Leroy Jenkins

I'm trying to bone up on geek highlights of the past year. Guy turned me on to Leroy Jenkins, the Chocolate Milk kid and a couple other things. Wanna help me expand my list? It'd be a huge help to me.

Also, I'm trying to track down that anti-piracy commercial they show in movie theaters, the one with the "hip" soundtrack and awesome VO that intones such queries as "You wouldn't steal a CD from a store...". If anyone can find it online, lemme know.

Gracias!

Stanford University Here I Come

I have recently discovered that I can now start attending Stanford University while at the gym. It's a new program Stanford is working on with Apple. The school will put hundreds of lectures and content on iTunes and make it available to the public. I'm really excited to not understand a subject via a podcast rather than to pay thirty-thousand dollars to not understand it in person. Suhweet. Unfortunately, my initial iTunes search didn't yield great results. The only Stanford-related content I found was its Entrepreneurial Thought Leaders series. And as interesting as I'm sure the series is, I couldn't bring myself to download Lonnie Smith's discussion on Intuitive Surgical Inc.'s path from mere start-up to market dominance in the field of robotics. What is WRONG with me?!

P.S. How come Blogger's spellcheck flags both "podcast" and "iTunes"? Shouldn't they have a more net-savvy dictionary?

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

To kill you.

Again, folks, chickens aren't your friends. Don't kiss them.

Romance Chatrooms Are Brutal

I really hope these lawsuits catch on. I can't wait to get paid every time I experience emotional distress. I'd be able to cover the cost of therapy that way.

Child Pornography and Bin Laden

WARNING: I wrote this standing on a soapbox.















I've been tempted to do massive searches for "child pornography" and "assassination techniques" online, but I fear I'd end up on the government's blacklist, suffering the consequences of that yet unable to clear my name. At least
Google is resisting our government's fascist demands. If this doesn't mean anything to you yet, read this blurb from a recent Reuter's article.

In court papers filed on Wednesday in U.S. District Court in San Jose, the Justice Department stated that Google had refused to comply with a subpoena issued last year for one million random Web addresses from Google's databases as well as records of all searches entered on Google during any one-week period.

The government said it needed the information to prepare its case to revive the 1998 Child Online Protection Act, which the Supreme Court blocked from taking effect two years ago.

Here's the thing: I type in a ton of search terms to Google and occasionally Yahoo and it's more than a little troubling that the government, which is completely run by liars and criminals, is going to decide whether or not I'm a threat or need to be watched carefully. Also, I have passive aggressive tendencies. My natural inclination, knowing the government will be monitoring everyone in this country who uses the Internet, is to deliberately search for things that will raise a red flag. Terms like, "Kill the president", "homemade bombs" and "My Pet Goat". For fun, I'll type in, "How to have sex with a minor and get away with it" and "pedophilia support groups". I can't afford a high-priced lawyer, however, so my fun might be short-lived.

This War on Terrorism is a joke and we're never going to win it. Know why? We've already lost. When we let the government get away with spying on us in order to "protect" us, the terrorists win. And by terrorists, I mean bad people whom the government deems "bad" without actually having to try them in a court of law. If they're brown, talk funny and are hanging out in an area where something bad happened, they're guilty. Just ask Al-Marri, who might be in custody indefinitely.



Look past the fact that Al-Marri looks like Yanni with a mullet. Yes, he should probably be off our streets with that hair, but he should still be tried for whatever crimes he allegedly committed. Sometimes a scary haircut is just a scary haircut.

That said, I do feel a lot safer knowing the government is keeping dangerous people on the ground with its fool-proof No Fly List. If we're lucky, they'll take the same precious care protecting us from child pornographers.

Will Give Sterility in Exchange for Good Seats

One week after the game:

Patient: How 'bout them Broncos?

Doctor: What a game! How 'bout them testes?

Patient: Blanker than a starter pistol!

Why Jenny Craig Matters

Until today, I thought that marketing dollars for Jenny Craig would be best spent going after suburban women. An inmate in Australia shows the thug market might be an untapped gold mine.

Eat Your Vegetables or Die

If you don't want to end up like Scott Martin, you better eat your spinach.

I'm not a parent, but if I were, I'd have a framed copy of this article about a twenty-year-old who bled to death on account of complications resulting from malnutrition. I would also photoshop the article a bit and add extra "facts": Scott Martin would likely have been able to survive the teeth extractions had he gone to bed on time each night at 9 p.m. That, coupled with his penchant for Playstation and XBox, ultimately led to his excruciatingly painful death.

