HFWTFMF!?!

MAYBE SHE NEEDS TO EAT MORE TUSCAN KALE?
The First Lady, the Empress Michelle Obama, was in a pickle. (An organic pickle, naturally.) She was out of organic Tuscan kale, so she fired up the motorcade, grabbed a crack team of security personnel, and fucked up Washington D.C. traffic so that she could run to the local farmers market to buy some certified organic veggies.

Now, I don't have a problem with the First Family eating healthy foods. I don't even have a problem with the enormous cost of eating foods that are certified organic. I do, however, take exception at the mobilisation of men and machines so that Mrs. Obama can have a photo opportunity.

So, after a long hiatus, The Lifeguard awards First Lady Michelle Obama the coveted "Dumbass of the Week" award.

And, for the record, she does not have great arms and a fantastic figure.

It wasn't what I thought...

The Lifeguard Was So Excited To See This!

I drove a little farther, hoping for something to break up the monotony of the Chevy HHR and my holiday.

Sadly, it wasn't a quickie. It was a speed bump.

HFWTFMF!

The Chevrolet HHR...

The Lifeguard rented one of these beauties when he was on holiday. It was ugly, uncomfortable, shoddily assembled, ugly, underpowered, (most assuredly) overpriced, cramped, ugly, lacking storage, and ugly. There is no doubt in my mind that the woes at The General are due, in large part, to the fuckwits who designed cars like this one.

Really, as much as The Lifeguard wants to blame the unions for the decline of the American automobile industry, I just can not. It is the fault of the designers who cobbled together this abortion (and others like it). In fact, this car was surely supposed to be a Chevy Tahoe...before it was aborted in the second trimester.

I was happy to have the vacation end so that I could turn in this piece of crap.

Kinda makes me wish I were French...

The Chickens Come Home to Roost

President Barack Hussein Obama (who is not a Muslim) gave British Prime Minister Gordon Brown some DVDs that wouldn't play, and took many opportunities to shit on our oldest--and best--ally. Now, we find out that the PM was working, behind the scenes, to see that Pan Am Flight 103 bomber, Abdulbaset al-Megrahi's release--on humanitarian grounds--was not hampered.

To make matters worse, President Obama (who is still not a Muslim) had no objections to al-Megrahi being freed on humanitarian grounds.

It is enough to make The Lifeguard scream, I tell you.

This murdering son-of-a-bitch participated in the deaths of 270 innocents, then went home to a hero's welcome after being freed because he had terminal cancer. Because someone thought it was the humane thing to do.

As noted previously, if it was a hero's welcome he was going to get, the US Air Force should have provided the fireworks. Or, perhaps today, a little present, delivered on the nose of a cruise missile.

Now I know where the Size 28 stewardesses went...

The Golden Days of Air Travel Are Gone!

In a rare departure from the norm, The Lifeguard boarded a USAirways flight from Logan, headed to parts unknown. From the twisted policy that demands a $20.00 per bag handling fee to the aged, dumpy and overweight flight attendants, it is no wonder that the airlines are in such bad shape these days.

First, the airlines have adopted a policy that encourages people to carry bags on the plane. Add the infrequent travelers to the over-privileged douche bags that already carry on their luggage and you have one crowded aisle with people struggling to lift their personal possessions into a tiny luggage bin. Imagine two hundred people stuffing three hundred bags into space for one hundred and fifty, and you've got modern air travel. And, should your checked bags (for which you have paid a hefty premium) fail to arrive at your destination, do you get your money back? I don't think so.

Second, the flight attendants were all old, dumpy, and fat. (I was particularly fond of the peroxide blond with the short skirt and tight sweater...both of which were just too damned small.) Now, I have nothing against people who are a little heavy; but, when I might just have to rely on an old, out-of-shape woman to save my ass, I get a little leery. (I note that I feel much the same way about policemen and women who have had one doughnut too many.) When the flight attendant can not get down the aisle because of her size (I am not joking about this), it's time for her to go.

Finally, when the flight attendants can not make coherent announcements, as relate to the safety or general operation of the aircraft, I think we have a problem. As we were on our final to Large North Carolina Airport, the connecting flight information was read...poorly, and inaccurately.

