There's a lot of hubbub in the nation's capital right now over illegal immigration. Some want to round up all the illegals and ship them back to Mexico [or wherever]. Some want to grant them all citizenship. Most want a plan that's somewhere in between. In choosing to write about it, I will most likely be offensive. But as long as I'm on the road to offensive town, I might as well drive fast and recklessly.

Protests have been staged all over the nation. Thousands of students walked out of their classes yesterday in El Paso and marched to city hall and the border crossings. The illegal Mexicans are hoppin' mad. They want citizenship and the right to vote. If you ask me, they already have both. In Mexico. They are free at any time to go home and claim those rights. Until then, they can live without them.



All the protests I've seen on TV and in the paper involve a bunch of yelling Mexicans waving signs written in Spanish and large Mexican flags. If Mexico is so great, why are you living here? And by the way, you should learn English. Because this is America, and the Constitution was not written in Polish. English is the official language. None of the Chinese immigrants are pushing for translation services. Why can't you be more like them? Both your cultures like rice, right? There's your foundation for a beautiful cultural relationship. You're welcome.

A number of the protesters make the point that all Americans came from other countries, so we're all immigrants. There are two fatal flaws in that thinking:
1. Not everybody came from another country. I'm looking at you, Cherokee. You feel me.
2. Our forefathers were immigrants, but they did things a little differently. Specifically: legally. Sure, the process was different back then, but you're not even making an effort.

The biggest problem I have with this whole thing is that the protesters are demanding that the illegals be granted citizenship. It's ridiculous. Why should they be rewarded for breaking our laws? And why should they be made citizens when there are thousands of people who are following the rules and are still waiting for their citizenship? That's like handing out college degrees to high school dropouts in the parking lot at the Yale commencement ceremony. Or giving puppies to the kids who don't do their homework.

Dear J.J. Abrams,


I just wanted to let you know that I think your show, Lost, is either incredibly implausible or superbly strategized.  I want to hunt down the writers and beat them with rotten coconuts and tiny bamboo shoots.  Or bring them lavish gifts.  I'm having trouble making up my mind.  Are you an evil genius?  Or are you on a strict daily regimen of psychotropic drugs?  The backstory for Lost is either insanely, intricately complex or entirely random and we all want to believe that it's insanely, intricately complex.  Because complexity is fun.  Or something.


Either way, I was a little disappointed with last night's episode, given the promos that ran all week.  I mean, the show didn't exactly "change everything."  They are all still on the island.  They still don't know who the Others are or what the DHARMA initiative is.  Kate still can't make up her mind between Jack and Sawyer.  Yeah, Locke's going to miss using that leg and it is kind of weird that the Henry Gale guy they have in the hatch used to be a black dude, but I hardly think that those turns constitute a change of everything.  The sky is still blue, after all.  Although a green or purple sky wouldn't seem too strange after everything else we've seen.


And since I've got you here, is Walt dead or what?  And when do we get to see more polar bears?  And where the hell did Desmond go after he left the hatch?  He just hiked off the island using the secret land bridge? Or did he push the Black Rock to the beach and, enlisting the skeletons in the hold as his ghost ship crew, sail off into the sunset to run some more stadiums?


Sincerely,
robert

p.s. If your show ends up killing Jake, you might consider starting a little DHARMA initiative of your own, if you know what I mean.

I was writing today's post about a cat who's been attacking the citizens of Fairfield, Connecticut when I realized that the post had jumped the tracks and plowed through a schoolyard full of frolicking kindergarteners.  It was bad.  Very bad.  Grim.  Gruesome.  Terrifying, even.  Please step back.  There's nothing to see here.

Dear Visitor to the Building,

Welcome to the parking garage. Yes, your car can make it underneath those concrete girders. See that Ford truck parked over there? The one with a four-inch lift kit and 33-inch tires? It looks alright to me, so I think your Ford Festiva is going to be fine. I really do. Really.

