Tricks Won't Give You Cavities

My Idea of Halloween fun:

I dress up in a rabbit costume and answer my door when the doorbell rings.

ding-dong

open door

Kids: "Trick or treat!!"

Me: "TRICK!" spray them with silly string

Kids: dumbfounded look

Me: "Silly Rabbit! Tricks are for kids!!"

slam door

I'm Gonna Get Whacked One Day...

Probably by my Italian wife.

Let me set the scene:

Tullio's Italian bakery on the Outer Banks. We're all ordering up tasty desserts. I spy the cannoli in the corner right as we're all wrapping up our orders.

Bakery Girl: "Will there be anything else, sir?"

Me: Yes, I'd like one of your cannolis, please."

BG: "Certainly. Anything else?"

The Skating Gnu: "Can I get some gum, daddy?"

Me: "Leave the gum. Take the cannoli."

Damn, I'm good!

Currituck Postcard

Couple more pictures from the Currituck Lighthouse in Corolla.

Currituck Light:
























Currituck Shadow:

all photos copyright 2007, The Smoking Gnu

The Weather Is Here, Wish You Were Beautiful

Greetings from the Outer Banks of North Carolina. It's been perfect weather here. Mid-70's in the daytime, only spotty cloud cover, light breeze. The Gnu Herd rolled into town over the weekend and since we got here, the plan for the week is simple: zilch. No plan is a good plan. The cottage has an internet connection, so I can send a few postcards across the cyber-sea.

The Skating Gnu and I took a short trip by ourselves to the Currituck Lighthouse in Corolla while Mrs. Gnu stayed at the cottage and rested. We hiked to the top, looked all around, then took a short hike around the grounds to the old schoolhouse and historic village.

And made a somewhat dangerous friend:

photo copyright 2007, The Smoking Gnu

Yep. That's a Cottonmouth, or Water Moccassin. One of several poisonous species of snakes found in the Coastal Plains and Piedmont. We stumbled upon it sunning in the road on our way back from the village. It's a good thing the Missus wasn't with us: she would have freaked. My daughter, on the other hand, wanted to adopt it. She even named it: say hello to Connie, the Cottonmouth.

They say kids learn fear from their parents. I have gone out of my way to instill a fascination for all life - tempered with a healthy respect for living creatures - in her from an early age. I was raised on a farm and I spent much of my youth catching critters, from praying mantises to snapping turtles, and even the odd groundhog and injured squirrel. I even caught a rabbit with my bare hands one time, but that's a story for another day.

She is just as fascinated with wildlife as I am, completely the opposite of her mother who cringes at the mere thought of a cricket chirping. We stood there, each party sizing the other up, the snake probably scared to death, we on the other hand, completely mesmerized by its natural beauty. A perfect opportunity to teach my daughter what a poisonous reptile looks like in real life, how it's important to nature, and why it should be respected, and after a few pictures (using a telephoto lens - hey, I'm crazy, but not stupid!) we parted ways, everyone happy.

Oh, in case you were wondering, I was right. My wife freaked. The pictures were proof positive to her that we had completely lost our minds and would both wind up in the hospital before the year ended.

City girl. But I love her still.

Life's a Beach

From the bottom of my heart
Off the coast of Carolina
After one or two false starts
I believe we've found our stride
And the walls that won't come down
We can decorate or climb
Or find some way to get around
Cause I'm still on your side
From the bottom of my heart.

-Jimmy Buffett, Coast of Carolina
License to Chill

A well-deserved vacation that's been a long time coming. Finally here.

One brief stopover for TacoCon tomorrow, then we're packing the fishing gear, crab nets, Tabasco-jambalaya mix (yes, I am an optimist) and heading to the Banks.

The Rules:

1. I'm not wearing a watch.
2. Or socks.
3. If that goddamn cell phone rings and it's not a good friend calling, it's gonna get chucked in the ocean.

See y'all in a week!

Parting is such sweet sorrow...

This past weekend was the 60th and last annual Air Show at Pope Air Force Base near Fayetteville, NC. The base will be closing later this year, and the Army will be taking over the facilities. Naturally, we knew their Last Hurrah was going to be huge, but they topped all possible expectations. Over 100,000 people showed up Sunday to share in the experience. The Skating Gnu and I arose early and trekked down to the Sandhills to take in the sights. Oh! what sights - and sounds- we took in!

