MYSTERY MESSAGE.

Today I was walking through a tunnel from the ACE portion of the subway system on my way to the 7 when, for some unknown reason, I looked up. To my surprise, fixed to one of the painted steel rafters was a white sign with black type. It said "IF LATE," That's it. If. Late. Comma. Not even a complete thought. Puzzling, I thought. And on I went. Not ten yards later, attached to another rafter was another sign. "GET FIRED." Was this is its own thought, or a continuation of the other sign? If late, get fired. Makes sense. Or was this sign simply instructing you to get fired? From this point, I spent the rest of my walk watching for more signs, which there were. This--unless I missed one--is the subliminal message posted on the rafters in that subway tunnel:

If late,

Get fired.

Why bother?

Why the pain?

Just go home.

Do it again.

Bizarre. Who put that there? The MTA? If so, to what purpose? If not, why haven't they taken it down? Is it some famous poem I don't know about? Is it a part of some puzzle that if solved rewards the sleuth with a free subway pass for life? Did vandals post it? Some right-wing Christian group? Luckily, Google knows the answer.

Click here for images and actual information about this "poem."

A NATION WEEPS.

Heath Ledger found dead in Manhattan apartment. I'm strangely sad about this, although I was less sad when I found out he was not Josh Hartnett, who starred in Resurrecting The Champ, a terrible, awful movie they showed on my plane ride home from Peru.





Seriously, don't be fooled by the fact that Samuel L. Jackson is in it. Never watch Resurrecting The Champ.

TRUE ROMANCE.

Nothing is more romantic than the status change process on Facebook.

"Elizabeth said on Facebook that you two are in a relationship. We need you to confirm that you are, in fact, in a relationship with Elizabeth."

Yeah, baby, I love it when you talk Facebook to me.

BECAUSE YOU NEED TO KNOW.

If asking how many five year olds you could take in a fight is wrong, I don't want to be right.

www.howmanyfiveyearoldscouldyoutakeinafight.com

NEW YEAR'S EVE 2005

I recently retold the story of my New Year's Eve debacle from 2005 to some friends, which reminded me that I had written about it. So here, for your amusement, is a recap of that terrible night.

"01.12.05

So now that I've come to terms with the events that befell me on New Year's Eve this year, I feel the best way to move on is to share my experiences with others. It’s a long-winded description filled with the word “ass.” Enjoy.

The night started out as any other. Playing board games at my grandparents' house and eating fried chicken (Chicken Shack, mmmmmmmmmm) with all my aunts and uncles and cousins. Come eight o'clock it was time to go have non-family related fun and drown my brain in a steady flow of alcoholic beverages (alcohol, mmmmmmmmmmm). I proceeded to join some friends at a "pre-drink" event before we went to "Posh," a somewhat posh bar in Ferndale. It was a good night. Good drinks, good friends, good music. I entered 2005 in good spirits and to that point the night had been stress-free and enjoyable.

And then, at some point, let's say 2:15 a.m. I felt like maybe I had sat in some champagne or beer because my ass was all wet. Hmmmmm...I reached back with my hand to investigate the wetness. Now, when you reach back and feel your ass, what’s the last thing you want to see on your hand when you look? I’ll tell you.

Blood.

Yikes. My ass was covered in blood. I immediately took further investigatory action. I felt between my boxers and bare ass, hoping to find it sans blood, thinking maybe I had sat in someone else’s blood. No such luck. My hand came back bloodier than before. That’s not good. I could now feel blood running down the back of my leg and I started to feel uncomfortable. Keep in mind; I was under the influence of numerous forms of alcohol so my brain was moving at a cumbersome pace. I went into the men’s room to have a look in the mirror. Several friendly patrons informed me I had blood on my pants. Thanks. It’s also soaking my boxers and running down my leg, dickmouth.

The bathroom trip confirmed what my hand-test had indicated. I was bleeding from my right ass-cheek. Apparently, at some point I either sat or fell on some broken glass. Or I was knifed. But at no point did I recall thinking, “ouch, I just cut my butt-cheek open.”