Celebrity Maps Dot Com

Fifth Dream referenced a truly offensive site that I was already familiar with: celebrity maps dot com. This is where people go if they get the urge to drive by a publicist's office, only the site is called "Celebrity Maps" to make the information seem relevant.

I took another look at the site today and saw something completely beyond the pale: Tia Carrera's fake address. Where do these people get off claiming Tia is a celebrity? I thought perhaps it was a fluke, but it wasn't. Yanni, Kathy Ireland and Boyz II Men are listed as well.

Maps to the Stars Homes

In Hollywood you can always find someone on Sunset Boulevard hawking maps to the stars homes. This week I'm going to start selling Google Maps to the Stars Homes and charge twice as much.

I still don't know how to make this a joke.

Intelligent Design

I'm really sick of this so-called debate. I got into it with one of these Intelligent Design nutbags yesterday and we argued for three hours until I finally broke down and yelled, "IKEA SUCKS!" That's what happens when you get into an argument with someone whose opinion won't change. It's a lose/lose situation.

Another Suicide Bombing? Laugh It Off.

From USA Today...

"With help from the Pentagon's chief laughter instructor, families of National Guard members are learning to walk like a penguin, laugh like a lion and blurt 'ha, ha, hee, hee and ho, ho.'"

Oh that this were a joke. I can't think of anything more painful than getting lessons in laughter from a government employee whose business card reads James Scott, Chief Laughter Instructor.

Basically the Pentagon got hold of research that demonstrates laughter can help reduce an individual's stress. Pentagon employees are often under a lot of stress because of their work [insert reference to Iraq quagmire here], and laughter classes are the Pentagon's answer to stress.

In one study, twenty individuals were shown two movies--one funny, one funny...NOT! What I mean is that one was funny and the other wasn't. I used the grammatically-funny version of "not" to invalidate the funniness of the second film. The article I read didn't mention which movies they used in the study. Presumably "Patch Adams" wasn't one of them.

Anyhoo, according to the article, "The researchers looked at the endothelium, the lining of the vessels, and found that blood flow was reduced in 14 of the 20 volunteers after stressful movie clips. But blood flowed more freely in 19 of the 20 when they laughed at funny movie segments."

I've experienced similar results myself. When I go to open mics, I can feel my endothelium shrinking. It's almost as if my vessels are cringing. But when I see someone perform who's not desperately seeking validation and is actually funny, my blood flows more freely.

Back to the Pentagon. When I first read that James Scott was the chief laughter guy, I wondered what his credentials were. Was he qualified? Worry not. James is certified by the Ohio-based World Laughter Tour, Inc. Or should I say, O-Ha-o-based? Also, the founder of the O-HA!-o company, psychologist Steve Wilson, refers to himself as Cheerman of the Board. Get it? Cheerman? Not entirely won over, I visited the website and was relieved to find pictures of Steve sporting wacky hats and Hawaiian shirts. A Hawaiian shirt, if you don't know, is shorthand for funny.

In one particularly-revealing quote, Scott says, "The guiding principle is to laugh for no reason. And that's one of the reasons it works so well for military families."

Did he just say that military families have no reason to laugh? Sounded like it. Thank goodness the military is helping these people waddle like penguins.

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to pretend I'm a donkey and bray at the top of my lungs.

New Headshot

New Headshot, originally uploaded by laurajswisher.

Since I have a list of important things I need to do today, I decided I should upload a bunch of pics to Flickr. This batch is of pics I took over Christmas while in Bodega Bay.

Proud Member of the KKK

And I thought Dave Chapelle's sketch on the blind Klansman was funny because it was so far-fetched. Looks like I was wrong.

If you're in the KKK, this kind of story must be really embarrassing. I wonder how the Klan's publicist is going to try and spin this...

On VH-1 Next Monday

I should be on VH-1's All Access: Heartbreakers Hall of Shame next Monday so go and set your Tivos now, unless you have no desire to see the show, in which case, don't TiVo it.

I'd have posted this announcement closer to the date, but I don't have much to talk about today. Also, I'm taping something for VH-1 tomorrow and that reminded me to see when the last thing I taped would air. Also, I like to make it seem as if I have a lot going on in my career. I do. I have a LOT going on. Like Alito, I just can't talk about it right now. Wouldn't be jurisprudent. Huh?

