Blogging the Figure Skaters

Having nothing else going on this, well, uneventful Thursday evening, Ms. Cutestory and I decide that we need to keep a running commentary on the final set of Olympic figure-skaters. Yeah, we already know the results (thank you ESPN.com front page, you spoiling bastards), but our insight and expertise regarding this most elequent of sports is certainly worthy of memorializing for posterity.

J: First up---________________, hailing from the break-away republic of Georgia.

K: Oh, stop being so 1990.

J: Lotta pressure on this little girl--they've threatened to kill her parents if she doesn't medal.

K: Whatta performance--and only 16! Her reward for that performance is a nice heaping plate of biscuits and water!

Next--Sasha Cohen

K: Kinda unnerving how she stares at the home audience right before her performance

J: Oooohh, first fall. Maybe it happened so early the judges will forget about it.

K: How did she finish second? I guess the others were really shitty.

J: What is up with that pained look? Is that part of her routine, or is she saying, "My God these ice shards in my ass really hurt."

K: Why is she dancing to the song from the United Airlines commercial?

J: I keep expecting to hear Gene Hackman come on the loudspeaker. Now that's entertainment.

K: OH Dear--who is she talking to while she waits for her scores? Is she drunk? Maybe that is why she kept falling.

____________ from Japan.

K: This music is a bit sad...or foreboding.

J: I think it's by Tchiackovsky, called "Blood On The Ice." I half expected her to just carom into a wall right off the bat, and spend the rest of the time trying to regain her balance.

K: This music is familiar--like from a movie.

J: I think it's from "Schindler's List."

K: Are you serious?

J: Um...yeah. The Japanese girl is playing music from a movie about the Holocaust.

K: Well, she's not German.

J: Yeah, but the Japanese...and the Germans...

K: Not in World War II!

J: (astounded stare)

K: Oh....I mean World War I.

The scores come up--she takes the lead.

K: I'll bet Sasha is making the pained look right about now.

.......

__________, from Japan.

K: Those flesh-colored coverings over her shoes are nifty! Makes her look like she's not wearing anything!

J: Actually--those are her feet. She has horrible club feet. And they pound the blades in right before she comes out.

K: Just like horseshoes! That explains why they all look like hell.

K: She works her little ass off, and doesn't even get any hardware to bring home.

J: Is that Go-Go Yaburii?

K: Fumie! Sounds like an expletive.

(Slutskya in back room)

J: I think she's wearing John Travolta's jacket from "Grease"

K: The 'Slut' looks like she can kick some ass.

_____________, an American, yes, from America.

J: Ah, musical selection from Peter Jackson's "King Kong." Or maybe Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Interesting. If she pulls out somebody's heart during this thing, I'll give her the Gold right friggin' now.

K: Pretty nice performance. Too bad she always be remembered as the "Other, other American."

(Consecutive shots of the 'Slut' and the leading skater, who is evidently sipping on green Ecto-plasm.

K: What the hell is she drinking?

Slutskya from Russia.

J: Slut!

J: Did you hear she was thinking about changing her name some time back to make herself more marketable?

K: Really?

J: Yeah, her first name is now "Molly."

K: ...... har har.

K: HUGE triple lutz! Double LOOOOOOP!

J: The announcer sounds like he's got a belt wrapped around his neck and drapped over the shower curtain rod. That's how the lead singer from INXS died, you know.

K: Slut goes down! YOU Blew IT!

J: Music is a nice homage to the Russian peasant worker. Hi, hi, hi, hi!

K : Gimme some Vodka!

K: Hook her up with some teeth whitening, and we'll start thinking about the gold.

J: We're going to Hell, you know that right?

K: Why does the Japan girl look so pained? You didn't fall on your butt--you know you won!

J: Lost in translation.

J: Was that Brian Boitano behind her?

J: Ah, a new aspect to the Olympics--post-game analysis of *scoring*. Way to kill the mystique with that shit.

******

And thank you for participating in our running commentary. As the waifs watch their flags rise high over the arena, and the silver and bronze medalists do their best not to look like somebody kicked their dog in the nuts, we turning off the TV and adjourning to bed. Adieu.

