Give me 30 minutes of your time.
Scroll down my sidebar and click on KONY.
This madman has to be stopped.
Please help to make this asshat so famous that he can’t walk into a McDonald’s and order fries without being noticed.
Read his ‘Disney-like’ Wiki Page HERE
Kony needs to be taken to the Chateau Eternity.
End of story.
Waiting to be forgiven is a lonely and melancholy place.
Taking the train to wherever might just suffice.
For tonight . . .
I went to see the ‘Passion of the Christ’ on Palm Sunday of 2004.
I was alone because reviews of the film repulsed my wife and she wanted to simply stay away.
The theater was crowded that Sunday and I was surprised that I understood 99% of the movie although
it was all Aramaic subtitles.
From the beginning, I had goosebumps because the movie portrayed Christ as I thought of him.
The scene that bothered me most was the scourging. (this link is intensely disturbing)
The man sitting next to me was crying like a baby.
Just like me.
That one man endured and suffered all that he did FOR ME was almost humanly incomprehensible,
but in a positive way.
I believe in one man.
And I always will.
I wish for you new beginnings, budding flowers, green grass and the best of health, maybe a basil plant that grows faster than a night’s sleep for good measure.
Happy Easter to all and here’s to this thing we call life.
And hard boiled eggs.
I recently began teaching piano to someone that’s been asking me about some lessons for several years.
This ‘student’ of mine is currently working on many things but mainly pop tunes.
She takes on these artist tribute gigs like it’s her job and generally has 30-40 tunes on her plate.
She comes to me with the ones she’s having issues with and we go from there.
A bit avant-garde but it seems to work.
Although many things I say are met with that ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ stare,
there are moments when the light goes on and the aha moment presents itself.
This week we were going through several songs: I’m in you by Peter Frampton,
Yesterday Once More by the Carpenters and
Mandy by Barry Manilow.
No cheap-shot Manilow comments, okay?
(and my student kind of gags when she plays these)
She generally goes to the web and finds a chord chart for a given song
and prints it out hoping to get a head start before she has her lesson.
I easily figured out why she’s been having so much trouble.
The chord charts suck.
Bad, appalling, ridiculous, shitty, WRONG are all adjectives that describe these
toilet paper-like charts that I wouldn’t even wipe a strangers ass with never mind my own keester.
These charts were written by someone that #1, has no ears (literally & figuratively),
#2, has little to no natural musical talent and #3, wouldn’t know what a minor seven flat five chord was unless it bit them is the ass.
I could not believe what I was seeing.
They should come with a *disclaimer:
“These chord charts are guaranteed to raise your suck factor
to levels beyond your wildest dreams.
They’re so poorly written you won’t even be able to play the song!”
“Musically illogical chord charts. Yeah, they do sound like shit, don’t they?
Hell, we don’t think we got one chord right!”
Figuring out chord changes to a song is not brain surgery
but for the bonehead that put some of this crap on the web I really have to wonder.
It you’re trying to learn a song, stay the hell away from the web.
It will musically scare the hell out of you.
I am still shaking my head.
For your edification, THIS is one of the URL’s in question.
And not to totally diss this site (which I have done) this is a chord chart from someone
that doesn’t have their head up their ass.
This post is somewhat repulsive.
Just my own silly little observation…
I do believe I’ve found a job that I would never want, even if it paid some incredible cash, I still couldn’t do it.
I could never be a tattoo artist.
It’s a short story but it starts with a large woman that I saw standing in line at the Coldstone Ice Cream place one hot summer afternoon.
Judging from the shaking of the ground beneath her feet I’d say she tipped the scales at 300 or so.
This was one big, hunk of a woman.
To get by her on a sidewalk would probably require a city variance of some sort.
She was wearing a teeny-tiny pink shirt that showed off her impressive midriff.
Her t-shirt said “You can’t touch this.”
I’m thinking, ‘why would I want to?’
The overall effect was—how shall I say it, globe-like?
Ohhbese? (bigger than obese)
I was unfortunately behind her which is where the thought of never being a tattoo artist came to mind.
I could see the small of her back (a contradiction if ever there was one)
and the unsightly crack of her heiny, a good 2” worth.
Plumbers crack on a woman.
Rising up out of the murky depths of her posterior was a tattoo of some kind.
I didn’t want to stare for fear of going stark raving mad so I never found out just what it was.
I have a few ideas as to what it could have been but I really don’t want to go there.
She ordered a mountainous vat of 5 or so flavors mixed together with Butterfinger’s and M & M’s and Jimmies and God knows what else; a reasonable caloric addition to her vast temple of flesh.
Maybe they need to implement some type of weight scale in front of the Coldstone register and if you
happen to “pin the needle” you can only have fat-free yogurt in a kid’s cup.
Hey, life’s a bitch sometimes.
I guess I came away from the experience #1) wondering why some people dress the way they do and
#2) wondering who the lucky son of a bitch was that had to spend 4 hours looking at this woman’s vast backside.
I bet his story is really something to chew on.
Just a short video regarding the immeasurable distance internet technology has achieved.
