That man can be domesticated.

It's beginning to look like the rule of Zaius may start early- "Florida monkeys revolt, citizens remain calm."

I, for one, welcome our new Patas overlords.

You have just said the secret word, Alice. You have just won a trip to the moon.

Let me say this - I'm with most of my bloggy friends, most recently Blue Gal, in that it's well past time for Clinton to pull the plug on her campaign. It's near mathematically impossible for her to win the nomination despite yesterday's victory and drawing out the contest is just hurting the party's chances against McCain.

Here's an analogy that I think works pretty well-

This primary has taken the form of a knock-out, drag down fight with your spouse. There's been screaming, swearing and even the occasional accusation of infidelity or flirting with that McCain guy that lives down the street. Once in a while there's even an empty threat of divorce.

Occasionally this fight takes the the form of what might be considered hitting below the belt. Words are taken out of context. That old friend from college who tried to break you and your spouse up comes up yet AGAIN even though you haven't talked to him in years.

On rare occasions you find yourself sitting on the porch next to the dog, pouring your heart out to him. So you goofed up the laundry a little bit. So what? It wasn't your turn to do the laundry anyway, you made dinner. What's the big deal that you mixed the reds with the whites? It was just underwear. What does she care if it's white or pink? It's not like she's wearing it out in public and, well, um...

Ahem.

It seems to me that a lot of us are kind of feeling like this fight is going on longer than usual and are getting impatient for the make-up sex. That is, as they say, the best sex of all.

But as long as we're on the porch with the dog there will be no make-up sex.

In the meantime some of us try and tide ourselves over by the candidate masturbation offered at Taylor Marsh on the one side or Daily Kos on the other. Let's face it; this will never be a good substitute for the real thing.

So forgive us if we seem a tad impatient to get to the good part. Who can blame us? Nobody enjoys fighting. There's make-up sex to be had and there are things that are much, much more important than pink underwear.

The last of the V8 Interceptors... a piece of history!

Even though today is Earth Day I was planning to write something somewhat on-topic anyway. On Friday we received word (finally) that the insurance company had totalled my car. So on Sunday Mrs. Wormer and I headed over to the local Toyota dealership to look at Priuses (Priusii?)

I wish I could say this was totally an environmentally conscious choice but the sad reality is I've been spending about $80.00/ week on gas with half my commute in stop n'go traffic. Public transit is an option with an excellent light rail system but it adds about 1/2 hour each way to my already long commute. So I'm planning on continuing driving but increasing my mpg. Purely selfish on my part.

Having said that - for the last year or so THIS has been my dream car...

A car that screams "this man is a cool stud." That, and "mid-life crisis." But I'll go with the first one if you don't mind.

So buying a car that looks like this instead...

...is somewhat of a sacrifice, no? It screams "patchouli eating hippy."

I looked into the tax incentives for buying hybrids and was stunned to find out their are currently no federal tax incentives for a car that is hand's down the best mass-produced environmentally friendly choice available at the moment.

Of course the free SUV loophole remains in effect. Congress could easily fix this "business" loophole by re-defining qualifying vehicles so it only covers the farm equipment it was originally intended to cover. At least we can take a sick sort of glee in the idea that rising gas prices will at least stick it to the assholes who've ripped off taxpayers by buying Hummers.

But what I'd really like to see out of our political leadership was some serious tax credits towards the purchase of fuel-efficient vehicles and mass-transit (a credit is better than a deduction, IMHO.) Yes, this is selfish. But it's a kind of selfish that will have the side effect of helping the environment. Everybody wins.

Except those that drive Hummers.

That's what scares me.

One month until Indy!

This is going to be one of those rare films I actually see on opening night so I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Please, please be good!

Also- Freida tagged me with the "six things you didn't know about me" game.

• My undergraduate degree is in history with a focus on Spanish/ Latin American history.


• I met my wife at a Halloween dance. I was a Frankenstein Monster and she was a six-foot tall Butterfinger Candy Bar.


• I once got high in college by drinking an entire bottle of Robitusin DM. I saw Jerry Garcia in the clouds.


• On a visit to Mexico City I did the special prayer for healing at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. It took me five hours to crawl to the front of the sanctuary on my knees.


• I'm a Trekkie. Of the old school variety.


• I make a mean Enchiladas Verdes con Pollo. From scratch (except the tortillas.)
  
  

They sure look ripe to me.

I took this picture off the back deck last night. Let's just say this weather is pretty freakish for this time of year up my neck of the woods. I'm expecting a rain of locusts at any moment...

(Freida- I'll get your tag soon. I have to build a snowman at the moment.)

Get a life.

As an Obama supporter I have to say this latest "Fingergate" controversy has really made me rethink my support for Barack. Then I had a discussion with an advertising friend of mine who also happened to have served a Radio Operator in the Navy. He pointed me towards this Obama video-



At the 2:07 minute mark Obama quickly blinks several times in a row. My friend pointed out that Obama was subliminally transmitting a signal in Morse code through this blinking. He translated this message to be "Hillary is a big fat meanie who has cooties."