Now that I was sure of the situation it was time to deal with it. First order of business, find someone sober. I approached one of the club’s bouncers and tried to tell him my ass was bleeding. The club was loud, so eventually I had to turn around, point to my ass and shout, “My ass won’t stop bleeding!” He led me to some sort of back storage room. Things are sort of blurry from here. I do know for sure there was a basket of apples in that back room. I have no idea why they were there, but my secondary objective, aside from getting my ass to stop bleeding, was to eat an apple.

Once inside I immediately removed my dress shirt, pants and boxers, leaving me in a t-shirt and socks. Cock'n'balls swinging in the chilly nightclub backroom air. Well, they were less “swinging” and more like “cowering,” probably. Luckily, only some bouncers and waitresses and some old lady were back there. For the next ten minutes or so I tried to stop the bleeding with paper towels and willpower. No luck.

At this point I was incoherent and angry. I was marching around some back room basically naked. I was shouting at people about my nakedness, “It doesn’t even matter any more. It’s New Year’s Eve and my ass won’t stop bleeding. Can things get any worse? I just don’t care about anyone seeing my balls at this point. I’d just like for my ass to stop bleeding.” But it would not.

After a short while longer the paramedics arrived. They had a look and informed me they could take me to the hospital and give me a tetanus shot and maybe one stitch. In my incoherent state all I could think was, there’s no way I’m paying $400 for an ambulance ride to the hospital for a small cut in my butt-cheek (a drunk person can’t be responsible for knowing what their insurance will and will not cover, so I played it safe). I insisted that someone would drive me to the hospital. Yeah, at 2:30 in the morning on New Years Eve all of my friends should be in great shape to drive. So the paramedics allowed me to go find a friend. I put my blood pants on and went to look. One of the paramedics shadowed me through the club to make sure I didn’t just run off.

Eventually I found an angel, Stacey, who agreed to take me to the hospital. All we had to do was find Steve to give us the keys. Of course, after looking around for five or ten minutes we realized Steve had disappeared, leaving both of us rideless. I informed the paramedics that I was not riding in the ambulance, so they should just fix me up the best they could. Which meant one of those poor paramedics had to get on his knees and clean all of the blood off my ass while I shouted at everyone about how this wasn’t funny. He used a tremendous amount of tape to put on some gauze and at last, blood was no longer flowing unchecked from my tender flesh. I signed a waiver and went with nurse Stacey, my caretaker.

In the end, this story teaches us several things. One, your ass is a fleshy area that contains a lot of blood. Two, don’t sit or fall on broken glass or get stabbed in your ass. Three, no girl will have sex with a man who’s bleeding from his ass. At least I don’t think so.

The most painful part came the next day when I had to tear the tape off my poor ass. Thank heavens I’m a relatively ass-hairless individual.

Phew. That’s all.

In other news, yesterday I discovered that one of the scenes you see in movies and think “that never happens” actually happens. I was standing near the curb on the way to grab some groceries on a somewhat rainy night. And WHOOSH, a cab hit a puddle giving me a shower from the chest down. A good amount of wetness.

But after bleeding from my ass, nothing really bothers me anymore."

ONE GOOD SAYING.

When I was younger, I was always hanging around while my dad and my uncles were building stuff. My father is a real handyman, a do-it-yourselfer. He built a cabin, our garage, decks; he had a side business building jungle-gyms for people. And I guess he gets that talent from my grandpa, who was in construction for 50-some years. While I didn't get all of that ability (most of my work is done with duct-tape), I did pick up a great saying:

"Close enough for government work."

The original phrase "good enough for government work" was used to imply something would pass a rigorous inspection. It was good enough for your mother, father, son or daughter; it was good enough for your country. But since the original coining of the phrase, it has been altered slightly and taken on a meaning that's almost opposite.

"Close enough for government work," as my father and uncles and grandpa use it, means that while not perfect, it'll do the job. It was my understanding, reached by my own logic and zero research, that this stems from construction companies being rewarded government contracts at inflated prices, for work they would do in the cheapest, quickest possible manner. If someone refers to something as "close enough for government work," I understand it to mean, "it ain't perfect, but we can move on."