Listened to some of the Senate confirmation hearings on nominee Judge Alito. I don't know about y'all, but I'm not sure his record on the Third Circuit Court is any comfort with regard to stare decisis. Know what I'm sayin'? Me either. I just know that I'm thinking about getting an abortion now while I still can. Before anyone jumps down my throat, I said I'm just thinking about it. I'm not going to run out and do it right away. That would be rash. Besides, I'm not preggers. Yet.

If anyone's planning on dying in front of his or her TV, please make sure you have it on VH-1.

A Solid Case for Capital Punishment

Until this morning I was completely against capital punishment. The idea of the state executing a person was repellant to me, especially since the state tends to discriminate against non-whites, which calls into question the notion that justice is "blind." That was my thinking at 10 am, before I read about this heinous crime.

This story is not for the feint of heart, so if you get sick to your stomach easily, don't click on it. It took me an entire half-hour to read it, not including the ten minutes I ran to the bathroom to vomit. I'm still shaky. I don't know if I'll ever feel safe enough to update my queue.

Basically, two monsters working for the U.S. Postal service would, uh, they would...This is hard for me to say. I wish I had some puppets to act out what they did because words are painful. I will try. These monsters, they intercepted and stole Netflix DVDs from customers in Lyons, CO. Hundreds of DVDs.

I can only imagine their faces as they checked their accounts, telling them that "American Pie 4: Band Camp" had been shipped out weeks earlier. How do you go on living with that kind of hole in your life? A hole that can only be filled by "Dirty Dancing 2: Havana Nights"?

I am literally crying right now--COL, if you will. Now I'm weeping uncontrollably, WOLU.

I can't finish this post. I just hope that if anyone is still on the fence with this debate, that they understand that certain men are just evil and shouldn't be with us anymore, men like those who stole Netflix DVDs.

From the Archives...

Was searching for a 2003 receipt in my files and stumbled across some old writing I had forgotten about. I am going to post some of these to my blog because they would otherwise sit in a dusty folder. This is my crack at the fiction genre Neurotica, which I tried to put on the map several years ago:


This is called Motorcycle Man: A Neurotic Adaptation of a Short Story that First Appeared in Playgirl.

The night is hot and sticky. My hair is plastered to my cheek and the back of my neck as I hose down the mechanics bay. All I want to do is turn the hose on myself and get drenched, but I it might not be a smart idea if I want to offer good customer service.

I decide to cool off with a tall bottle of Coca Cola. I was left to close the gas station by myself, alone. I let the icy bottle rest in the valley of my breasts. It feels heavenly. The sweat from the bottle drips down between them and into my belly button. The icy water feels so good trickling down my breasts...My breasts. Had I detected a lump in my breasts this morning? Let me think.

I remembered I was in the shower soaping myself up, running my fingers all over my body as I dreamed of Kent Crunchman, the pool man. He was dead sexy and always vacuumed the pool in cut-off shorts without a shirt on. He had six-pack abs that spoke to me. I moaned slightly and touched my left breast. Suddenly Kent's face was replaced with the face of my gynecologist, and I remembered it was time for a self-examination. Using the pads of my first three middle fingers, I checked for any changes, lumps or irregularities and...What did I find? Oh yeah, nothing. Phew.

I again begin to enjoy the feel of the Coca Cola on my skin. It was making me hot. Out of nowhere I hear the deafening roar of a Harley. I can tell it's a Harley because I work in a gas station and don't have much else to do than listen to engines all day and fill cars with gas. Why I dropped out of highschool I have no idea. Where am I going to be twenty years from now, after my looks have faded and I'm no longer employable as the sexy gas station girl? What will I do then? Before I can mentally answer that question, a man pulls up riding his hog. He's wearing a black bandana and sunglasses, even though the sun is setting. He has on a tight white t-shirt and worn-in blue jeans. On his feet he wears big, black leather boots. I nearly faint as he stops at pump number three and turns his head towards me. I look up at the sky and whisper, "Thank you."

"Hi," I say. "What can I get for you?"

He grins. Dimples wink at the side of his wide, full mouth. A hearty wave of animal lust slams into my gut.

Or is that indigestion? Shit! What if I only think I'm lusting after this hottie on a hog when, in reality, I've got a horrible case of indigestion? Suppose I fart in front of him? That would be majorly embarrassing. Please don't fart, I tell myself. Pleasedontfartpleasedontfartpleasedontfartpleasedontfartpleasedontfartpleasedontfart.