Kiss the Girl, George!

You know how in Back to the Future, right after that nerdy red-headed dweeb steals Lorraine away from George McFly during the Enchantment Under the Sea dance and starts cackling uncontrollably in some bizarre echo, Marty McFly notices himself fading away in the polaroid picture and buckles over in agony, as if the very fabic of space-time was shredding his physical being into non-existence?

That's how I felt this weekend. And there was no "kiss" at the climax of "Earth Angel" to save me.

It was as if some conflagration of gastroenteritis, viral infection, Bird Flu, Mad-Cow disease, Bubonic Plague, the Cruciatis curse and the Red Death all ended up in my stomach on Saturday. I was puking, shaking, aching, sweating, chilling, convulsing, shivering, and just about any other-ing you could think of for about 24 hours. I urged my betrothed to hand me my seppuku kit and allow me to end my misery, but she insisted on a heating pad and Diet Sprite. To make matters worse, there was nothing on but crappy Olympic hockey and really, really bad movies to take my mind off matters. Not even the 2-hour series finale of Arrested Development could stem the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm me at any given moment.

Alas, not even the night can last forever, and by Monday morning I am feeling better. Yet the effects of my unholy demon curse sickeness linger. So, if you care about my well-being, next time you see the kid walking about the hallways with a Pepsi-free can asking for change, do me a favor and drop a quarter in. "Save Cherith." Don't be a heartless wench.

Absurdity of the Day

On my way to a hearing this morning on the North side. Pull into the parking-lot near the courthouse, a lined, asphalt-field of bountiful bodaciousness. Always plenty of room to maneuver the vehicle. Lots of space on either side of the parking spot, so as to avoid nasty door scrapes. Basically, a parking pleasure-hunter's paradise--a valet's Valhalla.

Alas, though I am 10 minutes early, there are no spots to be found. Damnit.

I continue to drive around the otherside of the compound--nadda. Check the clock: 8 minutes 'til docket call. Need to move.

Begrudgingly, I drive across the street to the other building temporarily housing various courts of law. Little did I realize what kind of Gordian Knot I'd tied myself into. If the other parking lot was the lush, green grape fields of Southern Greece near the Aegean, this lot was King Minos' labrynth. I half expected a Minotaur to round the corner and beat my 4Runner with his freakish hoove-hands. There were so many tin-can rust-buckets zig-zagging down driving lanes and zooming around blind corners that my driving began to resemble that motorcycle scene from the movie Tron. How I wish my car left in its wake a laser wall capable of de-resing the assholes darting to and fro looking aimlessly for a vacant parking spot.

A long line of honking, revving automobiles formes in front of me. Like the Barbarian in Gauntlet, I've managed to cut my way through the endless phantasm horde and find the exit to this maze of madness. The time: 2 minutes to docket call. Freakin' damnit to hell.

Eventually I make my way to an auxiliary parking lot in butt-freakin' Egypt. This is the worst of the three parking lots--it is the boneyard behind Palace Minos, where the good king disposes of his adversaries' remains. As I click-clack, click clack across the gravel lot in my J&Ms, I walk right past the Minotaur's lair. I look up at the sign for the parking lot from which I just escaped.

Then it hits me. This is the parking lot--for the traffic court. Your sentence begins when you bring your car through its dark gates. The irony was not lost on me for one second.

From here on out, I resolve to be a better driver. Just so I can avoid ever having to park my car at traffic court again.

Alfred Pennyworth-less

News flash: if you wear a top hat and suit, you're probably not poor. That's so 1927.

Alas--I did not win the prize awarded by the Balls of Power.

My WishList shall have to wait--until at least Saturday night, whereupon I am virtually guaranteed to win a lump-sum payout of $177 million.

In the interim, I shall go back to my daily task of tripping old ladies, leaving them business cards anonymously in their Yo-Cream at Old Country Buffett, and convincing them that Starbucks' disdain for sidewalk maintenance on their premises is the primary causation of their ruptured MCL.

Rumor of the Day: Bill Gates Doesn't Care About Old People. How do I know it? You should see my bosses trying to use Windows XP. Downright evil!

Disprove it!

Balls of Power

When tiny plastic balls conspire with destiny to see it fit to award me $300 million tonight [before execution of the lump-sum option and government taxes, which should leave me with approximately $100 mil and some change], I won't forget you guys, the little people, who have supported me and my penny-less existence for so many years.

That being said--it's never to early to start kissing butt.

Things I will buy with my new-found wealth:

1. Notre Dame Season Football tickets--for eternity. Right behind the ND bench. That way, my wife can pat Brady Quinn on the ass after every series. That's my gift to her.

2. Private jet--Lear, perhaps. Gold belt buckles for everyone. And a stripper pole. That's right, a stripper pole. Screw the FAA.

3. The Batmobile©. With missiles. Minus that fairy-boy Robin, and his fat cousin Batgirl. And a stripper pole.

4. A fully-functioning Lightsaber©. From now on, I will wear nothing but Jedi© robes to work. When some lacky points at me and scoffs, "He thinks he is a Jedi©!", I will ignite my Lightsaber and cut off his face. Then I will meditate--for a Jedi© uses the Force© for knowledge and defense, never attack.

5. A jet-pack. Not the George Michael "kamikaze" special (complete with instructional video completely in Mandarin Chinese), but the James Bond hidden-under-your-Armani-suit type jet-pack. I'll be the first Jet Jedi©. Who needs the Force© when you've got a jet-pack? Why didn't Darth Vader have a jet-pack? Then fairy-boy Luke would never have chopped off his hand. Loser.

6. X-ray glasses. Self-explanatory.

7. A movie studio. Like Miramax. Maybe Paramount. But not MGM--dear God, not MGM.

8. A mountain hideaway. Where else would I keep the Griffin?

9. A beach-front hideaway. I want to see what Jimmy Buffett keeps singing about. I also might finally launch my idea of "Moogarittas"--you know, scientifically-enhanced cows which give tequilla milk. Get used to the idea.

10. The A-team. Self-explanatory. But if I must explain, two words: job & protection. And maybe a third: Murdoch (comic relief). But Face would have to go--there's only room for four members on the A-team.

Oh, and I'm sharing it with everyone. Remember, I'm no better than any of you.

Except the Lightsaber©--I'm not sharing that. Only a fully-trained Jedi© can handle a Lightsaber©. Or somebody rich enough to afford one. And that's not you. So sod off until you're better than me.

Northern Exposure

The alarm clock starts to buzz. Kids all over the country wake-up from deep slumber, crack open an eyelid, hoist themselves up on one elbow, and peek through the window shade to look at what Mother Nature has left overnight.

If the ground is predominantly green or brown, the child will realize that school will proceed as scheduled, and they will lazily slap the snooze button a few more times until Mom runs in and intercedes on behalf of public education.

If the ground is predominantly white, it may be interpreted a number of different ways.

For those children in the upper East Coast, or in the Midwest around the Great Lakes, "mostly" white will not cut it--schools will be open. Of course, there is always the outside chance that sheets of black ice now cover the roadways, or horrendously low temperatures coupled with sub-arctic wind chill render it dangerous for human beings to be exposed to the elements for any sustained period of time. Under these circumstances, making a trip to school (even by big yellow bus) would be hazardous to life and limb. Even the most negligent parent would concede that the school administrators probably made the right call to cancel classes for the day. These types of closings are rare indeed, and therefore the Yankee child is best suited resigning themselves to their fate: school is happening, get up, get some brain-food, and prepare for 8 hours of institutional education.

However, for those kiddies in the South, like for example, oh I don't know...Tennessee....patches of white outside of their bedroom windows might as well be : a sign that God does indeed exist, and he wants the children to be happy. You see, a quarter-inch of snow in the South, even the mere threat of flakes, mobilizes the populace like a true harbinger of doom: stores are raided, cars stay in their garages, and fresh wood is cut and brought inside as thousands hunker down to ride out the snow. Nevermind that it doesn't qualify as a "snow storm." Hell, it doesn't even qualify as legitimate "accumulation." The second the white-stuff starts to fall from the sky, it's as if God himself hurled heavenly angels at Earth and let them splat all-over the ground as a warning to mankind: thou shalt not learn today. Schools are cancelled en masse. Dozens of radio stations pump the message into cozy homes all across the County. Thousands of children, previously sedated by the very notion of attending school, suddenly spring to life, don their snowsuits and trek into the Winter Wonderland for a day of celebration. Simply put, it's just too wintery out to learn today.

This same ritual is performed time and time again hundreds of thousands of times in every county north of the Mason-Dixon line between the months of November and March. For Northern children, this is a cold, dark, and nearly interminable period of time. Everybody in hte North wishes for less snow so they can get more done. For Southern children, this is a time of hope and longing, interspersed with blissful ignorance. Everyone in the South wishes for more snow so they can get less done.

[Bangs head against desk until secretary comes to check on him].

The stark dichotomy is one that I still cannot get used to.

If there should ever be another war between North and South, I know now how the Yankees can be victorious--snow machines. Cripple the enemy, lull them into a false sense of security with our snow creating devices.

"Surely, y'all won't attack us while it's snowin', would y'all?"

When I am crowned King of the Southeast, and my enemies remain powerless as they cower from the might of my snow-maker, remember the secret to my success: I went to school. Even in the snow.

Who knew I might brag about that one day?

Snow Fun Being In Nashville

Empty store shelves...stampedes at Home Depot...women and children crying in the streets, while Daddy curses outloud and struggles to put chains on the car tires.

Signs of the impending Apocalypse? Department of Homeland Security warning level raised? News finally reaches that Katie Holmes is having Tom Cruise's baby?

Nope.

It's going to snow in Nashville. Four. Inches. Overnight.

Time for me to find two pennies for the boatman. See you on the otherside.

UPDATE: We're still here....it didn't even snow. It sleeted--hard--but no snow. Crisis averted, everyone go about your business. I'm going outside now to worship the sun.

Cast of Characters

After returning to Nashville from yet another sojourn into Eastern Tennessee on my crusade against managerial malevolence, Ms. Cutestory and I celebrated the homecoming by partaking in our weekly Wednesday ritual of catching the new episode of "Lost."

Comprising approximately 1/5 of the televisions series we've managed to squeeze into our busy schedules (the "Others" being Arrested Development, 24, The Office, and Alias), "Lost" is the quintessential ensemble mystery/drama show, chock full of interesting characters who find themselves locked in a mortal battle with both the unknown perils of a deserted island and the dangers posed by their fellow travelling refugees.

As I watched Sawyer and Chah-lie's characters take most unfortunate turns for the worst (Say it ain't so, Merry!), I began to ask myself which character on "Lost" I most identified with.

Between returning phone calls all morning, catching up on email, and doing a bit of legal research on high-seas piracy, I finally figured out which cast-away I was, which in reflection, wasn't all that big of a surprise:

You are Jack. Self-appointed hero and doctor extraordinaire, it's your job to save everyone. You have little time for fun and games, but you do like a good stiff drink every now and then. You prefer your stitches black and have been known to make gross pasta comparisons. And if anyone needs CPR or a tracheotomy, you're the correct person to go to.

Self-evident: schooled, serious, solving the world's problems on his own, and he gets crapped on alot because of his willingness to put himself out there. I am Big Gay Jack.

Bo:

You are Locke. A mystery within a mystery. You're a fountain of backgammon trivia and an expert with knives. You might like pina coladas and definitely like getting caught in the rain. You prefer keeping to yourself mostly, but you'll tell your secrets to the right person. Are you evil? Your accompanying soundtrack sure is sinister.

Take-charge kind of guy, feels compelled to push the button everyday, and is just plain weird sometimes. Oh, and you can see alot of their scalp, but Bo has some catching up to do in this regard.