I love that phrase.

wikipedia explains it

J. PETERMAN

I have a friend, a talented artist, who earns part of his living by doing paintings for the J. Peterman catalog. If J. Peterman sounds familiar, it might be because Elaine worked for Peterman on Seinfeld. The company is not fictional, although renderings of the clothing they sell are based partially on imagination.

(painting not by friend, I don't think)

Granted, these paintings may have character and make the Peterman catalog almost a work of art, but I don't find them very helpful when shopping for clothes. If I was a cartoon shopping for a cartoon jacket, then maybe. But I'm not.

Don't you want to see what clothes look like in real life, where you actually exist? That's why we invented cameras, because paintings took too long and were only partially accurate.

HOW TO MAKE FAT KIDS NOT FUNNY.

Fat Kid Successfully Avoids Ridicule By Swimming With Shirt On

I've had several people send me this link, and you know what? Not funny. Sorry. How you manage to take an idea involving a fat kid and have it fall so absolutely flat is beyond me, but it did. Show me a fat kid eating a giant ice cream sundae, or trying to fit the most possible m&m's into his mouth, that's funny. Mock news reports featuring dickhead reporters taking jabs at a soft spoken kid, not funny.

***

Also, I think I'm getting the hang of blogging. Just write every thought in your head here. Awesome.

PLAYOFFS? PRACTICE. PLAYOFFS?

Every time I think I forgot about these, something reminds me. This Allen Iverson press conference rant is one of the the all time greatest:



And the Jim Mora playoff rant isn't bad either:



I may have done this post before. If so, that's because it's awesome.

TWO GIRLS, ONE CUP.

The "porn" craze that's sweeping the nation. What is it? Some sort of terrible video that will make you scream, gag, flinch, vomit and possibly ruin you. From what I gather, it has something to do with two girls, one cup, mouths, some puke and some shit.

Here is my friend Enveris watching it:



And here are The Roots:



While I'm tempted to watch it, I'm also afraid. As my new roommate so aptly put it, "some things you can't unwatch." What if I watch it and it ruins women for me? Every time I see a woman, all I can think of is girls puking in one another's mouths and eating shit? I don't want that. Or even worse, what if I watch it and I like it? And from then on, to get aroused, I need to see a girl eating a big log and washing it down with a 32 oz. big gulp of puke?

No, I'm not going to watch it.

SOULJA BOY!

I'm not going to lie. I crank that Soulja Boy. And I superman that oooooohhhh!

Is it wrong that I love this? Is it wrong that I watch it five times a day and still can't really do the dance? Is it wrong that UT Football also loves this?



No. Soulja Boy is universal.

THE JINX.

As part of my current job, I sometimes write posts for the Nike Football Blog. Because it's not really an open forum, the posts have to be positive and focused on what's good about the players sponsored by Nike. So whenever I have the chance, I get in a plug for my Detroit Lions. Last week I put the spotlight on rookie Calvin Johnson.

Calvin Johnson Post

And then, it seems, he went and laid an egg. In reality, he had a very average game. 5 catches for 51 yards. And he almost (almost don't count) snatched a jump ball out of the air for a TD. But he didn't have the breakout game I predicted.

Someone else wrote a post that same week about rookie Adrian Peterson. Peterson had been on a tear, breaking records left and right. His stat line after the blog feature? 14 rushes, 3 yards. Awful.

Maybe having a feature in InsideNikeFootball.com is a jinx? If so, sorry Calvin. We really needed that game. Damn you, Jason Hanson. Damn you, Jason Witten.

SLOW COOKING FOR SINGLES.

Today I received an e-mail that made me feel slightly less confident in myself. The circumstances leading up to the e-mail are as follows:

1. A couple of months ago I bought a crock pot.
2. I love slow cooking chili, stew and just about anything that can be slow cooked.
3. I received an e-mail from my gay uncle entitled "Crock Pot Cooking Recipes"
4. I sent said uncle an e-mail that said "You must have heard I got a crock pot. Thanks for the recipes."

His reply left me a little rattled:

"Your welcome Jim,
no one told me [about the crock pot purchase],
I just thought they were
good for us single folks
enjoy

G-Dude"

First, a fifty-something-year old man should know the difference between "your" and "you're". If you're not homeless and you're not retarded, you owe it to yourself to sort these out.

Second, when he thought, "hmmmm, who, like me, is a single, grown man who would appreciate these crock pot recipes?" he thought of me. While it's true that I am a single (well, was single) grown man who happens to love slow cooking, I think this should come as a surprise to most people. For instance, I would say to you "I love slow cooking," you would reply, "No! You? I never would have guessed that, ever."

And G-Dude? His name is Gordon, so I get it. But he's also a gay man. So is it Gay Dude or Gordon Dude? Either way, I think it's time to give up referring to yourself as a dude.

I guess I should just come to terms with the fact that slow cooking is loved by many different types of people. As it very well should be.

***

In unrelated news, last night I was granted a viewing of an episode of Elimidate featuring my friend Kristyn. She gave us a behind the scenes narration of how it all worked. It's debatable which was the most memorable moment in the show, Kristyn pulling the guy out of the hot tub and straddling him to make out, or her referring to the other two girls and holding up her left then right hand, while saying 'fatty or skank? fatty, skank, fatty, skank..." Brilliant.

THANKS BRANDY.

It's 11:06 on a Saturday night and I obviously have many important things to do--one of which is reading my friend Brandy's blog. One of her posts actually made Dr. Pepper come out of my nose. It burns so good.

Check out Brandy's short blog entry about the 8-limbed Indian toddler.

TWO THINGS FROM PORTLAND.

This sign, on the back of a stall in the Portland airport, shows one of the only official known uses of the term "number two," long known to be slang for "shit" or "poop." Not only does the instructional sign use the terms "#1" and "#2," but clearly defines them for those unfamiliar. Liquid waste. Solid waste. Thanks sign.


The second photo is of the not so great sushi restaurant where we ate on the way to the airport (possibly part of the reason I ended up in a position to take the previous picture). Why was this not a great sushi restaurant? Perhaps because it's sandwiched between a Supercuts and the Companion Pet Clinic. Not exactly the kind of place you want sharing space with your raw fish restaurant. If you can guess what kind of hair is in your california roll, your meal is free. Cat? Dog? Human?

Not pictured: To the left of the Supercuts was a Cash'n'Go check cashing place (do you call that a store? a shop? a business?). The Supercuts was probably psyched to end up in the storefront right next door. Because everyone knows after hippy meth addicts cash their checks, they'll probably want a cheap, generic haircut before going on a two day bender. Gotta look sharp.

Also not pictured: On two separate occasions Portland Embassy Suite hotel employees trying to talk us into going to a sweet drum and bass show. I don't even know what that is.

BACK ON TOP!

Detroit has again been ranked the nation's most dangerous city. Ambitious Flint, MI came in third, just behind St. Louis. I grew up 20 minutes outside of Detroit and in my life have spent probably ten days in the actual city. Why? Because there's nothing there; there's no public transportation--the People Mover doesn't count--and once you get outside of the main downtown area, you can tell things aren't so hot. Liquor store next to titty bar next to Church's chicken next to burned down house, on a street lined with torched cars sprouting trees through the front windshields. Not a pretty picture.

The rise back to the #1 most dangerous city in the nation probably starts with our corrupt mayor. Couple that with the complete abandonment of the city by business and commerce (except for GM, which seems trapped in those towers) and you're looking at a city on the verge of collapse. The Ford Field, Comerica Park, the casinos and a revamped waterfront were supposed to be the start of a renaissance; but when the economy sucks, none of that really matters. Money = safety. It's a simple equation.

Home sweet home.

Of course, some people might tell a different tale. I'm "from Detroit," but really I'm an outsider there. Born and raised in the suburbs, nice and safe. Which is why I'm a coward with zero "street cred."

I AM NOT A SMART MAN.

My hands sweat a lot. As a consequence, my laptop is often covered in an unpleasant, sticky dirt-sweat skin. So before I started working this morning, I decided to do something about it. I'm in Portland, staying at the Embassy Suites, so I don't have my normal electronic cleaning spray. Instead, in some sort of early morning fog, I took some napkins, wet them down and then added some of the nearest cleaning solution I could find. Shampoo.

Now, at the time, my brain was telling me that shampoo is the same as soap, which is the same as whatever that blue stuff is that I usually use to clean my computer. So I scrub off the laptop, then go at it again with a wet napkin--sans shampoo-- before drying it with yet another napkin. Not the most sophisticated of cleaning techniques, but I thought it would be sufficient for clearing my computer of my dirty hand-slime.

What it actually did was break my touch pad. I'm not sure if the shampoo washed something off the touch pad, formed a protective film over the touch pad or if I simply used too much water, thus drowning the touch pad. But one thing was certain, touching the touch pad no longer caused the arrow to move on the screen.

While this was terrible and kept me from doing the work I needed to do, there was something worse: the prospect of having to go to IT and tell them that I broke my computer. How? By washing it off. With what? With shampoo. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my brain told me that my hair and my computer were of a similar enough build that I could use the same substance to wash them both.

A few hours later, I guess after the shampoo dried off, the touch pad began working again. Thank lord.

BAD IDEA, GOOD IDEA.

BAD IDEA: This stupid campaign for a Good Day New York.


Do "The Good Day."

The instructions, in case you can't read them are as follows:

1. push to the left, push to the right
2. roll forward, roll back
3. clap your hands

Not only is that a terrible dance, but there's no way you can believe their claim that "everybody's doing it." I would venture to say that no one is doing it. And no one will ever do it.


GOOD IDEA: Taking a nap in a box.


I'm pretty sure this could become a viable business. Rent out your box to sleepy executives. If there's one place no one will look for you taking a nap, it's in a box down the block from your office. Plus, there's something about the smell of cardboard that makes me sleepy.

WHAT TO DO WITH A TYPEWRITER.

One of my friends just bought a typewriter on eBay, which made me think that maybe I wanted one. While I was shopping for said typewriter on said online auction site, I realized that I would probably never use it--except to write notes to my roommates.

Notes like:

"Clean the fucking bathroom."

"You drank my milk."

"Want to go in on a toaster oven?"

And I think the novelty of leaving pages with one type written comment as notes around the apartment might be just fun enough to warrant the purchase.

BEWARE THE DEVIL.

For reasons I'll discuss later, I haven't been a huge fan of Halloween for years now. Yet on Friday night I found myself in a hot dog costume, accompanying my roommates on a one-block bar crawl. This consisted of six bars that are within one block of my apartment.


Things were going well until we entered Julep, stop #2 on our tour, to find all of the patrons standing about three feet from the bar. There was a woman in a devil costume on the bar, presumably bartending. Pleased that there was no crowd, I ignored the warning signs and made my way to the bar to order.


What I said was, "one PBR, please." But what the devil-woman must have heard was "please pull my head toward the bar, straddle my shoulders, and begin to wildly buck up and down in an attempt to snap my neck."



The shock of almost having my face bashed into the bar and the focus I had on keeping my teeth in my mouth distracted me, enabling her to spin me around, rip up my hot dog costume and like a hell-tiger wearing clothes too tight for its body, scratch at my tender belly. Notice my glasses have been smashed down so they are now on my upper lip and I'm holding out my wallet, which originally had been removed to purchase one lonesome can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.



Then, perhaps to cleanse the wound, the wannabe-sexy satan poured an ample amount of vodka down my stomach and into my pants. Exactly what I don't like. I had now decided that this was no longer fun. The devil proceeded to pour a large quantity of vodka into her own dirty mouth, grab my cheeks and spit the vodka into my mouth. I didn't want the vodka; in fact, I immediately felt my stomach turn and my mouth began to water in a pre-vomitous manner. At this point, I was actively trying to escape.



But the devil was not finished. I was still stunned and ready to throw up, but the crowd was cheering and about 5% of me thought, hmmmm, I bet she thinks I'm having fun, I should go with it. She spun me around, bent me over the bar and began to whip me with her belt. The first one or two strikes hit my ass, which hurt a little, but were nothing compared to the final lash, during which she somehow extended her reach, allowing the belt to wrap between and under my asscheeks, snapping violently at the back of my balls. If you've never been whipped in the back of your balls with a belt, pray you never will be.


In pain, shock and shame I broke free of the devil. In passing I informed my friends I was going to throw up and made for the bathroom, where I retched so violently I broke blood vessels under my eyes.


It was the most memorable, most horrible thing that has ever happened to me involving a repulsive she-devil, a belt and a hot dog costume. It's possible that I threw up my soul into the Julep bathroom and that the devil now owns it. I can only hope the alcohol in the vodka killed whatever form of hepatitis and herpes were spit into my innocent little mouth.

DISAPPOINTMENT AND CONFUSION.

The Disappointment.

Yesterday, after a day of sleeping off an eventful Friday night, I was lying on the couch talking to my roommate, who had moved her bedding from her actual bed to the living room floor. We were trying to decide what we should have for dinner. Seeing as we were still both a little hung over, the obvious choice seemed to be McDonalds. There's something about a Big Mac--once I start thinking about it, I can't stop until I'm eating it.

After that decision was made, we also decided that in the interest of supreme laziness and avoidance of doing anything remotely healthy we would not only get McDonalds, but we would also have it delivered. Yes, in New York you can have the unhealthiest food on the planet delivered direct to your door.

I phoned the nearest McDonalds, only to be informed that you have to order from their "call center," or some sort of delivery headquarters. They take your order and then send out the troops, bearing slabs of sawdust meat pressed between sleek caramelized buns. But as soon as I had I told them my phone number, the dream was over. 248. Not a New York number. Not one person (out of four in my apartment) had a New York phone number, which McDonalds apparently requires in order to process your delivery order. The result was six blocks of walking and much sadness.

Thanks a lot McDonalds. Thanks for nothing. Actually, thanks for the Big Mac, the Chicken McNuggets and the bbq sauce.


The Confusion.

Daylight savings time normally takes place on the last Sunday of October. Not this year. No, this year it takes place on the first Sunday in November, according to the internet. Could someone please tell my phone that? This morning my phone independently decided to fall back, bringing me joy in the form of an extra hour to lounge around. Much to my surprise, when I returned home from beating the hell out of diabetes through a five-mile walk, I discovered that it was not 12:30, but 1:30. Meaning I had missed a half-hour of the Lions game and squandered precious sitting still time.

Thanks a lot phone.

Speaking of the Lions, 5-2 bitches! Halfway to the promised 10. Perhaps Kitna truly has been touched by the hand of God.

Isiah's Enabler

In my haste to criticize Isiah, I failed to mention anything about the role James Dolan has played in all this. Thanks to The Hawk, who forwarded on this article Lord Jim:
For the NBA's most confounding franchise, the spotlight is on a tempestuous owner and a much-maligned coach.

SWEET ISIAH.

Zeke. Number 11, a legend in Detroit sporting history. Leader of the original bad boys. Cheek-kissing comrade of Magic Johnson. How your star has fallen. After an illustrious career as a Detroit Piston, Thomas went on to become part owner and EVP of the Toronto Raptors. After a four-year stint, he was run out of his post with the Raptors following allegations that he gave NCAA basketball players tickets and other merchandise and...wait for it...inappropriate conduct with team staff.

Which brings us to the present situation. Thomas has recently been found guilty of sexually harassing Anucha Browne Sanders, who was awarded $11.6 million for her troubles. Before I move on to Thomas, let's talk a little bit about Sanders. I understand being a woman in the work-place is difficult. But $11.6 million? Ms. Sanders claimed, "What I did here, I did for every working woman in America. And that includes everyone who gets up and goes to work in the morning, everyone working in a corporate environment." How noble. The best response I have seen to that was in NY Metro, where another woman asked, "So I suppose you're going to share that $11.6 million with less fortunate working women?"

