One of the things I am thankful for today is the wit of others, especially those who share their gifts and allow a distracted blogger to bask in reflected glory. So, anyway, I thought this was funny. And to those who read this blog, I wish both of you a Happy Thanksgiving.


moar funny pictures

Found this on the wire at work. I love the authorities' callousness.

Cows rounded up after trailer gate opens at McDonald¹s parking lot in
northern Utah
WEST HAVEN, Utah (AP) McDonald's? The burger joint? Stampede!
Eight cows escaped from a trailer when the rear gate opened as the driver
pulled into a McDonald¹s. It took about two hours to round them up Monday.
"Maybe they were going to ... hop in the freezer, save the middleman,"
Weber County sheriff's Sgt. Dave Creager said.
Lt. Kevin Burns had another theory: "They didn¹t like their future."
The roundup was called "Operation Hamburger Helper." A nearby resident
even hopped on his horse.
"I thought my eyes were lying," said Wayne Sanders, who was at a truck
stop next door. "I don¹t know where they came from, but I¹d say they¹d have
to weigh 800 pounds apiece and they were on a pretty good trot."


And this is a quick tip of the hat to SCTV, the best skit comedy show this continent ever produced.

THE MELODIZED WHIMPER

News that the Backstreet Boys had released a new album last month came as a mild shock to me. I thought they had long ago broken up and vanished into the pop music netherworld, spirits to be summoned only when VH1 was scraping the bottom of its Behind the Music barrel.

But, no, they are very much in this world, holding on to their sliver of fame with the tenacity of a moray eel. My shoulders slumped when my co-workers told me about the new album. I view boy bands -- be it Backstreet Boys, N'Sync, OS5, New Kids on the Block or whoever -- as avatars of commodified youth culture. They sing, they dance, they sometimes strike defiant poses, they croon about painful love -- but always within a safe package that blots out any hint of the anger, rebellion or pain-in-the-ass trouble that's part of youth. Simply put, they're annoying. They're like kids who wrote down the names of troublemakers when the teacher was out of the room and then went on to fame and fortune as wannabe bad boys.

For some reason, what annoyed me most about boy bands is something I call the melodized whimper. It usually comes at the end of a love ballad that imparts the band's collective tender soul beneath tough-guy exterior. The song is all about the yearning for love, and the melodized whimper is the punctuation mark at the end that implies that the song has been achingly ripped from the heart.

I think it sounds like something that evolved from the primal yelps and mewling of a misbehaving 6-year-old boy who is desperately trying to ward off a spanking, but what do I know? Chicks seemed to dig these songs. (Perhaps there is something in the frequency and modulation of the whimper that only female ears can hear.)

That got me thinking. The melodized whimper often came at the end of songs that said things like "I never should have banged your little sister and sold your cat to the research lab. I realize now after spending your college fund in Vegas that I was wrong and you are the only one for me. Please take me back. I love you so much (whimper)." And it just might have some mojo behind it. So why not use it in more prosaic situations? If young women can't resist the melodized whimper, why not use it to work my will all the time?

Of course, it can't be used merely for the commonplace. It should be used in life-and-death situations. Or in moments of diplomacy when talking to a female head of state.

STARSTRUCK

Mortals tend to become a little unhinged in the presence of immortals. In eons past, the first glint of ethereal light often would cause peasants to drop their mundane tasks, pick up sacrificial knives and rush pell-mell to the livestock. In an orgy of blood and chanting, the people would offer their gods the choicest cuts of red meat in order to receive divine favor. They sometimes even asked, "and would you like some fries with that?" just to be on the safe side.

In time, the Christian God banished the high-calorie gods, but the impulse to make tangible sacrifice to higher beings still holds sway among some of us. And the mayor of Macon is no exception to this.

Upon hearing that Oprah Winfrey was coming to Macon to film a show at City Auditorium, Mayor Ellis announced that public money would be used to gussy up the old building, giving it new landscaping, paint and a "Hollywood-style" green room. The stated purpose for the renovation to put Macon's best face forward when the national spotlight falls on it. But my sneaking suspicion is that the mayor, who has always governed as though he wished to be mayor of Ellistown rather than Macon, wants to personally impress Oprah.

There's a certain giddiness there that's something like the chess club president learning that the homecoming queen is going to be at his birthday party. But the giddiness seems to be banishing reason to the cornfield. First of all, Oprah Winfrey is rightly lauded as a celebrity who uses her wealth and status for positive change in the world. She might wince to learn that money that could have been spent on Macon's poor was used to throw a little faux Hollywood her way. And she is probably coming to Macon to get away from the tinsel world of stardom. Coming to Macon is likely a quest for the upright virtues of provincial America that many urbanites romantically assume exist in places like Macon. Either that or it's pith-helmet anthropology, a study of what hicks really are like.

The mayor is trying to misrepresent Macon as a city sophisticated enough to accommodate celebrity life, and like most frauds his effort is probably doomed. Rather than risk the humiliation of having the deception exposed like Cinderella staying too long at the ball, we should deck up City Auditorium with decor that we in Middle Georgia can honestly claim is ours.

Therefore, I propose that Oprah's couch should be the back seat of a '65 Chevy and the stage should be ringed with tires cut in half and painted white. Guests who have exhausted their time on the couch can spend the rest of the time watching the show in the "sitter," an old car up on cinder blocks onstage. The city can lend Oprah a big dog -- a pit bull, Rottweiler or Doberman -- to lie at her feet and occasionally growl at guests. The green room can be a single-wide outback with a dish antenna and a refrigerator full of Budweiser. The show guests can drink beer onstage and throw the empties at the audience.

That's called keeping it real.