"Can you fill it up?"

"Sure," I say. I grab the pump as he swings off the bike. His jeans mold around his firm ass. I slowly insert the pump into his tank as he walks around stretching out his thick legs. So far so good. I'm pretty sure what I'm feeling is lust.

He turns to catch me watching him. I quickly turn away as my legs started to quiver. Or is this the beginning of an epileptic fit? What is an epileptic fit? I don't know, though I'm certain I'm about to have one. Pleasedontletmeswallowmytonguepleasedontletmeswallowmytonguepleasedontletmeswallowmytongue.
Nothing drastic happens and my leg continues to shake. He approaches me slowly. I can feel my groin ache, and my throat goes dry.

"Are you working alone?" he asks.

I slowly look up at him as he removs his helmet and glasses. His hair is dark and hangs past his ears to just above his shoulders. His eyes are blue--a piercing, sapphire blue.

"Yes," I answer.

Oh my God! Did I just tell him I'm alone? He could be a murderer! I can be so stupid sometimes. Where's my cell phone? I can't recall where I put it last. If I scream, will anyone hear me and come running? Wait, I'm being silly. Serial killers and murderers are NOT good looking. And even if they are good looking, they definitely don't have the fashion sense of this guy. He's probably just flirting with me. Although, didn't Ted Bundy dress well? Bundy dressed preppy. Motorcycle man is no preppy, so he probably won't kill me.

"What else do you do besides pump gas?" said motorcycle man.

I take the hose out of his tank and hang it back on the main pump, and then wipe my hands off on a rag. I stare at him through lusty green eyes.

"I like to knit quilts for the elderly," I say.

No WAY did I just say that! Knit quilts for the elderly? Oh, that's real sexy. NOT! Did I just say NOT in a really hacky way in my head and then bust myself for being hacky? Must save this situation.

"I mean, do you want a lube job or something?"

Nice. A little double entendre ought to do the trick. But wait. This is a gas station. That's a perfectly legitimate question. People get lube jobs all the time at gas stations. What if I didn't make myself clear enough? How is he going to know I want to have sex with him from the question I just asked?

"Yeah, something like that." he answers.

Like what, I wonder. What are we talking about here? Does he mean 'something like that' as in, "How 'bout a tune up?" Cause that's sort of like a lube job. It's definitely along the same lines as a lube job insofar as both things are important to motorcycle maintenance. I should never have used a double entendre. What is he referring to?

I close my eyes and move into him. He towers over me by at least six inches. He's a gigantic man, powerful. My whole body quivers in anticipation. He cups the back of my neck to keep me still as bends down. His lips brush mine gently. I open my mouth in invitation. His tongue meets mine in a delicious waltz. He speeds up, it's now like an oral merengue. I'm melting into him. Mmmmm. He tastes good.

Then I remember that I had garlic for lunch. He squeezes my ass and I wonder if he can tell I've eaten garlic. Does my breath smell? Is he unbuttoning my pants out of pity? I mean, I ate A LOT of garlic. Of all the days to eat at The Stinking Rose, why did I have to choose this one...

File This Under "No Duh"

I've seen a few articles about a new valet company in Los Angeles that's raking in dough because of their amazing idea: They hire hot models and actresses to park the cars. According to the Reutors article, "Clients, most of them movie stars and producers, can request a variety of uniforms, including lingerie, bikinis, capri pants, camisoles and miniskirts." Apparently they stop short of topless, cause that's illegal.

I don't really have much to say about this other than, "Duh". The real question is why it took so long for this to happen. Everyone knows sex sells. Exploiting young attractive women for profit is a cash cow, and has been for, uh, ever.

And now that I'm unemployed, I may have to give these guys a call. Of course I'll explain to them that I only do "French Maid". If they insist I wear a different outfit, I'll quit. I've got self respect.

RIP Local Television Network

This will be a quick post. Los Angeles' newest local television network is no more. We had a company-wide meeting this morning and learned that it has basically collapsed and so I suddenly have a lot more free time, which probably means more blogging.

The website went down as well. Anyone who's tried some of the video links on this blog will notice they don't work. I need to find a way to post the video somewhere else, which leads me to one of my New Year's Resolutions, which is to make my actual website the destination for video, audio and calendar information.