And yes, I think it's also going to be able to fit between the concrete walls of the ramps that take you up to the next level of the garage. I know it sounds ludicrous, but trust me on this. All the other cars in the garage seem to be free of enormous scratch marks on their doors. And besides, let's face it, but that's no Ferrari you're driving. Heck, that's no Nissan Altima, either.

Also, I think it's safe to say that you can speed up a little. I know there's a lot of foot traffic in here and it would be mentally devastating to kill a pedestrian with your automobile, but I think that driving two miles an hour is a little overly cautious. I'm pretty sure that the ten-car line that's developed behind us would agree. But what do I know? I'm just trying to get up to the seventh floor.

Now that we're at the elevators, you should take a moment to consider your surroundings. You're in a parking garage. It's a building full of cars. For parking. That's it. You're not going up. There are no offices in the parking garage. I know that's a little difficult to grasp. Luckily, someone placed a sign right above the elevator button telling you that there are no offices in the parking garage and that you have to go down to the lower level and take the tunnel under the street. I know that's a little complicated, but you evidently passed a driving test, so you should be able to figure it out without defecating in your pants. Theoretically.

Anyway, best of luck. No, I don't really want to help you find your destination. You are the reason it took me fifteen minutes to park. And you smell like poop. Sorry.

Sincerely,
robert

And then there were four.

And now we are sad.

This will be orange tonight.

Paulino for three at the buzzer.

Holler.

Dear Office Depot Delivery Van Driver Who Was Stopped at the Stoplight Across the Intersection From Me and Continued to Wait at the Curb For What Seemed Like Minutes After the Light Turned Green and All the Cars in Front of You Had Driven Through and Whom, Assuming That You Were Parked to Make a Delivery, I Turned Left in Front of Only to be Rewarded with Honking and the Giving of the Bird,

You're an ass.

Sincerely,
robert

On Friday I put up a link to the Snakes on a Plane movie trailer.  I said that the very existence of the movie convinced me that I had the talent to write a movie that Hollywood would produce.  Not that I will write a movie.  Or that if I do write one, that it will definitely be produced.  Just that I'm pretty sure I could write a better script than snakes plus plane equals terror.


Now, Snakes on a Plane may prove to be one of the worst movies of all time.  But it is not without its genius.  


Most film titles are ambiguous and vague.  I'm sure that the studios think that they're witty and clever.  However, very little information about the film can be gathered from these misleading labels.  For example:
V for Vendetta.  This is not, as the title seems to suggest, an educational film about the alphabet and proper spelling.
Failure to Launch.  Searching for an insightful look into NASA's recent slip-ups?  Don't see this. 
The Hills Have Eyes.  A movie about geographical landmarks with facial features would probably be scarier than this horror film.
16 Blocks.  Bruce Willis as a cop.  Not a how-to on using Legos to teach your children to count.
The Pink Panther.  A diamond, not a cat.
Braveheart.  Sorry.  Not an educational and entertaining CGI cartoon explaining the human anatomy through the tale of a courageous left aorta and his valiant blood-pumping deeds.


Snakes on a Plane is nothing if not uncompromisingly honest.  Stupid.  But honest. And for that, I will applaud.

Grrr.


I hate blogger so much that my kidneys hurt.  And no, that's not from the caffeine.  I checked.  The caffeine is the reason my eye sockets ache.  The kidney thing is from Blogger.


Saying that Blogger has been having problems is like saying meth addicts have bad teeth.  I mean, this is ridiculous.  I can't publish, upload pictures or post comments with any sort of reliability.  And all my readers are being deprived of my writing.  They must be furious that they don't have instant access to my witty repartee.  Both of them are probably on the verge of gruesome murder-suicide killing spree that will ravage America's heartland.  Nay, the entire globe.


If the engineers from Blogger were in my cubicle right now, they'd be getting a real stern talking-to.  And maybe a little slap in the face.  Because I'm tough and I'm not going to take it anymore.  The Blogger staff should be doing a much better job providing a completely free, ad-free, feature-rich service for millions of people all over the globe.  Jerks.






