ’96, the year he started this whole sham.
The older the clothes, the better he looks, so he thinks.
What a great investment.

“Can you help a little bit, sir?”

{a chink in the cup}

“God Bless.”

{Italian shoes, custom-tailored suit, laptop, Rolex and he gives me change. Cheap bastard.)

Hundreds of people an hour, thousands a day and year by year the change adds up.
He thinks, damn I’m smart.
The kids are the easiest; a bit of eye contact with them and he can slow down an entire family.
A little wave, a wink and a nod has been known to fetch half a sawbuck.

But, damn, he’s getting tired.

He rolls up one of his tattered sleeves and gazes at his Breitling Chrono-Matic watch and sees it’s 4:01PM.
Damn, time flies.

He takes his tattered piece of cardboard and skulks back down Atlantic Boulevard, swerves right on East Street where his shiny, jet black, 2006 Lexus is silently waiting.

He sheds the threadbare clothes, a molting snake, shoving the rank threads into the trunk.
He pulls out and drives back down Atlantic Avenue as the lazy, golden sun drips down into the seeping blackness of Boston’s financial district.

It’s been a good day, a very good day and the wife is cooking Coq au Vin tonight.
It just can’t get any better than that, can it?

{This post is loosely based on an actual related story.
Is it true? Who knows? The cynical bastard in me believes that anything is possible in this day and age. Skumsucking people like this do exist.
Should I ever see the bastard, I will lovingly kick him in the junk.
Repeatedly, ad nauseum}

~m

A death row inmate in Ohio feels lethal injection is unconstitutional cruel and unusual punishment.
Cry me a river, asshole.
Let me make sure I am crystal fucking clear on this; he raped and stabbed to death a 14 year old girl in cold blood and is complaining about the way he will die.

It’s cruel and unusual punishment?

Really? Come on, you disgusting cretin.

You are so low in the human decency scale that you’d have to climb a ladder to blow a snake, for God’s sake, you assclown.
You have no voice in this, as far as I’m concerned.
Shut the hell up and just die.
It frosts my stones to no end that we actually entertain the thought, all at the risk of political effin’correctness.
Please excuse my really bad French.

My wife served jury duty last week.
The case she was (almost) selected to serve on was fairly clean cut; a defendant was caught red-handed with handguns and drugs and was supposedly associated with a murder.
22 some odd State Troopers were standing nearby to give their testimony against this slimy piece of shit.
Everyone awaiting a jury appointment was asked a series of questions to rule out bias and impartiality.

“Is there anyone here that has already formed an opinion regarding this case?”

My wife {God love her} raises her hand and is called to the judge’s bench.

The conversation went something like this:

“Mrs. Murphy, you’ve already formed an opinion on this case?”

“Yeah. Guilty.”

“Mrs. Murphy? You’re excused.”

There may have been a bit more conversation but that’s all the ammo I needed to write this post.

What am I missing here?
Our judicial system is on way more drugs than Jimi Hendrix was when he was playing Woodstock.
Really, what am I missing here?
As far as Romell Broom goes, screw him.
I say fry his pussy death row ass . . .
And that’s almost too good for the likes of him.
As a taxpayer, I’m so sick and tired of paying for 3 squares a day, a bed with blankets and a roof over the head of slimebags like this guy.
I rant, therefore, I am.
Pissed? Ayup.
Can you tell stories like this bother me a bit?
Please excuse me while I go and vomit.
~m