Thursday, August 30, 2007
The Boston Red Sox, my favourite baseball team, just completed a three-game breakdown against the Evil Empire (a/k/a The New York Yankees).
Thanks to thoughtful pitch selection by Jorge Posada--and excellent pitch delivery by the elderly Roger Clemens--the Boston Red Sox were stymied, allowing the 7,000-time Cy Young Award winner to carry a no-hitter into the sixth. Clemens threw an uncharacteristic 98 pitches, and moved to 6-5 on the season, as the Yankees won the second game of the series, 4-3.
Then, in the final game of the series, an afternoon interlude--the way baseball is meant to be enjoyed--Chien-Ming Wang took his no-hitter into the seventh, before he was pulled by Yankees' manager, Joe Torre. The Yankees went on to win by a 5-0 margin, allowing them to pull within five (that's 5) games of the Sox.
Sort of like the Summer of '78, all over again.
Except, instead of Bucky Fucking Dent, we have Roger Fucking Clemens (7,000-time Cy Young Award Winner and AARP Member) and Chien-Ming Fucking Wang. And A-Rod.
I would have much rather the headline been "Ortiz, Sox Beat Wang."
Saturday, August 25, 2007
WANG SOLID ON MOUND AS TIRED YANKEES STOP TIGERS...
Is only a part of this headline baseball-related? It sort of reminds me of the dirtiest sounding thing said on television (that wasn't dirty). You know, "Ward, don't you think you were a little hard on the Beaver last night?"
And, the excellent movie, Murder By Death, starring (among others) Peter Sellers, as Inspector Sidney Wang.
Unfortunately, I can not do the great scenes justice, so watch it. Often. The Lifeguard gives it three liferings (out of five).
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
The Gash In Endeavour's Heat Shield Runs Deep
(Or, "God, I Wish I Had A Pitcher of Martinis!")
The NASA Space Shuttle, Endeavour, suffered a gash in the protective tiles on lift-off. A chunk of insulation, which is sprayed on the liquid fuel tank* before lift-off, ripped off, slamming into the heat shield. Now, NASA, and the (presumably) sober astronauts are left with significant repairs--and serious concerns--before re-entry.
All of the astronauts are cognizant of the end suffered by Columbia's astronauts; and, are now steeling themselves for long spacewalks and tough decisions.
Astronaut-Educator (or is it Educator Astronaut?), Barbara Morgan (Christa McAuliffe's back-up for the ill-fated Challenger) is likely wondering why she gave up the safety and security of a classroom for this nonsense. Come to think of it, if she taught in an urban district, this might just be easier...and less dangerous than going into a classroom.
And, the worst part? We are powerless to do anything. The repairs proposed--other than painting the gash--have never been tried in the cold desolation of space. And, having the same engineers that built the Space Shuttle, with all its inherent flaws, telling you how to fix the problem that they (in part) created is not the least bit reassuring.
So, we all sit, and wait, and pray. Pray that the Endeavour astronauts have a safe return to Earth.
God bless, and God speed.
*Interestingly, the insulation sprayed on the fuel tank is more prone to breaking apart because NASA uses an environmentally-friendly formulation, rather than the CFC-laden mix that they used in the past.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
A Morgantown, W(by God)V man, his mother (who may also be his sister) and a friend (who is, most certainly related, in some way) are suing McDonald's for $10m.
The man, Jeromy Jackson, a twenty-something slacker, ordered two Quarter Pounders--without cheese--and got, instead, cheese. Jackson, who took "...five independent steps to make sure that the thing didn't have cheese on it" said Timothy Houston, Esquire.
Apparently, Jackson, who is allergic to cheese, told everyone in the Star City, W(by God)V McDonald's that he was allergic to cheese.
Then, he went home, to watch a movie in a darkened room, where he ate the Quarter Pounders. In the dark, where he could not see what he was eating. You know, no light, so he was not sure that he had his tasty burger, and not someone else's.
"Jeromy took one bite (in the darkened room) and started having the reaction," Houston said. They tried to call the restaurant to advise that the order had been FUBARed, then rushed Jackson to hospital, where he incurred $700.00 worth of medical bills. $700.00 in medical bills?