In case you couldn't tell, I'm being sarcastic.

The metal boxes are the ones that Joe and I installed.

The customer service guy called from the construction company on Friday.  They're going to pay for the permit and the rewiring of the surround sound.

Booyah.

Anyway, we went back out there on Sunday.  Check out the pictures on flickr.

Snakes on a Plane.

The very existence of this movie has convinced me that I could have a movie produced by Hollywood.

Not that I've written one. But it wouldn't have to be too terribly good if I did.

Just talked to the customer service rep who works for our builder, and he gave me some really spectacular news.  You know how Joe and I went in for five point five hours on Sunday to wire the house for surround sound?  Turns out that we weren't supposed to do that.

So why did we do it?  Good question.  Mostly because the customer service rep told me to.  We talked to him a few weeks ago about wanting to put the wiring in ourselves to save a little money.  We asked if we could do that.  He said, "No problem.  Just sign this waiver."  We signed it.  It basically just said that we wouldn't hold them responsible if the setup didn't work.  And if we didn't have Joe around, odds are pretty good that it wouldn't have worked.  Okay, so without Joe, there would be no hope of the setup working at all.  Ever.  Anyway, we signed the waiver and he said that he would call when it was time to put in the wiring.

And he did.  Last week.  He said that we had a few days to get the wiring in.  So we went.  And it was cold and it was dark but we put the wiring in.

Well, he called me today to let me know that the inspector had come to the house for the inspection.  Of course.  And that the inspector had a mild heart attack when he found out that there were wires in the house that weren't in the original floor-plan.  And when the EMTs shocked him back into the world of the living, he told the foreman to either removed the wires or pay $120 for a new permit and an electrician's rewiring of the house.

Well, the foreman called the customer service rep.  And he called me to inform me of this new development.  He clearly didn't realize that this would upset me.  Now he's dead.

After I murdered him with a kitten, I used his still-beating heart as an inkwell and I penned a quick note to his replacement demanding that they pony up the dough for the permit and the rewiring.

We'll see what happens.

Things that just don't sound right when they're taken out of context:


Take that off.
She just wouldn't stop screaming.
I've already got over fifty on mine.
I pick my stabs, too.
I looked it over.  It was real raw.
Let's flesh it out.
Yeah, blood does taste gross.
Here's the brief.  Let's talk.
And then there was this huge bump.
Mmm.  Skin.

Phil the Caveman
Hunter/Gatherer

Seventh Cave After the Pile of Stones by the Stream
The Valley Between Urgh Mountain and Cold River


Experience:

Childhood - Present
Experienced hunter/gatherer. Capable of supporting self and mate through a combination of wooden spear and scrounging techniques. Thirty-two percent success rate in fire-lighting. Confrontational grunting and gesturing skills honed through territorial issues. Experimentation with neighbor extermination for convenience and additional mammoth supply.

Gestation - Childhood
Experienced pooper/suckler. Educated by father, an experienced hunter/gatherer.

Conception - Gestation
Survived.

Special Skills:

Communications expert
Fire-lighting
Wooden spear hunting
Scrounging
Ability to consume poisonous plants with few effects
Avoiding sabre-tooths

Reference:

The mammoth I just killed in the forest.

the view from the living room.

The house is starting to come together.  There's some concrete, a bunch of wood, a ton of nails, a roof, a couple cans of Mexican mango juice, a tube of Clearasil and now, wiring for a surround sound system.

Joe and I spent most of yesterday afternoon out at the site running 310 feet of speaker wire.  Actually, Joe wired the house while I walked around, climbed in the rafters, spoke to a neighbor, chased a cat, admired the burning pile of junk in the yard over the back fence and smashed 2x4s together.

I have to point out that Joe has skills.  Like, mad skillz.  We were drilling holes and running 18/2 wire all over the hizzy.  He decided where we should put the speakers based on where the couch might be.  Until then, I had no idea that there was a strategy for listening.  But there is.  And you're probably doing it wrong.