Australia is a millisecond away but downloads can make us weep.
I love this video for many reasons.
Maybe because I understand it.
Welcome to Malarky Monday!
This is the one day of the week that ‘teh Blogocracy‘ tries to get you to smile and laugh
your way to work.
We are always looking for a few more crazy bloggers that think they have what it takes
to do one zany post a week.
Do you have what it takes?
Send me an email if you’re interested.
More traffic, more fun, more laughs.
This week I had to post something I found years ago on the net.
I laughed myself silly reading this.
It’s a review of a very old frozen TV dinner that doesn’t turn out too well.
It’s gross and disgusting and funny as all hell.
I did NOT write this and give total attribution to Mobius.
The Mexican TV Dinner from Hell!
“Being the poor, jobless, and hungry sap that I am,
I will often resort to eating things that I otherwise would not want to be eating.
Still, there is a point where I draw the line, and on this night, that point was most definitely reached.
It was 12pm and I was hungry.
After scouring the cupboards I found a package of Lipton fettuccini alfredo, but to my dismay we were out of milk, which was needed to make it. So I grabbed this TV dinner out of the back of the freezer.
I cooked it exactly as specified by the back of the box,
but still, this so-called dinner fell far short of my standards for an edible meal.
The first indication that this meal was to be a catastrophe was the fact that it was 98% fat free
(and by my guess, 98% not food)”
[how very right you are.]
“As you can see here, the finished product looked nothing like the well painted plastic food on the cover of the box.
The food is pushed around and cut up a bit from my initial attempt to consume the foul looking concoction.
After careful inspection though, I deemed the food to be unsafe for consumption.”
[Unsafe? There’s an understatement if ever I heard one.]
“The beans were the first item that I inspected.
Now, It is my understanding that refried beans are not supposed to be crunchy or brittle.
I don’t know what Don Miguel is trying to pull here,
but these are obviously not refried beans like the ones on the cover of the box.
The directions said to stir the beans, but these did not stir; they crumbled.”
[the beans look like Pepperidge Farm turkey stuffing!]
“The Spanish rice was probably the closest thing to food in the meal, but like the beans, it was totally dried out.
It was all clumped together as well. In fact, it was more of a rice cake than just plain rice.
Another thing I noticed was the fact that the rice on the box had diced peppers in it,
but there were none in my rice that I could find.”
[Maybe you could use the rice cluster as a pendant?]
“The main entree was by far the scariest part of the dinner tray.
The so-called chicken enchiladas contained little if any chicken,
and were primarily filled with a strange mucous-like substance, which I was unable to identify.
The corn tortilla it was wrapped in was soggy on the bottom and crunchy on the top.
The cheese and sauce had mostly boiled into a hard mass around the edge of the container.”
[Anatomy & Physiology 1 here I come!]
“And just what the fuck is this supposed to be?”
[No comment. Uhh, a nasty snail?]
“I certainly wasn’t going to eat this crap, but still, I couldn’t let it go to waste could I?
After all, there are plenty of starving children in Zimbabwe that would kill for a feast like this.
So, I did the next best thing to shipping it off to some third world country— I fed it to my dog.”
“Now that’s one happy pooch!”
[not so fast Mobius!]
Happy Malarky Monday folks!
Please visit ‘teh Blogocracy’ and make your Malarky Monday complete!
He stares blindly out the window of another night
down on Bleeker Street, where nothing seem to change except a world gone mad.
I go to him, touch his shoulder feeling the quivering bone underneath my hand
but he doesn’t move, nobody is home it seems.
As I bend to kiss his forehead,
I think back to my childhood remembering the smell of him;
a rich elixir of leather, spice and a fatherly scent I could never quite put my finger on.
It was a smell of total comfort and one of extreme familiarity.
His scent is different tonight; he smells clinical, preserved and abandoned.
He smells like a familiar stranger, an ancient decade of melancholy memories,
echoes of voices lost in an obsidian mist . . .
I sit there with him as we both blindly stare out the window, watching a world gone by
and we sigh,
we say goodbye to the too many words left unspoken,
the things we once took for granted,
and the once welcome spaces where we no longer belong.
I take his frail and shaking hand and wonder (as I have thousands of times before)
how many more nights will he sit here all alone and stare?
And simply exist.
There is little left to say but with my father, somehow that’s okay.
Somehow, I know he understands.
He has taught me well.
He was never big on words anyway.
It will be very hard to forget the nights down on Bleeker Street and even harder to forget
the little man just sitting staring out the window . . .
In two words, it sucks.
I was quite moved by this picture.
It’s Malarkey Monday once again.
Where in God’s name did the week go?
Saddle up and let’s ride into this week with one of my all time favorite beer ads.
Nothing like a lawyer with a sense of humor . . .
If you’ve haven’t visited peopleofwalmart.com
check it out.
It is hysterical, scary and often quite disturbing.
Create your own caption for the blistering image below.
I’m in the middle of pouring bleach into my eyes.
Have a great week, peeples!
Please visit my fellow Malarkers for more Monday hijinx: