Re: Meldar

I'm not sure why blogspot posted my Mel Gibson article, Meldar, three posts down since I published it today, but check it out if you missed it.

Find that Sobie!

Try to guess which one of the pictured is the most sobererest!

Mercury is Delicious, etc.

For the first time, tonight I considered giving up Ultimate Frisbee. This moment of doubt rose inside me out of my sickened gut on the car ride home after a horrid performance. That's how I feel about golf every time I play -- I loathe my ineptitude in sports (if you can even call golf a sport; it's more like an exercise to prepare the sinful, profane, club-hurling guys like me for an eternity with big Beelzebub in the blazing pits of hell) -- but this is the first time I've had this feeling about Ultimate. Normally I would hit the Dane and drink off my woes, but now that I'm on yet another hopeless quest for abs, I shunned the beer in favor of an ice pack on the knee and, afterwards, some reading in the bathtub.

And only reading. Honest.

I had the dropsies on four or five easy ones. I didn't score; can't remember when that last happened. Defense was all right, I guess, but I make my money catching touchdowns. Oh wait, I don't make money playing 'bee.

And now, with this revelation that I suck, I guess I never will. There goes my last dream, smushed like a lonely rose among weeds.

Point is, I enjoy making catches. I enjoy scoring (who doesn't enjoying scoring?). The dropsies, however, especially the endzone dropsies, haunt me day and night. I remember dropping a hammer from Keith back when the Ass Clowns were the Killer Bs. Over half a decade ago. Or when last I played Fall league, a couple years back, when Bill, in the last game of the season, connecting to me via telepathic manbond, read my endzone cut perfectly and hooked me up with a beautiful outside-in forehand curling between several defenders right into my outstretched hands for a touchdo...ow...ow... down to the ground. Shitsicle! Mr. Santner was there.

Witness!

In any event, horrid play aside, I'm dealing with a case of the Shitty Knees, further compounding matters and adding injury to insult. This leaves me agile on my feet as Falcor, the magical flying dog from the Neverending Story (this is coincidentally the title of my sex life. Err...that's not it; there's a "never" in there somewhere though). I have in mind to work on foot speed this winter betwixt Frisbee seasons, but I'm betting instead I'll star in that blockbuster movie, Couch Wars: Attack of the Lazies. Anyway, I need the pain in the knees to subside before any such endeavor is pursued. I'm a hobbling yoda without the force powers. I'm also not short and green.

Anyhoo, my spirits soared after watching Stephen Colbert interview Ted Danson on the Colbert Report (The pros of eating mercury? Shrug. "It's delicious.") and now I think I'll keep playing Frisbee. Crisis averted.

The funny cures all.

Meldar

[Blogger's Note: Well, this article isn't finished and hasn't been edited, but if I don't publish it now it'll probably remain incomplete, a draft forever.]


Mel Gibson, fresh off a drunk driving incident during which he spouted anti-Semitic remarks and referred to a female arresting officer as "Sugar Tits," appeared on Wednesday at the latest Star Trek convention in Los Angeles, Ca.

"I'm showing off the new 'do," said Gibson, who coined his coiffure The Saddam. "It's going to be the next big thing. It's going to be huge"--his eyes widened--"and everyone will know I started the trend." He added, in a bizzarely robotic tone, "I am Meldar, a humanoid conceived and raised on the pleasure planet Risa IX in the Salacious System."

When asked why he chose to emulate the former dictator's unkempt, fresh-from-the-dirt-hole hairdo, Gibson's response only provoked more questions. "I just love the jolly guy. Always smiling, that one. He's truly an inspiration. To travel around the world giving out all those presents in one night. One night!"

During the drunk driving arrest, Gibson also reportedly threatened one of the police offers with anal sex.

"What's the big deal? I love anal sex. Who doesn't? What is this crazy world coming to when a man gets in trouble for offering--offering, it wasn't a threat--to perform anal sex on another warm-blooded humanoid? People do it all the time. But of course, when Meldar says it, lordy, lordy, the apocalypse is here. Meldar is one of the good guys, who happens to love anal sex."

Gibson's next silver screen attraction, Apocalypto, is due to be released December 8th. After receiving criticism over his portrayal of the Jewish people in the role of Jesus Christ's death in the last movie he directed, Passion of the Christ, Gibson might have chosen to play it safe with his following motion picture. "I'm edgy. Meldar isn't scared of the media's invective. This time I tackled natives!" (Gibson (right) tries to escape from actors hired to play Mayans.) "They didn't handle it as well as I had hoped."

*This article is ficticious. All characters were made up. I don't know where the pictures came from (I think blogspot uploaded them without my permission). Any likeness to real persons is purely coincidental. So don't sue me, Mel! Personally, Braveheart is one of my favorite movies. Freedom!

Calf Implants

Once Frisbee ends, I've decided to make a concerted effort to growing my calves to the size of artichokes. (You might be thinking, 'The size of artichokes? That's ridiculous!' Well, I'll be honest, I don't even really know what artichokes are. So there.)

I've long contended that my genetics precluded my ever obtaining calves an observer could see without possessing eyes with the magnifying power of the hubble telescope times two. More than one person has commented on my calves. Yes, people have actually examined my calves--a stranger even--and commented how small they were. This is how impressively diminutive these "muscles" are.

But this winter, I'm going to prove myself wrong. And if I fail, I'll just get calf implants and pretend I succeeded.

It's Monday!

It's Monday, and you all know what that means: Monday night is just around the corner, which means gallons upon gallons of alcohol consumed out of black jugs marked XXX.

Joking. Actually I'm too into getting in shape to drink large amounts of liquor. I'm pathetic. It's the price I pay for working towards the Ultimate Man Bod (TM).

Today hasn't been too miserable so far, for a Monday. Our weekly software meeting lasted a delicious five minutes. Work's going well despite the fact I'm not presently working. Hey, I'm not some sort of machine who can work eight hours straight, all right? I need a little time to breathe, to blog, so I can return to programming with extra vigor and special sauce.

I think I need to come up with some fun theme for this blog, something that'll leave my audience titillated and aroused, something, more importantly, that will force me to write here more often. Cause my two fans demand it. While generally I try not to give a shit about other people, I've decided to make an exception in this case (or pretend to, at least. Did I just write that? Mental note: Delete this parenthetical aside).

I started writing some fiction last night. Hooray!

OK, gotta work. That's my blurb o' the day.

Quote of the Day

Here's a little quote from an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Counselor Troy is interviewing the girlfriend of an officer who had recently committed suicide.

Something terrible must have happened to him, counselor, because it's not like Dan to take his own life.

Precious.

Now I don't want to get off on a rant here...

Adoring Readers,

It's 4:10 AM. I just wrote my Frisbee captain explaining I wouldn't be able to make our game scheduled for tonight. I realized while writing that I will've missed the Dane (and FREE BEER) both times this week, which hasn't happened in, well, ages.

Quoth the BT:

I can't believe I'm about to miss the Dane and free beer two times in a row. There's a little place I like to call hell. I just scoped it out with my ethereal binocs. It's more frozen than the oh-shit! gaze of a glacier-preserved, Pleistocene caveteen caught by his mom in the act of pretzeling himself into position for autofellatio.

Maybe it's just cause it's 4:10 in the A.M., but that shit cracked me up-- enough to share it with the world. Be sure to check out the wikipedia on giving yourself a hummer. Picture included!

That was the best metaphor ever written.

Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.