And what sunrays we took in too. Thanks to her mother's Italian heritage, The Skating Gnu turned a nice olive bronze after 10 hours in the bright sun. Me, I looked like an evil witch turned me into a big tomato. And that was just the first 15 minutes. I went from "monitor tan" to "afterburner glow" in no time flat. The burning is going down, slowly but surely, and I've rediscovered the wonders of 100% pure Aloe gel.

Was it worth it?

You tell me:





















































































































all photos copyright 2007, The Smoking Gnu

I'm so glad I brought my camera! Too bad I forgot the sunscreen. Ouch!!

Teaching an Old Dog New Tricks

School days, school days,
Dear old golden rule days.
Readin' and 'ritin' and 'rithmetic,
Taught to the tune of the hickory stick.
You were my queen in calico,
I was your bashful barefoot beau,
And you wrote on my slate,
"I love you, so"
When we were a couple of kids.

William D. Cobb, 1907

Dear Mr. [Smoking Gnu],

Congratulations, you have been approved for admission as a provisional student in the Master of Science degree program in Information Technology...

Well folks, this is where the rubber meets the road.

My acceptance letter arrived today from the Graduate School. Wow, this is for real now. I'm officially accepted, complete with a stern admonition to earn a 3.0 GPA or else. These folks don't fool around. This is serious work. I'll have some prerequisites to complete before I become a regular student, hence the "provisional" notation.

I'm ready. Apprehensive, but ready to begin. I've been reading ahead in the course book, taking notes and working the exercizes to prepare myself. It's been a long time since I've had to take tests that really count for something. This is a much higher level than the technology certifications I've done in the past; I could always retake those until I got it right.

I'm glad I started reading ahead. I'm getting myself into some good study habits, and brushing up on my test-taking. The quiz work at the end of each chapter was a wake-up call. No rushing through: take your time, choose the best answer. Double check your work. Same thing I've been telling my daughter for her schoolwork, now she's fussing at me in return. She's earned the right to do that just a little.

She's making straight A's this term. Yay, Skating Gnu!

Were it to G-d I should be so lucky in my studies!

Larriken's Kitchen Nighmares

I like to experiment in the kitchen. It's a creative outlet for me. I can usually whip up something good, if just a bit on the... umm... interesting side. I usually make a mess too, filling the sink to overflowing with pots, pans and other instruments of mad science. Back in college, I gained notoriety with my Venison Stew with Cinnamon. Hey, don't look at me like that, it was good and everyone enjoyed it, even if they do still tease me about it. As with all experimentation, failure is an option. The good part is most of my failures are still edible, with only one or two notable exceptions over the years (think burnt - I mean really carbonized!)

Still, I have a reputation for leaving a "creative blast radius" in the kitchen, to the point where, if my family sees me staring at the spice rack with a pensive look on my face, they grab the phone and the Domino's Pizza magnet off the fridge and wait for the detonation.

Today, I was hungry. So, staring at the contents of the fridge, I thought I'd make short work of the various and sundry leftovers accumulating in there. In walks my daughter.

Surveying the scene, she asked, "Whatcha doing, Daddy?"

I replied, "Experimenting. Wanna help?"

Without skipping a beat, she deftly replied, "Sure, I'll get the bandages," and walked out of the kitchen.

Smartass. She's definitely her mother's daughter.

It Ain't Rocket Science...

My first set of course books arrived today. Yay, study time!! My inaugural class is MGT 5014: Information Systems. Let's see what's inside the textbook:

Foundations of IS (good start)
Computer Hardware (snort)
Computer Software (snicker)
Telecom and Networks (guffaw)

I've only been doing this for nearly 20 years. The first few chapters cover things I can do in my sleep. If I don't ace this course, I'll break a boot off in my own ass and I'll invite each of you to form a line to do the same, cuz I'll sure as hell deserve an ass kicking.

What I am afraid of, on a more serious note, is getting overconfident. I don't want to get cocky, so I'm definitely approaching this with the seriousness it deserves. So even though the class doesn't officially start for another three weeks, I'm cracking the book, reading ahead and preparing for whatever quizzes, tests and other assignments will be coming my way.