At one point, the staple gun broke.  So Joe just cracked it open and fixed it.  Just like that.  I looked at the open staple gun and just threw up.  I think that the biggest difference between us is that while Joe is great with tools, I am a tool.

Joe even figured out how to send the signal from the stereo and dvd player into the kitchen for simultaneous entertainment action in both rooms.  That's right.  Aimee can now be forced to watch whatever explosion/car chase/car chase explosion movie I'm watching in the living room while she's fixing dinner.  I'm sure she's thrilled.  I think she's too excited to speak.  That's probably why she didn't say thank you.  And didn't  talk to me this morning at breakfast.

The best part was that we did the whole thing without a ladder.  I did most of the walking through rafters and the duct work, but Joe developed an ingenious system for running the wires from the living room to the kitchen through the space above the rafters.  We wrapped the wire around a piece of 2x4 and I was just going to toss it over as many rafters as I could, making my way to the kitchen eventually.  Joe put two nails into the end of another 2x4 and said he would take care of it.  I said he was stupid.  Then he took care of it.  I'm not sure I can adequately describe his system, except to say that you wouldn't believe it would work.  And it was also quite effective for putting tiny holes all over my face after I called him stupid.

Sadly, the sun had set before I took any pictures.  So I still don't have any pictures of the house itself.  But we'll probably be out there next weekend, too, doing it all over again.  Because there are two guys standing in the frame work right now, staring at our wiring and thinking, "How in the Sam Hill did these wires get in here?  This must be a mistake.  Let's tear 'em out."

I just hope they don't toss the wiring in the dumpster.  I really don't want to have to pay for it twice.

I was driving to work yesterday morning and listening to the inspirational musical musings of Bob Schneider's Texas Bluegrass Massacre on my iPod.  One track ended and the next loaded up.  And nothing happened.  The display showed the new song title and track information, but banjos were not delighting my ears.  The play icon sat there in the upper left corner, but the progress bar was not advancing.  Not at all.  There was less movement from the progress bar than from me that time I told my mom I would wash her car and then took a nap instead.  So I hit the rewind button.  And my iPod started seeking back through song after song like some sort of meth-addicted schizophrenic with obsessive-compulsive disorder.  When I hit the play button again, it stopped seeking backwards, but still wasn't playing.


And then I looked up and found that the car had somehow made its way into this old guy's living room.  He was just standing their with wide eyes and his hands clutching his chest.  I asked if he was okay, but he just sort of gasped.  So I backed up and went to work.


Just kidding.


I hit play and pause a few more times to no avail.  And then something terrible happened.  Something even worse than an old guy in a wife-beater and boxer shorts having a heart attack on my bumper.  My iPod froze up.  Just stopped working.  And I had to turn on the radio.


Yeah.  The radio.


When I got to work, I tried everything.  I reset it half a million times.  I tplugged it into the computer.  I pleaded with it.  I used it to peel a kiwi.  Nothing.  So now the champ is on his way back to Apple for service or replacement.  His fate is a little unclear, but I do know this.  I'll miss the champ.  


And if you're reading this right now, the champ, you should know that you've made me happier than any other electronic apparatus ever.  Probably.  You earned your name and a spot in my heart.  Whatever happens, I'll always remember you tenderly.


Oh, and uh, if they're gonna replace you with a new iPod, tell 'em I want a black one.

Women are crazy.  

Yes, every single one of you.  

Evidence:
1. Exfoliation.  You're paying good money for someone to strip your face of its skin.  Sounds psychotic to me.
2. Journals.  Here's an idea.  Let's write down all our most intimate thoughts and deepest secrets so somebody else can find them later and read them.
3. Babies.  If somebody told a guy that they could give the gift of life as long as they were willing to put up with nine months of disfigurement and discomfort and then seven to thirty-six hours of intense agony, the world would be a very lonely place.

UPDATE:

4. Makeup. If you're pretty, you're pretty. No amount of eye shadow or lipstick will change that.
5. Jewels. They're just rocks.