Then, this:

"This aircraft is continuing on (argh!) to Cancun, Mexico. All passengers continuing on (again, argh!) to Cancun must deplane from the airplane (huh?!?) with their personal belongings, then recheck-in (can you do this?) with the agent at the top of the Jetway. This is due to security concerns because this plane will be going into international waters."*

The plane was going into international waters? I am glad that I got off when I did.

Fortunately, The Lifeguard arrived safely at his destination. Just in time to hear that the Libyan terrorist responsible for blowing up Pan Am Flight 103 (who is also a Muslim) arrived home to a hero's welcome. If The Lifeguard were in charge, I would have arranged for some fireworks for his arrival. I would have had the US Air Force deliver them.

*I wrote this down right after I heard the announcement. This was confirmed by at least one other passenger.

The Michael Jackson of His Day!

The Questions Surrounding Mozart's Death Remain
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, in late November of 1791, took ill. By the beginning of December, he was dead.

The death of Mozart has led to much speculation: Was it an overdose of laudanum administered by his doctor? Was it syphilis caught while banging groupies in his carriage outside of the Vienna Opera House? Or, was he capped by Franz Joseph Haydn because he tapped Mama Haydn?

Few remember the tortured recovery after Mozart's hair caught fire while performing in Leipzig. And, few remember his bouts with addiction to everything from opium to sex. From wine to sex. (Hey, what can I say. Wolfie loved his poon.)

But, historians have done it. They have learned the true cause of The Great One's death.

It was Antonio Rosetti, a contemporary of Wolfie's, who bust a cap in he ass. All because Wolfie had done dirty, dirty things to Rosetti's twin daughters.

Mystery solved.

I barely understood a word...

Damon Weaver Is Eleven Years Old...
and is a reporter (which is good, because most reporters these days have about the same degree of intellect). Because he is eleven, I hesitate to make any mean comments. But, because he has decided to grab his fifteen minutes of fame, I figure the little scamp is fair game.

Mush-mouthed Weaver, a fifth-grader from Pahokee, Florida, became the youngest person to interview a sitting President of the United States...and, he became the President's homeboy, too. (Whatever the fuck that means.)

Weaver asked questions about school lunch (it sounded like he wants every lunch to be something incomprehensible and French Fries), whether he could meet the First Daughters, and how to make schools better with less money. (Okay, so I made up the shit about the First Daughters.)

You watch it and decide.

Things to do before I die...

Former President Bill Clinton Secures Their Freedom!

Then, when they got on the airplane home, the former president said, "I got you off, now you get me off. Heh heh heh."

Conjugal visits, my ass...

"Thanks, Helen."
The tray had a china cup, filled with strong, black coffee, a croissant, and The Wall Street Journal. Mad Dog propped his feet up on the desk and snapped open the paper, sipping the steaming coffee as the warden's secretary closed the door behind her.

Moments later, the door opens, and the warden, arriving a few minutes late, drops his attache case.

"You're late," Mad Dog says.

"You're in my office," says the warden.

"Yeah, about that. I'll need the desk for at least three hours a day. I am handling some investments for the guards, and I need to be able to take care of business."

"Listen..."

"Warden, are you forgetting who runs this place? Oh, and I think Nushawn slipped in the shower. Damned mess, if you ask me."

"Yes sir, Mr. Madoff."

"Call me 'Mad Dog,' warden."

Mad Dog collects his things and leaves the office. Over his shoulder, he says, "I have a conjugal visit this afternoon. Can you see that a bottle of Pol Roger is on ice for me? My wife loves champagne."

Next, Mad Dog gets busy....

Shawshank II: Mad Dog Gets His Ink

Mad Dog = Bad Ass
Mad Dog sat impassively, smoking a Camel, as DeShawn finished the tattoo, a snarling, evil-looking bulldog. Even some of DeShawn's hangers-on were frightened by the sight of the cur, which seemed ready to leap off Madoff's sinewy forearm and rip out their throats.

"Who knew that you could make a tattoo gun out of an old Nintendo," Mad Dog said.

"Nushawn's lookin' fo' you, man," said LaTonda, one of the prison bitches that Madoff runs as a part of his growing prison enterprise. "He say he gonna cut you."

"Fuck him," said Mad Dog. "That, by the way, is rhetorical. I don't actually want you to fuck him."