My wife, on the other hand, needs to be sent off to remedial driving school. Or at least rudimentary mechanics. I think I've mentioned before how dumbfounded she gets when faced with anything that has knobs, dials, gears, flywheels, buttons, levers and/or blinky lights. Today, she called me up at the office in a panic. It's raining outside, and she has the wipers on, driving around town on errands.

"So what's the problem," I ask.

"The wipers are not going faster when I turn the knob! And, OMG I turned the knob to 'Off' and they're still going!!"

"Wow, that is weird. Okay, if the wipers are still going, you're still driving, and it's raining, stop fiddling with the buttons! As long as they're going, even if it they are going slow, don't keep messing with them or they may stop working altogether on you. Go home, and I'll look it over when I get home tonight."

I'm thinking maybe an electrical problem or something. Seems logical. No. It was simpler than that. Much simpler. Paris Hilton simpler...

She called back later, laughing her ass off. She figured it out when she got in to the garage: the knob she was fiddling with the whole time was for the headlights, not the wipers. So the whole time she was flipping the "wipers" off, on, and on full, she was signaling the entire highway with her headlights.

Another day in the life of a crazy married couple... Wouldn't trade it for the world.

In Memoriam

Today marks the 6th anniversary of open warfare by the Islamic Fascists against our civilisation. No other way to put it. More than 3,000 innocent lives lost on that fateful Tuesday.

I'll never forget that day and what I saw happen. Recalling my reaction, I understood how the Greatest Generation felt on another "day of infamy," December 7, 1941. My gut reaction, even before the second plane hit, was, "This is war."

Fascist Islam thought we'd run away crying and surrender. This picture, which circulated soon after the attack, speaks volumes about the will and resolve of true Americans:


Pray for the innocent dead. Pray for their families. Pray for our troops. Pray for Total Victory.

Remember who started this war. No prayer for the enemy.

Once More Into The Breach, Dear Friends!

Well, it's officially official. I'm going back to school. I've decided to complete a goal I set for myself 10 years ago and go back for my Master's Degree. I'd wanted to get started a decade ago, but the combination of a shitload of work (Imperial, not metric) a new baby (now growing up WAAAAY too damn fast) and some really bad career advice from someone I should have known better than to trust (told me it wasn't a good idea - fucker) resulted in me not getting started sooner.

I'd planned to get started this year, back when I was working for a top-ranked software firm which shall remain unnamed, but that fell by the wayside in an unforeseen re-org. That was two jobs ago, and as a consultant, there's no safety net under me anymore. So, I've decided not to wait for someone to sponsor me; I'm taking a loan from Uncle Sam and doing it myself. Sometimes you simply have to decide if the goal is worth the sacrifice or not. Maybe there will be a big payoff for this, maybe not. Screw it, I'm doing this for me.

I'm kinda scared, actually. This is kinda like the fear one gets bungee-jumping for the first time, wondering if the rope's tenuous grip on your ankles will hold up to the G-force of all those White Castle burgers from across the years. And once you take that leap, it's no longer a simple physics problem, the consequences are real.

It's been a long time since I've had to really study for real tests. Granted, I've got certifications, and I've been to scores of technology classes to keep current for work, but this is completely different. If I don't maintain a 3.5 GPA they'll toss my sorry ass out on the street. And I'll still owe Sam the dough. So, yeah, the stakes are a lot higher in this game.

Fingers crossed, I should be walking the aisle dressed in a mortarboard and robes in two years or so. Will I be naked under the robes? Stay tuned for that answer.

For Want of a Nail...

My printer broke down today. And by broke down, I mean it was making coffee grinder noises, only no cup-a-Joe was coming out the slot. I guess I downloaded the wrong Java into it, eh?

I tried to save it, but the poor thing just couldn't hang on. The postmortem autopsy revealed the culprit (yes, I am one of those types who likes to take things apart!) and just like in those pharmaceutical commercials, what felled my little printer was left than a half-inch in length:

It appears to be a guide bracket from the paper feed pathway. You would think that something like this, which is right next to the gearworks would be made of metal not flimsy plastic. The truly sad part is that the printer was one of those all-in-one types, so while it can no longer print or make copies, the scanner part probably works just fine.

Drop me a line if you want to make me an offer on it.

Interview with the Gnu

Coyote dropped by the other day to interview me. Me! Look, Ma, I'm famous!