If you can get past the the idea of eating a fruit covered in hair, they're supposed to be real good for you.


At least, that's what I hear.

No time for a proper post today.  I'm busy putting out several small brush fires on my desk.

I wish that was a metaphor for something.

My old man is a lawyer.  He's out of town today because he had to appear in Federal Appeals Court.  When I was little, I didn't know much about what my dad actually did in court or what the process was like.  I imagined a court room, crowded and noisy.  A hush would fall over the assembled when the doors opened and my pop walked in.  People would clear the aisle for him, shuffling into their seats as they watched him approach the bench.  He would greet the waiting jury with a dignified nod and the opposing team of lawyers would shuffle papers nervously.  Before sitting, he would remove a single yellow legal pad from his briefcase and set it before him on the table.  The paper would return to his briefcase untouched after the proceedings, his mind too sharp to need to take notes.  The judge's gavel would fall and the trial would begin.  The other lawyers would make their arguments hastily, often referring to the messy scribbles before them.  They'd lose their place and mutter and yell and stutter and berate the jury in an attempt at coercion.  Dad would stand calmly and speak slowly, making each juror feel as if they'd known and trusted him for years.  Some would later offer him puppies and large trays of cold cuts out of sheer admiration.  His witnesses would be called and my dad would weave an intricate but clear truth from their testimonies.  The opposition's witnesses would be systematically destroyed by my father's sharp wit.  Many would leave the stand soaked with tears.  A few would break down and confess not only to the crime in question, but also to several other unsolved atrocities from years passed.  There would be no need for closing arguments or jury deliberation.  Police officers would march in and take the bad guy straight to jail, where other prisoners would beat him senselessly for his crimes.  My old man would stride out of the courtroom as the crowd either erupted in applause or watched him in awed silence.  Then he'd go to lunch and eat a steak as big as my torso.  Without vegetables.

Recent search entries for which words was a result:

• Mexico words (multiple hits)
• words of mexico and what they mean
• strangle my boss
• words that mean pustule
• acne treatment
• young business woman are bound and gagged put in sports car pictures
• garden gnomes liberation army
• stupid hyperactive guinea pig videos

I don't quite know where to go from here, but I will say that those hyperactive guinea pigs we had running around for a while seemed like a lot of fun but were really a serious threat to the security of the nation and my personal ethics.

Slogans for attracting a hometown audience to the local bowl game:


Be there!
Teams you've never cheered for before!
Seats half as comfortable as your couch for twice to eight times the cost!
Enjoy gastrointestinal distress-inducing foods and a bathroom eighty feet away!
Your car will probably not be dinged/severely dented by drunk revelers in the parking lot!
Get in the bathroom line early if you plan on urinating!
Why watch at home?  There's nothing like seeing the all the tiny players in person!
Perfect for setting your homely daughter up with drunk frat guys!
Cheerleaders!  Expensive cheap beer!  Cheerleaders!
Odds are good you won't have to sit behind an exceptionally large man who insists on standing the entire game!
Plenty of parking two days before the game!  
Watch a drunk dude pass out on your wife's lap!

Trucking recruitment tag line ideas.

Great if you hate your family!
See the nation dirty truck stop bathroom by dirty truck stop bathroom.
Free Confederate flag with every truck!
We got hookers!
Don't have any friends?  Perfect.
Just like sitting on your couch at home.  Except with no TV, boring scenery and no beer.  You can totally still pee in your pants, though.
You can sleep when that massive coronary finally hits.
Better than welfare.
Night after night on the road.  Alone.  All alone.
It's the right choice! [If you're looking forward to eating a wide variety of high-cholesterol foods at truck stops across the nation and succumbing to heart disease at the ripe old age of 37.]
Fall asleep at the wheel, drift into oncoming traffic and kill a family of five for half-price psychological counseling.
Pays good money.
Deranged serial killer?  Looking for a way to get around?  Ask about our special long-haul routes and deep-freeze trailer options.
Because you got a GED.