Thursday, September 29, 2005

A Booger by any other Name

I learned so much about Merkel's haircut, I read more news and learned that all kinds of crazy things are going on in Washington.

Apparently, there was a guy in Washington named Tom Delay, and he not only got elected to Congress, he was able to wrangle himself into a genuine big-shot position. Now he's in trouble for something or other. Heck, I coulda told ya that it'd come to no good, I mean, who elects a guy named DELAY?

You know that way back when, some ancestor of this guy was always frigging around and generally getting in the way of everyone else so they stuck the name Delay on him. I mean, family names get given for a reason, which is why I'm so proud of my family name, Asswipes, which my mother told me is Swedish for "really really smart."

Would you elect a Crook? How about a Dumbass? A Nosepicker? A Humperdink? I mean, I might elect a few of 'em just to get a laugh out of hearing the newscasters talk about them, but once they get to Washington they're done climbing the power ladder. You can't cause too much damage if you're a lowly representative, and every two years they're back out on the street. What were they thinking giving Delay any power?

See, when I'm elected king that will put a stop to Delays in Government, we'll have genuine honest Asswipes in place, just as we should.

Because Family Matters

this headline in Yahoo! News caught my eye:

German hairdressers battle over Merkel's hairstyle

I started to read the article but it was a bunch of blah-blah-blah stuff, and it also seems that Merkel is running for some sort of political office. As you know I have a lot of trouble focusing on things that are of a political nature, so I only kinda skimmed the article. Here's an excerpt:
Celebrity hairdresser Udo Walz, who has also cut Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder's hair, and rival Martina Acht are claiming they did the Merkel makeover before her narrow win in a September 18 general election over Schroeder's Social Democrats.

I guess I'm missing something here. I would have thought Merkel's haircut was pretty straightforward. Then again, I would have thought that Merkel is so '80s that no one would care who cut his hair anymore. Shows you what I know.

Merkel: One Bad Haircut for one Cool Dude.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Of Yankees and Poo Monkeys

I've got waaaay too many things to write about and not nearly enough time to write them. (Who the heck knew I could actually get busy at work?)

So, In no particular order, a sampler of the Idiot's musings:

1) Didja see that frickin' Patriots Game yesterday?
Adam Vinatieri calmly and cooly stumbled onto the field, with the clock running and no time-outs, and kicked a game winning 43 yard field goal that went through with one second left on the clock. Not ten seconds, not four seconds, ONE SECOND. Unbelievable. The game ran long so I missed almost fifteen minutes of Matlock, but it was totally worth it. As a Pats fan who goes bac to when they really were awful, it's a very strange feeling to have them be that good.

1) The Red Sox are TIED for first place with the Yankees.
Holy Crap!
A week left in the season and we're tied, and the last three games of the year are at home against the Yanks. People might say "It doesn't get any better than this," but I gotta disagree. I would find it far better for the Red Sox to have already clinched the AL East and be playing little league teams all week. I mean, I'm getting enough stress from other aspects of life, let's win it by a lot some year, eh? Did I mention that the Pats won yesterday with ONE SECOND LEFT?

1) The Younger Child has a "Boy of her Dreams"
The other day, The Younger Child told us that she'd had a dream about teen idol Jesse McCartney. Being prying parents, we bugged her until we got details.
They talked about Poptarts. Jesse's favorite, according to the dream, is Hot Fudge Sundae, which The Younger Child agreed is good, but not as good as Strawberry frosted. Despite the disagreement, she and Jesse parted on good terms.