As promised, the queries, and their answers:

1. Briefly, but not too briefly, tell me why I am awesome.

Because you think a lot like me. Seriously, reading your blog and rants in other parts of the CyberSea, we seem to take much the same approach, even if we differ somewhat on the end results. Birds of a feather, dude. See you at TacoCon!

2. What is something about you that I don't know and would never guess?

I started college full-time at 14, part-time at 12. Graduated one of the youngest ever in the history of the University.

3. If you could take over the life of any person currently living on earth for as long as you wanted who would it be, why and for how long?

Wow, good question. Do I go for the boilerplate, cheesy answer of "powerful person, do some good" or "evil asshole, have some fun" like the rest of the herd? Perhaps I'd just take a page from "Heaven can Wait" and just be someone a bit more ordinary and see life from a different perspective. Maybe a child, or a new mother, or an old man near his end. Just to see what life looks like through Other Eyes. How long? Long enough to understand.

4. What do you want your last spoken words to be?

Rosebud.

(You asked for it.)

5. What's the perviest thing you've ever done (did anyone really think I was going to get through five questions and not drag it into the gutter? really?)?

Do you really want to know the answer to that? You think my wife will let me tell you the whole story?? Put it to you this way: I'll never be able to order a certain "love-thy-partner by the seashore" drink in a bar without remembering the bewildered looks on the faces of that Scout troop.

And for the record, no, we did not stop.

Random Thoughts

It's been a crazy month. The dog days of Summer are here, it's 110F outside (no, really!) work is insanely busy (I like that part because I hate sitting still with nothing to do) and... well.. it's just crazy. And I just now realized it's been almost a whole 'nother month since I updated this. C'est la vie!

So, here are some random thoughts that popped into my mind recently. Psychology students looking for dissertation material, pay attention, please...

I was driving home today and got stuck behind a minivan (scourge of the highway!!!!) that had one of those bumper stickers that said, "Proud Parent of a Terrific Kid." I want one to put on Mrs. Gnu's car that says, "Embarrassed Wife of an Opinionated Asshole." They cost less in bulk, anyone else want in on the deal?

As much as I agree with those who say round up all the illegal immigrants and ship their criminal asses back where they came from and build a big wall to keep them out, I still can't escape one nagging thought: Now you know how the Cherokee felt! Are we destined for our own Trail of Tears into exile on the shores of Baffin Island?

So the Little Gnu starts sixth grade on Monday. I'm moping around feeling old just thinking about that. Told Mrs. Gnu that I'd feel younger if we had another baby. Now I feel old and I'm bruised and aching all over. Ow!

When tax time rolls around again, how many welfare brood-mares, illegal aliens and third world tinpot dictators can I write in as dependents on my form 1040?

I walked into a Starbucks and didn't order a "tall" or a "venti" or a goddamn "grande" drink. I ordered a Large. Kid behind the counter said, "Oh, you mean the Venti, right?" I replied, "No, large. I don't speak 'Idiot.'" The look: priceless.

Well, my skull is now empty. Hope you've enjoyed this tour of the insane confines of my head. Please watch your step as you exit the vehicle...

I Hate Chain Restaurants!

If there was ever an insidious disease eating away at the core of our rich American food heritage, it would have the name Restaurantitis Generica. Bland "everyman" food with no sense of history or cultural placement, just a hodge-podge of oversweetened, dumbed-down plonk. Bland, generic, sterilized decor with an atmosphere more akin to a hospital ward than an eating establishment. Hokey-costumed waitstaff with bright buttons and dull wits.

The worst offenders in my book are:

T. K. Tripps: Home of the ten-dollar hamburger - cheese and flavour extra, thankyewverymuch! Overpriced, mediocre food, but their pride and joy is their atmosphere! If I wanted atmosphere, I'd take a walk through the woods just after a late-spring rain. The penultimate snobbery hangout for yuppies in the 90's, this blank wall of nothingness charges way too much and delivers so very little.

Applebees: Big on pretense, small on results. They try to give the appearance of an upscale eatery but somehow the rich, savory delight of a true family restaurant got lost in the mail. Instead of a happy, enjoyable dining experience, you get fake smiles hiding behind a wall of glittering buttons as if it they were the gansta bling of the food industry. For some reason the less-intelligent of the Human species gathers here every day to celebrate birthdays, because every conversation I attempt to have with my friends and family in this place is interrupted by tone-deaf staff screaming some insipidly annoying version of Happy Birthday.