That's not the worst part. At several times in the video Obama gestures with both hands in front of himself in what can only be seen as the universal sign for "breasts." Clearly he's trying to highlight the fact that his opponent is a woman.

Shame on you Barack Obama. Shame on you.

I am an imbecile. I see only half of the picture.

Happy Friday! Here's another chapter of my mystery.

Chapter Four: Death by Wasabi


Doctor Ira Qwacken realized he had a problem. In fact; as he chewed and chewed on the piece of octopus in his mouth he realized that he had two problems to be exact. The first was that he hated sushi. Absolutely despised it. Especially sushi of the variety of the piece of octopus in his mouth at this exact moment.

His other problem was that his cell phone was buzzing, and he was almost positive it was the hospital. He’d promised Gina that he was off tonight and they could enjoy a romantic, if nauseating dinner together. She wouldn’t be happy to find out he’d lied. It was own stupid fault for playing the odds that no one would need a new heart while he enjoyed a bite.

He decided he could take care of both problems in the bathroom and quickly excused himself.

As he walked to the bathroom he thought about Gina and realized he really couldn't blame her. He hadn’t been much of a boyfriend and was hardly ever around. Almost every waking moment was spent at work. Not to mention the moments when he wasn’t awake.

As one of the foremost emergency cardiac surgeons in the country he couldn't count the number of times he’d had to walk out of a movie or a friend’s wedding because he was called in to throw a new pumper in somebody's chest. Gina would look hurt, then angry and ultimately take an emotional stab at him with "Fine, go save the little girl's life. Give her a new Bread Basket or a Charley Horse. See if I care."

Gina never really did understand his work.

Now here he was hiding from her and sitting in a stall in the Men’s Room returning the call from the hospital like some teenager peeking at the bra section in a Sears catalog. Did they still do that, he wondered? These days they probably use the Internet for their visual stimulation. This led to a series of thoughts about the difficulty of fitting one's computer into a bathroom ending with Ira finally understanding the concept of a laptop.

He dialed his answering service with a mixture of dread and resignation.

"This is Chief Surgeon Qwacken. What do you have for me?"

"Dr. Qwacken, your lawyer called," droned the voice on the other end of the line. "He said to let you know he was able to procure the cat and it will in your possession tomorrow."

Ira closed his cell phone, leaned back and smiled.

There were only a couple of things he'd had on his personal bucket list for most of his life. One was to win "American Cardiac Surgeon of the Year." He'd accomplished that. Twice.

The other was win the New York Greater Municipal Cat Fancier's Association Cat of the Year Show just once in his life. The only problem he faced there was that he didn't have a cat but, more importantly, he didn't have time to train a champion.

That's where Snowbell, the reigning champion three years running, came in. He may not be able to train a champion but he could buy one. Hell, it worked for the Yankees. Most of the time.

Unfortunately Ira had been frustrated when Snowbell's odious owner refused all his offers to buy her cat. Neither reason or money would move Charisma Ponderosa into parting with her beloved feline. He'd just about given up when he'd heard the good news this morning that she'd died in some freak accident at a party at her home. Ira felt very, very lucky at the moment.

Ira felt a gurgle in his stomach and quickly tried to remember if he'd actually swallowed any of the sushi Gina had been dangling in his face with her chopsticks.

The gurgle quickly turned to searing pain, Ira doubled over. He crawled off the toilet and spun around expecting to be quickly revisiting his recently eaten dinner shortly. As he hung over the toilet bowl it briefly crossed his mind that he hadn't been in this position since college. It was that happy memory that was the last thought to ever cross Ira Qwacken's mind because first he fainted.

Then he drowned.



Chapter One: Charisma Hits the Dance Floor.
Chapter Two: Death Punches Back on the Clock.
Chapter Three: Usually it's the Usual Suspects.

That's why you no liking us meesa thinks.

My 14-year old guitar playing daughter just replaced this poster...

...with this poster...

...on her bedroom wall.

This makes me happy on so many levels I'm unable to list them all here.

We also had a nice father/ daughter bonding moment as we burned the Jar Jar poster in the yard and cracked wise ("Meesa no likea the fire. No Ani, no.....")

Muhahaha!

There's already been one radical in the White House. I don't believe it could survive another.

What we need in a President.

We need a President who is...

Comfortable around firearms.

A non-smoker.

Bowls well.

Wears a flag lapel.

Doesn't have a funny sounding foreign name.

Doesn't believe people are bitter.

So many authors are denied the gratification of a concrete response to their work. I am blessed.

Poor Gonzo. He just can't seem to be able to find a job.

WASHINGTON — Alberto R. Gonzales, like many others recently unemployed, has discovered how difficult it can be to find a new job. Mr. Gonzales, the former attorney general, who was forced to resign last year, has been unable to interest law firms in adding his name to their roster, Washington lawyers and his associates said in recent interviews.

Perhaps it's because these firms don't recognize the genius apparent in Gonzales' creative interpretations of the law, or perhaps it's because he keeps writing "Marquis de Sade" under position desired on the application. Whatever the reason I'm sure we can all agree that it couldn't happen to a nicer sadist.