1) Sugarloaf is too cold for Poo Monkeys.
A friend of mine told me about golfing in Brazil, on a course near the rain forest. They had guides guiding them, and the golfers were under strict orders not to go into the woods after lost balls. Apparently, there are monkeys in those woods who attack golfers by flinging poo at them.
The poo-monkeys, as I quickly dubbed them, were only supposed to be an interesting detail in my pal's story, but, being an idiot, I had to stop and find out more. "Where do they get the poo?" I asked. "Do they produce it when they see a golfer? Is it made fresh for each new flingee or do they have a community pile that they all run to when some unfortunate fellow comes looking for his ball?" This is why my friends don't tell me stories much any more. I'm pretty sure we didn't ever get to the end of the golfing in Brazil story, but you have to admit that it's kind of interesting if these little monkeys can let fly at any moment. I mean, why aren't the makers of Ex-lax rounding up a herd of these little dudes for some serious testing?
But I digress.
This weekend I was fortunate enough to be able to play golf at the Sugarloaf Golf Club in Maine. It is by far the most beautiful golf course I've ever played. It is also quite narrow and is now home to many many golf balls that used to call my golf bag home. As I made trip after trip into the woods looking for my errant shots, I had plenty of time to thank the lord for sparing us the dreaded Poo Monkeys.

Next weekend the Yankees come to town..... hmmmm, anyone know where I can get a monkey?

Friday, September 23, 2005

Truly Cheesey Poetry

I just learned about James McIntyre (1827-1906), the Canadian Cheese Poet. According to this site

McIntyre is most infamous, however, for his poetic musings on the theme of cheese. It was here that he plumbed the very depths of literary form. The cheese poems transcend mere mediocrity, banality, or doggerel; it is on the subject of cheese that James McIntyre has won his crown as Canada's Worst Poet and has become a serious contender for worst poet of the English language.

Yeah, they're not kidding: Here's a taste of a cheese poem. (The first two stanzas of Prophecy of a Ten Ton Cheese)

Who hath prophetic vision sees
In future times a ten ton cheese,
Several companies could join
To furnish curd for great combine
More honor far than making gun
Of mighty size and many a ton.

Machine it could be made with ease
That could turn this monster cheese,
The greatest honour to our land
Would be this orb of finest brand,
Three hundred curd they would need squeeze
For to make this mammoth cheese.

Good stuff, eh?
Don't forget William Topaz McGonagall, poet and tragedian of Dundee, who has been widely hailed as the writer of the worst poetry in the English language. There's a hilarious site about his awful poetry here.


Tuesday, September 20, 2005

How I Spent Last Night

Yesterday afternoon I went to Badaunt's Blog, Present Simple and followed a link she had up to a game. I then spent the next several hours with that damned game. Bored at work? Here you go.

Grow Cube

Click on the little images and they'll appear on the cube. They interact with each other depending on the order in which you click on them. If you click on them in the right order, you win. (Trust me, you'll know it if you win, it's a spectacular show). To start again use the "reset cube" button.

Have fun!

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Presidential Potty Break

Here's an actual picture of an actual note penned by our actual President asking our actual Secretary of State if he can go to the restroom.
Reuters - Wed Sep 14, 4:39 PM ET U.S. President George W. Bush writes a note to Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice during a Security Council meeting at the 2005 World Summit and 60th General Assembly of the United Nations in New York September 14, 2005. World leaders are exploring ways to revitalize the United Nations at a summit on Wednesday but their blueprint falls short of Secretary-General Kofi Annan's vision of freedom from want, persecution and war. REUTERS/Rick Wilking

I got the story and the picture from Yahoo news, here's the link.

What do you supposed Connie's answer was?
"Wait for recess"?
"I told you not to drink so much coffee, Sweetie"?
"Ok, but Rove can't go with you this time, George..."?
"Ok, but shake it more than three times and..."?

Monday, September 12, 2005

Gentle Fudge Indeed

This story is so awesome I'm just copying and pasting from Yahoo News.

LONDON - Horatio Hornblower is an odd name, but consider his siblings: Azubia, Constantia, Jecoliah, Jedidah, Jerusha and Erastus.

Rene Jackaman, archive assistant at Cornwall County Record Office, found all those names after coming across a real-life namesake of C.S. Forester's fictional naval hero in county census records. The Hornblower name has been on record for centuries.

Inspired by that discovery, staff and researchers at the Cornwall Record Office compiled a list of more than 1,000 unusual names found in censuses as well as in births, deaths and marriage records going back as far as the 16th century.

"My all-time favorites are Abraham Thunderwolff and Freke Dorothy Fluck Lane," she said.
Other discoveries included Boadicea Basher, Philadelphia Bunnyface, Faithful Cock, Susan Booze, Elizabeth Disco, Edward Evil, Fozzitt Bonds, Truth Bullock, Charity Chilly, Gentle Fudge, Obedience Ginger and Offspring Gurney.

Levi Jeans was married in Padstow, Cornwall, in 1797.

Other remarkable duos in the marriage records included Nicholas Bone and Priscilla Skin, joined in wedlock in 1636; Charles Swine and Jane Ham in 1711; John Mutton and Ann Veale in 1791, and Richard Dinner and Mary Cook in 1802

Sunday, September 11, 2005

That Magical Time of Year

Last year, during a game, Joe Namath was being interviewed by ESPN's Suzy Kolber as he stood on the sideline of a Jets game. Namath had had a few drinks and he confessed that he didn't really know or care how the Jets are doing, but he sure would like to kiss Suzy Kolber. I'm with Joe, and I haven't even had any drinks. NFL Football is back, which means that Suzy's back too.

Unlike most years, though, opening day hasn't been all grins and giggles here at the Chez.

The Idiot Family joined a "Last Man Standing" football pool. It's a very simple format; all you have to do is pick one team per week. If they win, you get to pick a team the following week, if they lose, your season is over. The only hard part is that you can't pick the same team to win twice.

Yep. You guessed it. I'm out.
The stupid 49ers, who won all of two games last year, had to pull an upset over the Rams. I hate the Rams, and only picked them because the 49ers were so horrible last year. Now I really hate the Rams. The only blue sky with regard to the pool is that the St. Louis-San Francisco game was the 4:00pm game. My brother-in-law's pick, (Carolina) lost in the 1:00pm game, so at least I wasn't the first member of the family to be bounced. To add insult to injury, my wife picked the frickin' Cincinnati Bengals, and she's still in.

All in all though, I'm happy as a clam because Football is back.
The Patriots won, my fantasy team won big, and both of the games on Fox today went down to the wire. On Saturday, Notre Dame won at Michigan, and Texas beat Ohio State in a prime time battle of the superpowers that went down to the final ticks of the clock. It's a great time of year. To add gravy to the whole thing, the Red Sox are still in first place. Ah, Fall.

I would like to note, for all the NFL Execs that read this blog, the Thursday night season opener is fine, but either skip the crappy pregame concerts, or start them at 7:00pm. Starting the game at 9:00pm eastern time is far too late to do any fans any good because most of us have to get up and go to work tired the next day. Next year give us a break, eh? Also, for any tv censors who read this, bleeping words from Rolling Stones songs was just silly. I mean, these guys are like older than grampa.

So there you have it sports fans. The Idiot is out of the pool, but he's still happy because football is back, and as we all know, when football returns, so does Suzy Kolber.

Saturday, September 10, 2005

The Battle of the Browns

After a decade and a half of living in Cincinnati, I was certain that the inept head of FEMA had to be the same Mike Brown that is the inept owner of the Cincinnati Bengals. A little bit of research revealed that they are in fact different people, so there are (at least) two incredibly inept Mike Browns on this planet.

In the interest of public information, I thought I'd research any other browns I could think of for a Brown Battle Royale.

Mike Brown. In one week's time, this Mike Brown was told by President Bush that he's doing "a heck of a job" with handling the Katrina mess, and then was relieved of his duties in a public and humilating fashion shortly thereafter. To make his fifteen minutes of fame even more complete, we learn that his major qualification for the post of head of the FEDERAL EMERGENCY MANAGEMENT AGENCY was that he oversaw the judges and standards for a national Arabian Horse Group. Then we learn that he even padded his resume by saying he was a city manager in Podunk, Oklahoma when in fact he had only been an intern to one of Podunk's City Managers. Brown was hired onto the FEMA team by Joe Allbaugh, a college buddy of Brown's who had helped Bush's campaign and in return was made the head of FEMA. When Allbaugh left FEMA, Brown got the nod. I'm glad that our federal government takes our emergency management so seriously. The Village Idiot awards this Mike Brown an A+ in Bumbling Idiotocity.

Mike Brown. This Mike Brown took over the Cincinnati Bengals from his father, who founded the team, and promptly turned them into the losingest team in Professional Football. In the 1990's they managed an astoundingly bad record of 52-108-0, and in the 2000's they have been 28-52-0. This degree of crappiness is especially impressive in the NFL, a league that prides itself on parity. This Mike Brown, having done nothing to earn his position save being born into the right family, seems to be carrying on the family tradition nicely. His daughter is the team's executive vice president and her husband is in charge of the team's business development. The Senior Vice President of Player Personnel is Pete Brown and the Vice President of Player Personnel is Paul Brown. Eric Brown is the Managing Director of Paul Brown Stadium, which, despite the name, was built by the taxpayers of Hamilton County, Ohio on some seriously seriously valuable riverfront real estate. The people of Cincinnati were calling for this man's head starting in 1998, but through some sort of magical spell, he was able to hold them off until 2002, when he hired coach Marvin Lewis, who has been able to coach that team to a reasonably respectable 8-8 record in each of the last two years. Because they seem to have forgotten the awful teams this guy gave them in the '90s, I give the City of Cincinnati an A+ in Bumbling Idiocity, while this Mike Brown gets a rating of sheer fricking genius. His "Slimeball," "Nepotist" and "General Boob" ratings are off the chart, however.

Downtown Julie Brown. Mtv VeeJay from the 1980s famous for being hot and having a British accent which made he even hotter, especially compared to the other Browns on this list. (She was born in Cardiff, Wales, a city whose mean streets I have actually travelled). She was, in fact, so hot that I would have overlooked her annoying little catch phrase ("wubba wubba wubba") had our paths crossed when I was still on the dating market. She was able to extend her fifteen minutes of fame by another minute by appearing nude in Playboy after her Mtv career ended, and has been desperately trying to extend it further by appearing in various celebrity reality shows, none of which I've seen. This Brown has the distinction of being the only Brown on the list so far who actually earned her career on merit and skill rather than birth order or cronyism. Having seen the issue of Playboy, her General Boob rating is an A+, and as I probably actually once said "wubba wubba wubba" in a desperate attempt to sound hip, I'll also give her a rating of Sheer Fricking Genius.

Leroy Brown. In researching Browns for this story, I learned that the most famous stud llama in llama breeding history is Chillean Leroy Brown. When the llama industry took off in this country, Leroy was furiously doing his duty to provide the nation with as many little llamas as he possibly could. He did his duty well apparently, as a quick search of llama breeders in America indicates that there are many many descendents of Ol' Leroy out there. The second Brown on our list to be an immigrant who made it big in America, I have to say that this Brown may be my favorite of the bunch, as he never made me say "wubba wubba wubba." Also, as he was imported into this land for the express purpose of mating, I have to say that he is in fact not only the recipient of the sheer genius rating, but he is also my new hero.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

How 'Bout Them Negras?

I was reading an article in the paper the other day about a local high school. The school's name is Winnacunnet. Yes, that's pronounced "win-a-cun-net". I got to thinking that despite the thorough screwing that Native Americans got at the hands of white settlers, they did manage to leave us with a more than a few municipalities, rivers and high schools whose names make us blush or chuckle.

(The most chucklerific high school name in America, though, is Schenck High School In Millinocket, Maine. "Schenck" is pronounced "skank").

(I'm not making this up).

Anyhow, then I got to thinking about the current controversy over having sports mascots named for Native Americans. (yes, that's two thoughts in one day. I'm still tired from it).

The NCAA, in its typical "we're gonna punish the whole class" mentality, recently went after ALL the teams with names smacking of Native Americana. The Seminoles (the nation) say they're ok with the Seminoles (the team), and the Utes (the nation) say that they're ok with the Utes (the team), and in a rare flash of smarts, the NCAA recognized that those names can therefore stay. Good, it sounds like the world of college sports mascots is under control.

But what about professsional teams?

Normally I side with whichever side stands for political incorrectness. I do this not because I'm a racist or a bigot, but rather because I think that there are too many people in the world who spend their day looking for a reason to be offended by something and that the whole PC movement has justified that sort of behavior. Also, as an idiot, I am quite adept at putting my foot in my mouth without having to worry about whether words like Freshman, Nostril, Spigot or Toejam have become sexually, racially, economically or spiritually offensive.