LaTonda giggled, handed Mad Dog a carton of Newports, then scampered off to take care of the next of Mad Dog's growing list of customers. "At least you didn't rat nobody out, Mad Dog."

The inmates respect a man like Mad Dog. He had the balls to screw everybody, then take the fall, like a man. None of this pussy-ass shit where you sell out your co-conspirators to get a better deal. He was a stand-up guy, and for that, he has become the boss of the prison. He is the man, more powerful than the warden. He handles investments for the guards, he controls the cigarette market, and he has a string of prison bitches that he farms out like so many...well, prison bitches.

And, Nushawn don't like that one bit.

As Mad Dog makes his way to the shower, he is cornered by Nushawn, still smarting from the ass-whuppin' he got just days earlier.

"Yo ass is mine, Jewboy."

The bulldog seems to grimace, then snarl, silently, as Mad Dog's body switches itself on. His muscles ripple--he is, after all, trained in Omnite--and his hand tightens on his soap-on-a-rope.

There is a shiny, black flash as Nushawn seeks the advantage. Mad Dog, however, bends like a reed, allowing Nushawn to overshoot his objective. Grabbing the rope, and pulling, Mad Dog pulls eighteen inches of thin wire out of the soap--his cleverly crafted garrote--and moves behind Nushawn. There is a gasp, and a sickly moan.

In an instant, it is over, blood flowing freely from Nushawn's almost completely severed head. Mad Dog walks away, calmly, and to the shower, where he disposes of the wire in the drain. As the warm water beats down upon him, he lathers away the dead man's blood, leaving him clean and new.

"Don't fuck with me!" he says, to no one in particular...but, they hear him. Loud and clear.

Next, Madoff makes his first million (cigarettes)...

HFWTFMF!?!

Isn't It Ironic?

Today, in San Francisco, one light rail train rear-ended another. In San Francisco. Rear-ended.

I Don't Want To Be On That Flight...

Another Reason To Hate Unions...
The union that represents former Northwest Airlines flight attendants has filed a grievance because the Richard Tyler designed dress (supra) is only available in sizes up to a Size Eighteen. That's a one and an eight, sports fans. 18.

The union would like to have the dress offered in sizes up to (and including) a Size Twenty Eight (28). After all, other dresses are offered in sizes up to (and including) Size 28.

Now, flight attendants are responsible for our safety in the air; and, I am pretty sure that if a passenger who wears a Size 28 is required to buy two seats, then a flight attendant who wears a Size 28 is too effing fat to be a flight attendant.

Hell, airlines want to shed weight to save on fuel. Why not bring back weight requirements for flight attendants. They used to have severe penalties for being over weight (as I know from my days of dating flight attendants).

It would accomplish three goals: 1) Lighter planes, 2) healthier employees; and, 3) happier passengers.

And, for the record, that dress would look shitty in a Size 18.

Happy Birthday, America!

God Bless The U.S.A....

Shawshank II: Bernie "Mad Dog" Madoff

As the electric door at United States Penitentiary, Lewisburg slides shut with it's ominous metallic clang, Bernard Madoff finds himself alone, lacking the freedom, money and power that exemplified his life. An aging, white Jew--scion of society--sentenced to 150 long in the harsh world that is the Federal Correctional system.

But Madoff is an enterprising, resilient type, and soon, he settles into the prison routine.

He learns, quickly, that it is best to not make eye contact with other inmates, to listen to the screws, and to avoid the confrontations that cause lesser men to become a prison bitch or worse--dead.

Soon, Madoff settles into his routine. He takes a job in the prison's library; and, he helps other inmates learn to read, encouraging them to check out books, and improve themselves in ways that they never imagined. Sure, there is resistance, but Madoff is wise enough to walk away....

One afternoon, while shooting hoops, Madoff is approached by several large, mean and very black inmates.

"Yo, Jewboy, give us the ball," says one--an inmate called Nushawn Gonzales.

Madoff knows that people are watching, and he pauses, then continues dribbling. He puts up a sweet fade away jumper that hits the bottom with little more than the rustling of the net.

"Yo, Jewboy. I'm talkin' to you," Gonzales says.

"And, I am playing basketball." Madoff grabs the rebound and lays the ball up, watching it kiss the backboard, finding the hole. He knows that he has crossed his own Rubicon.