Ruby Tuesday's: Nothing sets this place apart except for the dim lighting and even dimmer staff. Except maybe the completely unimaginative menu. The layout of the place is horrendous, a special violator of common sense design. (See below)

Outback: I am so fucking sick of the fake Aw-straaahl-yan accent! I know REAL Australians, and every last one of them hates this place too. And for good reason. The food is extraordinarily ordinary, and the decor so stereotyped and fake it is an insult to the real denizens of the "Fatal Shores." If a Soul Food chain tried to duplicate this they'd plaster tap-dancing blackface stepin' fetchits all over the wall and the resulting furor would shut them down in less than a week.

Rock-Ola: Elvis is dead. I know this because if he were alive, he'd personally kick the asses of every single owner of this noisome franchise. Trying so hard so evoke a "rock-n-roll" feel, they somehow managed to excise all of the roots of rock-n-roll and instead leave you with a combination of pasty white crooners with pot-addled Woodstock rejects. The place is so noisy, I'm surprised they manage to stay open without violating local noise ordinances. Casual conversation is impossible here. If I wanted to shout at my friends over the top of generic pop music, I'd get tickets to a Hanson concert.

The [Insert City Nickname Here In Vain Attempt To Appear Local] Chop House: The ultimate yuppie hangout from the overpretensious 90's. The place to see and be seen. But not for eating. Portions designed to keep starving Africans starving, decor straight out of smoke-filled boardrooms, and waitstaff specially trained to be snottier than the French. Try showing up here while on business travel by yourself sometime. "Table for one, please." [Snotty look] "Only one, m'seur?" "No, stupid, I brought all of my imaginary friends."

Longhorn Steaks: A recent addition to my list, thanks to waitresses clad in Texas garb but spluttering Jersey accents whilst smacking gum. What. The. Fuck. So there's one open in a nearby town, now. I took the Gnu Herd there, thinking maybe things had changed. Nope. Completely empty place and they can't seat us right away. Something about having to find an open table. Guess they needed a map. Worst of all, we ask for non-smoking and we get a table in the no-man's land near the smoking bar while the real tables in the rarified "non-cancerous" altitudes remained empty. So I asked to be re-seated. You'd have though I'd just asked if I could set fire to the place. A huge dramatic production ensued between one empty-headed blonde and another to try to determine if such a thing as another empty table existed anywhere in the known universe. Remember, the place was nearly empty. We left in disgust.

Cracker Barrel: Remember the old commercial where a guy eating out of a jar of Peanut Butter runs smack into a girl wolfing down a Hershey bar? The result was Reese's magic. No such magic is apparent in this bastard lovechild of a wannabe country store and a greasy spoon truckstop cafe. You'll find these places popping up like poisonous fungi along the highway, just follow the ever-present columns of smoke from the misplaced Wal-Martians wandering the aisles in the gift shop right up front. This will really turn your stomach: a few years ago, the local TV station tested the tea they serve here and found that it contained more fecal coliform bacteria that a water sample from the wastewater plant. 'Nuff said.

Each entry above illustrates perfectly the underlying design flaw present in every last one of these miserable joints. First, from the parking lot to the hostess is the first hazard to overcome: The Outside Chimney Line. Scores of smokers puffing away, some two-fisting it for chrissakes! - as if the mere thought of a nicotine-free dinner was itself fatal.

Having made it past Cancer Cloud City, we arrive in the portico of misery: The perky yet dim-witted hostess who for some reason needs Air-Traffic-Controller grade technology to keep track of the tables. And yet, a mere peek behind the Wizard's Curtain reveals scores of glittering tables ready for the huddled mass of patrons anxiously awaiting reprieve from the billowing smoke emanating from the Chain-Smoking Gang outside as well as the eye-watering bar directly in front of them. It's like a cancerous Scylla and Charybdis.

The smoking section itself constitutes a gauntlet that patrons must run through to get to the supposedly clear-aired non-smoking sections. One must endure the impenetrable wall of putrid carcinogenic smog that will stick to your clothes more permanently that a Sharpie in the hands of a four-year-old. Even after you arrive at your seat, the concept of air circulation completely escapes both the architects as well as the operators of these places: a mere waist-high partition separates the living from the dying.