This time, however, I have to say that the Native Americans have a point.

The Cleveland Indians, for example. The way I understand it, their name was actually chosen because they had a popular player, Louis Sockalexis, who was a Native American. That's fine, it's a nice way to honor him. How much he looked like the Indians' mascot, Chief Wahoo, is a matter of interpretation:

I don't get it why there's a discussion. Native Americans have complained that they're offended. The names should be changed. What if a team had used the Cleveland Indian method of chosing a team name and had named itself the Negras (or worse) after a great black player? Would we be having this discussion? I don't think so.

How about the Kansas City Yellow Peril?

How about The Atlanta Sambos?

Exactly. So how on earth can a team get away with being called The Redskins? I won't even mention the fact that this is the team IN OUR NATION'S CAPITAL! I'm an idiot, and a largely insensitive one at that, and even I see that that's quite offensive.

So, I think that the Redskins should rename, and I think that they should call themselves the Washington Whitebreads. I've even designed a logo for them.

"Whitebread" is certainly not as offensive as "redskin", but no white person was ever genuinely offended by "honky" and "Rich White Dickheads" seemed a little to edgy to put on a helmet.
So there you have it, another great solution from the Village Idiot.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

One Last Blast

A couple of hours after posting whatever gibberish I've posted, I've usually forgotten all about the blog. This is about the the same time that Mrs. Village Idiot has to start fielding angry and concerned calls from friends and relatives who've just caught up on the adventures of Idiot Boy. Because she got tired of starting so many conversations with "What the hell did you put up there this time?", she's started reading the blog and preparing answers for the various queries we get as to my mental state. "Yes, he's fine, but he really needs a long vacation," is what the kids have been instructed to say.

Apparently she has reached her limit for calls related to cutting the cheese and has forbidden me from publishing anything related to flatulence for at least six months. (Though my lawyer assures me that there are enough loopholes in the agreement that Kicked Puppies will be able to offer full coverage should there be any late breaking wind breaking stories that need investigation).

That is, after this one.
Today we have a special treat. It's our first guest author at Kicked Puppies!

My friend Robb (Yes, that Robb. No, that's not his real name), sent me the following story along with permission to publish.
Take it away Robb:

During law school, my buddies and I got together every Saturday to drink, eat bad food and watch college football, and we'd go out after the day of drinking. One time, we're taking the T downtown and my buddy rips off an inhuman fart - one that's so bad it has an aftertaste. I'm sure you're familiar with the sort, and he follows it up with a few more until we get downtown.

We get to this bar down by Faneuil Hall with those bar tables that are high enough that they're more comfortable to lean on than to sit at, so his ass is just sticking out in the middle of this bar. We're there about a half hour when he leans into the table and lets us know that he's been crop dusting since we got to the place. About 20 minutes later this relatively attractive girl comes up, taps him on the shoulder and says "Excuse me, but have you been farting? We're sitting right behind you and it f'ing stinks." He gets that quizzical look that we've all used and says "No, it's not me, I've been smelling it too." In retrospect, I think the shock of this woman flat out accusing him of crop dusting is the only thing that kept the rest of us from cracking up.

They end up talking, and it happens that she and her 3 friends are in town from Bowdoin or Bates or some other college in Maine that starts with a B. So, the eight of us end up buying a bunch of beer and taking it back to their hotel. One thing leads to another, he ends up sleeping with his inquisitor and the rest of us dutifully wing man for him. During our post mortem the next day, he recounted for us how hard it was to keep his farts to himself for the rest of the night b/c in the closed quarters of the hotel room, his cover would have been completely blown. I can only imagine the reaction in the room had he let loose after he had done his business. Now that would have been funny. Still, the best bar pick-up I've ever witnessed.

The editorial team at Kicked Puppies will of course handsomely reward anyone who can find the lass and get her to read about her folly. It wouldn't really be heartbreak... fartbreak maybe? I know, that's bad. At least I didn't say she was attracted by colon rather than cologne....