Tony:

You are Sayid. Military background, walking Boy Scout, world traveler, with just a small penchant for torturing people in order to get what you want. Sensitive romatic at heart. Skinny, perky blondes turn you on, but things don't always end on a happy note.

Spider:

You are Charlie and Hurley. On the one hand, you are wry, sarcastic, and take everything in a funny light. On the other hand, you love to rock and roll all night (and party ev-er-ry day), and will occasionally piss people off while trying just to be a nice guy who means well.

Kevin: This almost too close...scary.

You Are Sawyer. You're a realist, not an idealist. Sarcasm, wit, and leers run rampant whenever you are around. Whether it's making a racist remark or shooting a polar bear, you're sure to leave a lasting impression on those around you. Add a cigarette and some beard stubble, and the formula for redneck charm is complete.

So, ask yourself: which "Lost" character are you?

DD of the Day

Also seen on t-shirts in numerous storefronts all along Nashville's touristy Second Avenue, right between best-sellers "I know Jack Schitt" and "The South Never Died--It Just Went to Hell For Reinforcements"

One Ring, One "Bus"

Congratulations are in order for Mr. Bettis--he finally gets his Super Bowl ring and retires from professional football as the #5 all-time leading rusher in league history. Anyone who saw this remarkable big-man explode all over the University of Florida defensive front in the second half of the 1992 Sugar Bowl knew this was a special football player.

Irish eyes are smiling a little brighter today for you, Bus.

DD of the Day

Each and everyday, while trying desperately to avoid accomplishing anything at work, we here at the Drunken Donkey©* will drive our three-wheeled cart down the middle of the information superhighway and show you how the legend of the DD© has spread far and wide to peoples in every corner of the Earth. [In otherwords, we are going to take credit for the Donkey references contained therein.]

Today's entry is particularly appropriate, as it involves the origin of our namesake. It would appear that perhaps the bar Bo thought he was patronizing called the "Drunken Donkey" really does exist:

Is this also where they hid Jimmy Hoffa's body?

Of course, this begets the question: just where the hell was Bo when he stumbled drunkenly into this arcane establishment? Is it possible that Bo fell into somekind of wormhole in Jacksonville, Florida? Or was it all in his Makers' Mark-addled mind? As the above photo shows, his story at least bears some credibility.

I'm willing to be that the bar actually does exist. And that is where Bo's jacket, stapler, and various misplaced credit cards have been since November, 1999.

*"Drunken Donkey" and "DD" are both valuable copyrights which we neglected to secure long ago. Rest assured, through our legal counsel, Pirate Lawyer Cherith Cutestory, are taking all necessary steps to bring all those false drunken donkey-dopplegangers to justice. Be warned: we don't serve revenge as a cold dish--we heat the fucker up to one-thousand degrees and inject it intravenously through your anal cavity.

Baby Pictures

Okay, BGJ, you got me. I'm not one to be eloquent like Joey or Spider, or even as much as Tony, at least not most of the time. But I figured I'd share some pictures that get me pretty excited. These are a couple months old, but within the next 1-4 weeks, I'll have some pictures of a totally different sort. Enjoy.

See that smile? Happy already.

Beautiful little nose. Thank goodness she'll get that from her Mom.

Return of the [Drin]King

After almost a year's hiatus from posting random brain droppings [a species of synaptic firings which are far more coherent than mental diarrhea, according to a law professor who dropped this fantastic phraseology in reference to my classroom participation], it would seem that the Drunken Donkey© is riding high in the saddle once again.

Don't call it a comeback, we've been fat and out of shape for years

Boceophus has picked up the reigns of this gravy train and wants to steer us straight into legitimate Blogdom. Good on 'ya, I say.

Big Bo--"makin' it so", only with slightly more hair

Of course, this could just be a convenient way for Boceophus to post pictures of Baby Plummer once she arrives, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

More debauchery...more hilarity....more--oh, who are we kidding. We're the same old guys we've been for the last 3 years. Time to rally....

I'm In!!!

Well, after a year of not being part of our very own blog, I was finally inspired to join up. So after some considerable distress in figuring out how to do so, I done it!! More to come . . .