Smoke, of course, knows no bounds. We always manage to get placed right on the border between breathable air and smog, a virtual no-man's land where the food, if it originally had flavour, now tastes like asphalt. And invariably there's some idiot smoker hanging his or her cigarette over the wall in our faces. I have actually tossed my water over the fuming hedge separating me from such imbeciles, thinking the carpet was on fire or something.

If the designers of these places had any sense whatsoever, they'd either make the entire restaurant smoke-free or place the Death Ward in the very back near the garbage bins. I'm not one to go around advocating laws and such to govern personal behaviour, but given the complete lack of forethought in civil engineering coupled with the fact that one person's "Low Tar Taste of Adventure" is forcibly shared with others who find the putrid smell disgusting, perhaps we need a little governance to rein in the nasty effects of certain personal habits. At least until those who insist on killing themselves learn better how to keep it to themselves.

One such place which has taken a lead in creating a true family-friendly atmosphere is Red Robin. I'd been to one out on the Left Coast, and was delighted to find two nearby the office. And a third one is opening soon right down the road from my home. Red Robin is 100% non-smoking. [Raucous applause from the still-growing lungs of children everywhere!] The food is fairly good, too. Nothing like a local mom-and-pop place, but at least it doesn't taste like pine tar. It is not overbearingly noisy; they actually have a working volume control on the muzak! The waitstaff are competent, unobtrusive, and to get a better feel for how far they will go to serve you, I call upon The Taco Prophet to share his experience dining there with his family.

Unfortunately, no franchise chain can ever replace the local eateries with long histories of local food traditions. Soul Food rich with wholesome goodness from the heart of the South, pier-facing fish houses on both coasts brimming with Neptune's bounty, steak houses in the Heartland where each steak is grilled to personal order over hot coals - and you occasionally taste a bit of real mesquite or hickory wood that popped out of the coals just to remind you how real men cook steaks! - or the exotic flavours of the Far East, brought to the New World from home far, far away. These places are disappearing fast, as the new generation fails to carry forward the venerable traditions of old. It doesn't help either that the local repositories of both food traditions and the histories of those who gathered in droves to partake thereof are being driven out by the invasive Kudzu of commercialized blandness.

My Hero, My Nemesis

My good friend, The Taco Prophet, recently spoke about his two kids on his blog, Noggin Vomit. In the comments, BlueJeanGirl poses the question, "What do parents of only children do for laughs I wonder?"

I'll tell you what we do, my Blue friend: We mess with their minds.

Exhibit A: We went to Boone last weekend and stayed in a hotel suite with TVs in both rooms. Wife and I are watching one show in our room, and the Little Gnu is in the other room watching hers. Unbeknownst to her, the remote in my room works perfectly well on her TV over there. So I spent the better half of an hour randomly resetting the volume, changing channels, turning it off and just generally behaving like a poltergeist pointing my remote at the TV in the other room, until finally she cries out, "Daddy! The TV's messed up!"

Cue my hero shot: I walk in, bang the top of the TV, and boldly declare, "everything is fixed."

For about 10 minutes. Lather, rinse, repeat. Mwahahahaa!

Exhibit B: The Little Gnu is watching a nature show on the Discovery Channel about snakes. I amble by with a warm, unopened Pepsi bottle in my hand. I walk up behind her and say, "Snakes on TV? Hope there aren't any snakes in the living room here."

"Oh don't be silly, Daddy, there are no snakes in here."

I stand right behind her head and twist open the bottle cap with a loud "PSHHHHH!"

When the poor child finally scraped herself off the ceiling, she chased me out into the garage. Good thing I unplugged all the power tools.

The Measure of a Man

Yesterday, the microwave broke. Help! We're gonna starve!!

I shouldn't complain too much. That particular unit lasted for seven long years with us. Especially with Mrs. Gnu and the Little Gnu popping up popcorn and pizza every half hour all summer long. We got our money's worth out of it. But alas, it died so off to the local Hardware Superstore I went to get a replacement.

Brought back a really nice one for the low, low price of $200. Not bad, actually, considering Mrs. Gnu had her pretty little eyes set on one of the $600 ones. I won that argument. Dammit. The new oven has got automagical settings for all four food groups: coffee, pizza, popcorn and leftovers. Woo-hoo! One of the Helpful Hardware Experts at the store, after much arm-twisting to get me to spring for the in-home delivery and installation (a bargain at $150!!) to no avail, assured me installation was a snap. All you gots'ta do is unscrew the top bolts, slide the old oven off the back bracket, and ease the new one in. Piece o' cake.