So, this is, somehow, worth $10m? West (by God) Virginia is barely worth $10m, exclusive of Senator Robert Byrd's (D-W(by God)V) earmarks, bribes, and graft, brought home from Washington, D.C. There is no mothereffing way that this case is worth $10m.
Where does the lawyer get off seeking $700.00 in actual damages, (probably) $10,000.00 in compensatory damages, and the rest in punitive damages? He knows, sadly, that McDonald's is evil, that juries are stupid, and no one will fault Jeromy for eating his sandwich in the dark, after fucking up his own order at the McDonald's.
This is the reason that they have "Order by Number" at McDonald's. ("I'd like a Number Three, please.") McDonald's realises that the people who work there are not all that much smarter than the idiots who place the orders at the clown. That is why McDonald's has screens that show the order, to ensure correctness. That is why every person in the McDonald-eating world looks at their order to make sure that it is correct. And, what kind of a nimrod calls the McDonald's upon learning that the order is wrong?
It is all too perfect. Too much like a bag-job.
I am betting that: a) this is a phonied-up case (like the finger in the Wendy's chili or the rat in the Coor's Light; b ) that Jeromy (or his friends) will roll-over like Lindsay Lohan for booze and crank; and, c) that in spite of a and b, some stupid-ass jury in West (by God) Virginia will give these cretins an assload of money to punish the evil McDonald's.
Monday, August 06, 2007
I met them at a bar. They were doing shots of tequila. It devolved into something ugly. Body shots off of the shoulders, off of the thighs, off of me.
After they had downed eight or nine shots, the two blondes, in unison, began telling me about how they liked to screw people. "At home. In the car. In the office. Front door, back door, clothed, naked, sitting, standing, your place, my place. We love to screw men. We have been doing it since we got out of college."
My eyes grew wide. My jaw dropped.
"No shit?" I said.
"I can't believe that you two are lawyers. What firm are you with?"
Sunday, August 05, 2007
The irony was delicious.
Kevin Bae, the Vice President (no shit! President of Vice) of KM Communications, Inc., requested...and received...KWTF and KUNT as call letters of two television stations. The former, in Arizona; the latter, in Maui, Hawaii.
The FCC granted the request, since the assignment of call letters is computerised. (Nudge, nudge, wink.)
In reality, someone at the FCC saw the request and said, "What the fuck?!?" Then, that person said, "Sure, I have deniability. It'll be funny. And, most importantly, I have deniability."
KUNT's slogan could be, "Kan't Understand Normal Television? Watch KUNT."
KWTF's could be, "Where Television Flows!"
Frankly, I think Bae should grow some balls and tell the FCC that he intends to keep the call letters for his company. And, that only someone with a dirty mind, or too much time on their hands, would object.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
On January 28, 1986, I walked into my local in Hampstead, ordered a pint, and settled in for a few hours of drinking. One of the patrons, noticing that I was an American, said, "Hey, do you know what NASA stands for?"
"No," I replied.
"Need Another Seven Astronauts."
And so, I learned that Challenger had, spectacularly, disintegrated just 73 seconds into its flight. I rushed back home, and turned on the telly. Shortly after the end of "Nude Yoga," I found the news, and watched the footage...over and over. STS-51-L ended before it began, and all seven astronauts perished.
Fast forward to the next NASA disaster, the loss of Columbia, on February 1, 2003. Again, seven died as a result of a situation that caused the mission, at its end, to be FUBAR. Again, I remembered the asshole in the pub.
So, when I read that NASA was taking "swift action" to deal with the drunkenness of at least two astronauts, who were shit house when their mission commenced, I thought, "What's the big deal??"
If I were about to go up into space on a giant Roman Candle, I might have a few pops, too. Especially since the twelve-hour "bottle to throttle rule" is a bit anachronistic (sort of like NASA) given the automation of the modern space mission. Indeed, a few drams of a fine single malt whisky might actually prompt me to suit up and fly, given NASA's abysmal safety record.
In the meantime, the investigation continues...