Tuesday Tirade

You Dumbed Me Down With Science: I recently helped my son at home with a science lab he missed in school, which included all kinds of measuring and timing of him walking different lengths and speeds.  We often found ourselves saying, “Let’s add a tenth of a second here because I stepped too fast,” or, “we better subtract two tenths of a second there because I hit the stop-watch button too late.”

Our conclusion:  science can be an inexact science.

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[new word]  Nomentum:  negative momentum.  Something I suffer from at times.

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Burning Question:  If someone is gainfully employed in a Sao Paulo candle factory, does that mean they have a Brazilian Wax Job?

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This Old Whore:  I know someone who’s trailer park trash, but she lives in a dilapidated Victorian.

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Call The Decorator!  I support gay marriage, just not in my back yard.  I’m serious.  It’s a very small back yard, and there’s not enough room for a fabulous party.

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Would Ya Just Please Answer The Question:  Watching Piers Morgan interview Iranian Prez OffWithTheDinnerJacket last night, who won’t even mention Israel when asked specifically, was very frustrating.  That guy is crazy.  He looks like he’s got malted milk balls for eyes.  He said “they” [Israel] don’t have “roots” in the Middle East.  What a silly bastard.  No one has any roots there because nothing grows in sand.  And may I add, nothing grew there until those Goddamn destructive Zionists started irrigating the land and making it ready for agriculture.

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Don’t Hold This Against Me:  I enjoy receiving unsolicited public opinion about some very delicate topics, indeed.  I recently came to the conclusion (based on my research) that post-coital hugging is something most people want and actually need.  And here I was thinking it was just about being polite.  At least among the Episcopalians.

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What It Is, Man:  I recently heard some very cool stuff on Direct TV’s Channel 857 [Zen music], and saw the CD name listed on the screen as “Previously Unreleased Album”.  I had to wonder if this was the real CD name, or just a “place-holder” name used by the station because they didn’t know.  Or, if the CD didn’t really even have a name because it was too Zen.  Multiple possibilities, all co-existing peacefully in my mind.  I think that must come from the Universe.  And also from being too lazy to research it further.

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You’ve heard of drunk dialing.  And you’ve heard of ass dialing.  I wonder how often drunk-ass-dialing occurs.

If you’re now in a Zen mood and have time (of course you have time; that’s really all you have), then I invite you to read some new home-made serial fiction at my other blog:  MySpew.

Thanks for reading my stuff, and a happy and holy New Year and Yom Kippur to you all.

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