Yeah. Murphy doesn't take a fucking holiday around here, folks.

First of all, I had about an hour and a half to get the two ovens swapped out before we had to head out for an afternoon Barbecue with friends. Shoot, if it's as easy as the nice salesman says, I'll have this done with time to spare. Who in their right minds would shell out 150 clams for someone to this? Well, pulling the old oven out was easy. Destruction usually is. Off to the boneyard with you, old friend.

Now we encounter the first problem: the bracket is incompatible with the new oven. We found that out after trying and trying to hoist the oven up into the slot and failing miserably. Arrgh! Fortunately, the new oven comes with a new bracket. Just have to pull the old one off and screw the new one in to the wall. Whoops, I dropped my screwdriver behind the stove. Time's up! Gotta go grill and chill with my peeps! Got home late from the BBQ and fireworks, off to work early in the morning.

Come home this evening to a pair of very angry Gnus. They want their popcorn... Now!! Back to work on restoring the kitchen to working order. So, we have to move the stove out and then squeeze in behind the cabinets to trade brackets. Only to find out that the guys who put it in managed to miss every single stud and had improvised with drywall mounts. Big, ugly, useless holes all over the drywall! On top of that, my cordless screwdriver's batteries died. I tried every single battery in the house (we have a whole ensemble of Black & Decker cordless products, not a single one of them in working order presently) and couldn't find one that would hold a charge. Off to the Hardware Superstore again, this time for a speed square and a drill with a cord.

Back from the hardware store, time to see if the bolts line up in the cabinet. Nope. Gotta drill those out, too. There's an old saying, "measure twice, cut once." I measured three separate ways, to make those damn bolts line up, and in the end, I was still off by 1/4 of an inch on all four sides!!

It took all night, a lot of swearing, and assistance from Mrs. Gnu to re-drill the bracket holes, mount the bracket, re-measure the top-mount holes, and hoist the microwave up only to discover that there is a quarter-inch warp in time-space that exists precisely 30 inches above our stovetop.

"It's okay, dear," says Mrs. Gnu. "You're used to handling twelve inches at a time, so a quarter inch is nothin'."

God, I love that woman!

Happy Independence Day

No, not "Happy Fourth of July" as if we simply celebrate the passing of June in to July. We do not celebrate days, we celebrate events. In this case, we celebrate the birth of Liberty. Now, understand, Liberty came at a terrible price for those who struck up its cause in the beginning. They cast their lot onto uncertain ground, at great risk to themselves and their families. Many never lived to see the day when their grand experiment would bear fruit for our country.

I guess it is fortunate that none would live to see the sad state of affairs today, when political animals, living here simply by accident of birth, work so hard to betray our country and bring ruin down on all our heads. These are Liberals: more interested in political power than safeguarding the lives and liberty of us true Americans who are forced to share our country with them. Since they seem to have infected the Democratic party like a gangrenous leprosy, I call then TreasonCrats.

Liberty is a very fragile gift. It requires maintenance, vigilance, and dedication. It is not a gift to us, it is a gift entrusted to our care for our children. It is not easy to keep Liberty. Most things worthwhile in life are not easy to obtain or keep up. TreasonCrats seem to believe that they have the natural right (not God-given because they hate God and do everthing possible to erase His name from our land) to be free to do as they will on a whim, and damn the cost that others will be forced to pay for their selfish happiness.

This "happiness at all cost" attitude is irresponsible and destructive. Note that there is a difference between Liberty and freedom. Liberty exists in the structure of civilised behaviour with a clear understanding of rules and boundaries, and respecting the unbreakable link between choice and consequence, right and responsibility, privilege and obligation, while unbounded freedom thrives in anarchy with no regard to the consequences and no thought at all to the future.

Here is an Independence Day message for all the Liberal TreasonCrats out there:



We're fighting a war for the survival of all civilised life here. And you're not helping. In fact, too many on the lunatic left are actively engaged in treason against the very country that allows them the liberty to act like assholes. But there is a big difference between the right to act like an ignorant douchebag and tearing down the very structure of your own country. You cannot separate cause from effect or choice from consequence; you can ignore the link between them, but only at your own mortal peril.