Gonzales moves toward Madoff, who stands his ground.

"Some one's gonna get hurt, Kike."

"And," says Madoff, "that someone is you." Madoff grabs Nushawn by his loose-fitting shirt, pulling him closer. Bernie gives up a good six inches, and a cool hundred pounds, but he knows that there are times to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

A crowd gathers, watching Bernie commit (in their minds) suicide.

They are surprised when he delivers a punishing blow to Nushawn's solar plexus, which causes the large, sweating man to wince in pain. Then, another to the stomach, followed by a knee to the testicles.

Nushawn crumples to the ground as his crew watches, in horror, as Madoff kicks him in the face, shattering his nose, and spilling his blood.

The guards, who have been watching from a distance, come rushing to break up the melee. They spirit away Madoff, none too gently; but, with respect for this man who had proven not only to be money from fifteen feet, but a badass as well.

"Into the hole, Madoff," says the warden.

"It's 'Mad Dog'," says Madoff.

After his time in solitary, the inmates give Madoff a little more room, a lot more respect.

"So, let me get this straight," says DeShawn Jackson, a triple-murderer from Newark. "I gives you a carton of cigarettes today, and in three weeks, you gives me two?"

"That's right," says Bernie. "And, I want a tatt. They say that you are the best artist in the joint."

"D'as a fact," said DeShawn, his chest swelling with pride.

Tomorrow...

Mad Dog gets his ink.

Ha!

Rene Descartes walks into a bar and sits down on the bar stool.

The barman asks, "Would you like a beer?"

Descartes pauses, then says, "I think not."

Then, he disappears.

Well, have we?

Michael Jackson Is Still Dead...
Has anyone seen La Toya?

I didn't think so.

Nicolas Sarkozy Bans This...
The burqa, not Mikaeel X (a/k/a Michael Jackson, who is still dead).

The picture, by the way, is of Mikaeel going through customs, in Bahrain, in a burqa. No, he wasn't the least bit odd.

Smokin' A...

Is Anyone Even Reading This Blawg Anymore?
Alienating the readers, and spotty (read, "irregular") posting seems to have reduced the traffic on this spot significantly.

But, with summer here, The Lifeguard is on duty full time. Working harder, for you.

Which reminds me of two recent--important--observations.

At Number Two's baseball game one evening, I was overcome by the smell of stale cigarette smoke. Looking around, I realised that I was standing alone...with a baseball bat. An aluminum baseball bat that positively reeked of cigarette smoke. A motherhumping bat. Stinking of cigarette smoke. A mainly non-porous object that smelled like a dive bar from the 80s (when people could still smoke in dive bars).

Yikes!

A chap, weighing in at a cool three hundred pounds (at least), rode up to put some air in his tyres. (No shit.) Engaging me in conversation, he began making observations about global warming, the need for fewer cars, and more bike trails. Oh, and by the way, "Really, you shouldn't let your car idle. It's bad for the environment," he said.

"Huh?"

"Letting your car idle contributes to global warming," he said.

Which made me think, as I stood there, engaged in conversation with this Brobdingnagian gent, why I was being singled out for this bullshit.

"You know, you are a bigger threat to the environment than I am," I said.

"Look at you," I continued. "A barrel of oil went into the making of those bike shorts."

[Query: Why do cyclists insist on wearing garb so tight they look like human sausages? Shit, Seven-Time Tour de France winner, Lance Armstrong barely makes the attire look good...and he's in shape.]

"And how many cows did you eat to get to this...this state."

My point? No one--except for Lance Armstrong, or world-class cyclists--should ever wear bike shorts. Ever.

Next week, a frank discussion on the choice of the Speedo by middle-aged and saggy men.

At Least She's Hot...And Over 18...

It's A Love Story Baby Just Say, 'Yes."
Number Two is a big fan of Taylor Swift. As such, I have been forced to listen to her music, which I am starting to find rather catchy. In fact, it's not too bad.

That probably makes The Lifeguard gay.

But, damn, Taylor Swift is hot.

Happy Father's Day!

It Has Been Seven Long Years....

Seven years since my own father went gentle into that good night.

And, for him, I offer you one of my favourite poems, courtesy of Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Happy Father's Day, y'all.