No, I don't reckon she will.

What I don't understand is, how can Isiah still have a job? Seriously? He's basically taken a once-proud Knicks organization and driven it into the ground. The ridiculous contracts he's handed out to ridiculous players (see Jerome James) has handcuffed the team. He ran a proven winner in Larry Brown out of town. And as a coach hasn't really fared much better. His management of the Knicks, on a basketball level are almost laughable.


And as if this mass of failures wasn't enough, he now embarrasses the organization with this sexual harassment case. What happened to the time-honored tradition of settling out of court? I guess Isiah is too proud to spread around a little hush money. It's this arrogance, proudly displayed in smug-grin form, that will ultimately be his downfall.

In the paper this morning, he was quoted as saying, "I don't think the things that have gone on will affect the way people feel about me?" What things would you be referring to, Zeke? The near-criminal mishandling of a professional sports organization? Or the $12 million you cost MSG for your unwelcome advances? Are you a fool?

Good executive. Bad executive.

Perhaps it's time Isiah sign up for the Joe Dumars School of Management. Seriously.

Not seriously, in case you were wondering, yes, there is a site with Isiah pick-up lines.

And to be fair, I'm pretty sure I'd have been fired about ten thousand times if rigid sexual harassment policies were enforced where I work. What? You're not supposed to forward around pictures of nice tits? Come on.

PAYBACK IS A BITCH.

The odd news section on Yahoo.com never fails to turn up a winner. For instance, yesterday I read about this:

A Half Moon Bay man was sentenced Friday to five months in the San Mateo County jail for gunning down an ostrich after the flightless bird pummeled him and a friend in front of a group of women as they trespassed on a coastal ranch.

The killing of Gaylord, one of several ostriches on the ranch that were a popular attraction in the seaside community, has traumatized the owners and left them bereft of a $5,000 pet, Superior Court Judge John Grandsaert said at sentencing in a Redwood City courtroom.

"Everybody likes to go see the ostriches," Grandsaert said. "You went and decided to kill them."

First, the judge generalizes that "everybody" likes to go see the ostriches. That may or may not be true, although I bet some people do not like that. Then he continues--in good English, I might add--to add that the defendants "went and decided to kill them." Hold on judge. They only killed one ostrich; the ostrich that had attacked them.

The main problem in this is the uneven distribution of justice on the parts of all involved. First, that ostrich should not have kicked those men in front of their girls. It's just common sense. You don't go humiliating a couple of drunk guys trying to score with some ladies. I mean, can't a couple of guys get drunk on Halloween and trespass on an ostrich farm anymore?

OSTRICH JUSTICE > HUMAN OFFENSE

Feeling wronged and humiliated, the two men then sought to dish out some justice of their own. Granted, revenge is a great and necessary part of our society, but a few kicks does not give you the right to gun down the assailant.



How can you look at that sweet face and shoot it with a shotgun? And a rifle. Seven times. The two men made an example of Gaylord and it's likely that the rest of those flightless birds will think twice before kicking drunk trespassers again. Nonetheless,

HUMAN JUSTICE > OSTRICH OFFENSE

And then in the final act of inequity, the judge dished out a seemingly light sentence for this cold-blooded revenge killing. If they had killed a dog you can bet they'd have received a heavier sentence. Isn't the life of an ostrich worth more than that of a dog? An ostrich is taller. And more rare. They can also live to be up to 75 years old. That makes them about 6-7 times as valuable as dogs.

JUDGE JUSTICE < HUMAN OFFENSE

The good news is that the ostrich farm has gotten tons of publicity and this tragedy has reminded people of how much they like to go see the ostriches.

Here's the news.

LIFE IS MORE THAN MERE SURVIVAL.

Sometimes you forget how great television used to be.



And then you remember. Thanks Tina.