We're fighting a war against true evil: Islamic Fascists who are hell-bent upon destroying all human life including their own. There is no moral equivalency between our fighting to protect the lives and freedoms of civilised humanity and the wanton death and destruction that these Death-Cult types wish to visit upon our children.

We are not alone in this battle. Some people actually get it. Greetings from another country under fire from Liberal TreasonCrats and their Islamic Fascist allies:



If you are unable to distinguish a moral difference between the two images above, then you have something obscuring your vision. Ideology, perhaps?

Quotes from others throughout history who get it:

To know what is right and not to do it is the worst cowardice.
Confucius

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.
Edmund Burke

We shall not flag nor fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France and on the seas and oceans; we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air. We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be; we shall fight on beaches, landing grounds, in fields, in streets and on the hills. We shall never surrender and even if, which I do not for the moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, will carry on the struggle until in God's good time the New World with all its power and might, sets forth to the liberation and rescue of the Old.
Winston S. Churchill

It is the soldier, not the reporter
Who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the soldier, not the poet,
Who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the soldier, not the campus organizer,
Who has given us freedom to demonstrate.
It is the solider, not the lawyer,
Who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It is the solider who salutes the flag,
Who serves under the flag and
Whose coffin is draped by the flag,
Who allows the protester to burn the flag.

Father Denis Edward O'Brien, USMC


Happy Independence Day to all True Americans, who love Liberty and may God bless America and those who defend it.

Say What???

In response to Monday's post, Coyote comments, "I'm fairly certain that women ask questions in a way that is designed for men to hear 'the wrong way' so that they can get angry. It's a class they take, I'm sure of it."

See, now that you know their secret, they'll have to kill you. Slowly, painfully. Be sure to invite me to the wedding, my friend.

He's got a good point, though. That sort of trap happens all the time to me.

Earlier this month:

I came home from work one afternoon and was greeted by an angry Gnu. Sometime during the day, the toilet got clogged somehow. Thankfully, instead of attempting to unclog the toilet herself, and thereby creating a man-made lake where our house once stood, she left that task to me. She's wonderful and sweet, but mechanically inept, to say the least. I forgot about it as I was unwinding from the workday, and she didn't remind me until later on in the evening when she decided she wanted to take a shower. So, she went to find me and get my help.

Folks, how would you reply to a question worded this way:

"Honey, are you going to unclog the toilet so I can take a shower?"

Ummm... what???

Rip van Gnu

Where the hell did the month of June go?? Honestly, I had lots of interesting stuff to post the past few weeks. Really. Most of it censored by Ms. Gnu, but hey it's the thought that counts, right?

Well, just like Rip van Winkle, I'm feeling a bit old this month. Not in the usual smart-ass sense of being another month older. I pulled that on my daughter already: told her "You're the oldest now that you have ever been in your entire life." It's funny watching the gears turn as she computes that sentence and only comes up with "TILT" in her head. Then she smacks the hell out of me and continues her merry way. Ahh, to be a kid again.

I feel old because my sweet little angel is going to be -gasp!- a Middle Schooler this Fall!! Gaah! Where did the time go? (Screw that, where did my hair go!?!) I'd better start counting my eye blinks because sooner than I want to think about, she'll be asking for the keys to the car. But that little fucker on the doorstep with the bolt through his nose better damn well be delivering pizza! Hey! You kids! Get off my lawn!!

I also feel old because I have no idea what to do with my free time tonight. She is away at a statewide conference in the Big City Far, Far Away, and Ms. Gnu and I have the house all to ourselves. We have no friggin' clue what to do without a rambunctious little munchkin under foot. Maybe we could borrow a kid from the neighbors...

So, we're sitting here on the couch, bored out of our skulls. Ms. Gnu, sorely missing our Little Gnu, decides it would be a good idea to call the hotel room and check up on her. She puts this to me in a simple question, but as usual, ends up demonstrating how differently men and women think:

The Missus: "Dear, want to try [The Skating Gnu's] room?"

Me: "What? Are you crazy? We can't 'do it' in her bedroom! That's sick!!"

TM: "No you asshole! Call her hotel room and make sure she's okay!!!!" [stomps off]

Me: "Oh. Sorry. Wanna do it in the kitchen?" [ducks flying object]

Looks like I got the couch tonight. Again.