Ok, that's it. I promise, tomorrow we'll clean this place up.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Ok, Now I'm Worried

The In-laws came to visit this weekend and we had a great time. I'm a little worried about what they must think, though. My mother-in-law has never read the blog, and she certainly didn't read the last two posts, yet nonetheless she brought me the following gift.

Can you identify it?

Here's the tag:

Yes, exactly, she brought me a spoon to get the farts out of beans. Of course I'm tickled to own such a device, but I'm a little worried about the image people have of me now.

During the course of the weekend, my father-in-law and I snuck into a Chili's for a beer. We also got some burgers, but we sat in the bar area, so what the heck, I'm counting it as Bar #12 out of 100. While there, my father-in-law, who has read my blog, suggested that I should try to have 100 different beers in 100 different bars this year. I like the way he thinks.

Bar #12- Chilis, Dover, NH
I had a Sam Adams summer ale and the Red Sox lost, but we had a good time and excellent burgers.

So, come on up and visit, all, you need not fear the beans anymore.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

More Farting Around

Now, don't get the wrong idea here, folks.

Kicked Puppies is not going to suddently become Fart Joke Central, (though many readers suggest it would be a far better place if it did). We'll still bring you all the important groundbreaking stories and journalistic excellence you've come to expect, but first we're going to post another flatulent piece of literature because I just found this old advertisement on the web and think it's the coolest thing since sliced cheese.

When I was a youth, we had beans as our sure-fire fart fuel. It seems that a hundred years ago, in the golden age of California Fig Bitters, they had a special medicine designed to bring out the... uh... best in us. How cool is that?!

I tend to think of the "Olden Days" as generally sucky and boring, but now that I know about the fig bitters, I'll bet it was a serious hoot to sneak a snort or two of the stuff into Grampa's coffee and watch him blow the roof off the ol' covered wagon.

Imagine that the mighty Sioux are lurking in the darkness, poised to attack the wagon train, but have to call off the attack when they get to giggling because Ma Kettle went a little heavy on the fig bitters and ripped a huge one in the general direction of Little Fat Dog, who is now gagging behind his rock.

Perhaps the famous "shot heard round the world" was actually an especially impressive blast fired from someone's rear, or, as is more likely, was a shot fired at the party who "dealt it" by the poor bastards around him that "smelt it." (I'm pretty sure that if the guys had been armed and had known who dealt that gawdawful smell at the bar they would have shot me on the spot. It was that bad).

The mind boggles at the possible historical influence that our beloved fig bitters might have had, which is probably why I haven't seen them advertised lately. There's some zen thing about a butterfly flapping its wings in Egypt causing a snowstorm in New Zealand, but the real question is what happens when The Village Idiot gets his hands on the recipe for California Fig Bitters....

Friday, September 02, 2005

Another Stinkin' Confession

Every guy worth his salt has good fart stories. The Gentlemen of the species don't share them. Then there's me.

I've been holding this story back for a couple of weeks to protect the innocent, but it's brought me so many chuckles I have to share.

The other night I was out with a group of guys. We rode in a mini-van from the concert to the bar (yes, a mini-van). In the van, my fart-o-meter pegged out, and I knew I would soon reach maximum effervescence. I'd had several Guinesses, however, and I was pretty sure that if I cut one in the van people would die.

When we arrived at the bar I happily honked and tooted all the way across the parking lot, confident that the fresh New England air was enough to vent the area. Crop dusting a parking lot during a bachelor party is perfectly acceptible behavior in almost all cultures. Unfortunately, however, the New England air did such a good job of venting the afterburner that I had no idea how truly foul an odor I was dealing with.

When we got into the bar, it turns out I had one last salvo to fire, so I did. Boy was that a bad move.

Had I let that go near the stage, I suspect several dancers would have quit on the spot. We're talking paint-peeling eye-watering oh-my-god-what-is-that-smell rankness and lots of it. My poor bachelor party friends backed away from the bar as one, probably thinking that there was a decomposing body back there or something. One of the guys, who we'll call Tony, had been standing near ground zero and I thought he might faint. His eyes literally watered, and he had to cover his nose with his shirt, at which point he uttered one of my favorite lines on all time:

"Oh wow, THAT is just socially irresponsible."