In any case, I shall be discussing this latest income hiccup tomorrow on the podcast.

Going to bed now.

God Caused Ariel Sharon's Stroke

Professional Oracle and reverend Pat Robertson, who is close, personal friends with God, announced that He is pissed because Ari is trying to give away His land. To teach Sharon a lesson, God sent him a stroke.

Unfortunately, a lot of people think this is further evidence that Pat "We should Assassinate Hugo Chavez" Robertson is insane, which is bull.

Look folks, it's no secret that God doesn't really like Jews. Know who else God doesn't like? Old people. It's true. God can't stand with the old people. They drive him mashuganah, so much so that he reigns down upon them strokes, alzheimers and osteoporosis.

I am not a man of the cloth so I can't say why that is. In the case of Ariel Sharon, the evidence is pretty cut and dry, as Robertson makes clear.

I think we need to look at the Bible and the Book of Joel. The prophet Joel makes it very clear that God has enmity against those who, quote, "divide my land." God considers this land to be his. You read the Bible, he says, "This is my land." And for any prime minister of Israel who decides he going carve it up and give it away, God says, "No. This is mine."

I'm going to send him an email and see what the Book of Joel says about old people. Of course, if any of you are familiar with the Good Book, feel free to educate me.

Teen Sex Leads to Fat Ass

I think I've come up with an Anti Teen Pregnancy Campaign that puts "Abstinence Only" programs to shame. It came to me today, as if in a dream, except that it wasn't a dream but an ABC news story.

Here's a piece of anecdotal evidence in a nutshell: Before Emma Richardson became a teen mom, she wore a size eight. She's now a size sixteen.

Let's lose the morality in the teen sex debate and get right down to the real issue: If a teen parent can't work out on account of the five jobs she's holding down just to pay for that pair of Juicy-brand sweatpants and cable TV, she's going to go up several sizes. If she goes up several sizes, she won't be able to fit into the clothes she has now--the clothes she uses to lure acne-ridden males to the living room couch while her parent/s are at work or out of town. If she squirts out a child, she'll probably have to stop taking pilates, even if she's currently taking pilates at Bally's, which is already a cheapo gym. She'll naturally be really tired when she gets home from her various jobs and won't want to cook anything, so every night she'll scarf down only fast food, or food from a can that she purchased at the 99 Cent Store (which is an awesome place!). A bad diet and a screaming kid will lead to depression and, probably, some kind of alcohol or drug dependence. After the first DUI she'll realize she can't afford to drink and drive so all her drinking or pot smoking will happen at night, before bed, to help her go to sleep, and, as we all know, nighttime is the worst time to digest anything because one's metabolism is slowest then. So she'll be come fatter and fatter and will have wasted her youth, and won't be able to show her grandchildren how pretty she used to be as a teenager because she was a teenage mom. And her grandchildren will only be twenty years younger than her because her boy or girl will have perpetuated the vicious cycle of teen pregnancy. Generations later, some kid studying his or her family tree will wonder why there were so many acne-ridden chubsters in the family.

How's that for a campaign? Please, don't answer. This isn't very well thought out. Unless you agree with me. Then it was very well thought out.

Narcissistic times call for narcissistic measures.

Big Brother in Africa

The story about the elephant's tail hair appeared in the Health & Science section of the "Seattle Post Intelligencer", but it might as well have appeared in the "Fascist Daily News". A foot-long piece of hair and a GPS tracking device helped inform "scientists" of the lifestyle of the elephant known as Lewis.

Lewis had gourmet taste: Whenever the dry season browned grass in his Kenyan sanctuary, he'd abandon the other elephants and race 25 miles to the mountains - to raid farmers' corn fields under cover of night. A foot-long hair plucked from his tail, and GPS technology, tell the tale.

Scientists claim the need to track an elephant's whereabouts and dietary intake is necessary to determine how much land they need and how much food they need to consume, especially as civilization encroaches on their habitat. From the article:

Hair is "like a tape recorder," Cerling said, harboring for long periods traces of dietary chemicals.

He gathered hair from the tails of 35 elephants in Kenya's Samburu National Reserve to analyze for long-lasting forms, called "stable isotopes," of carbon and nitrogen that would appear when an elephant ate mostly grass, trees or some other plant. He matched that testing to Save the Elephants' tracking, using Global Positioning System technology, of elephant movements.

On the surface this is all very scientific and noble. But how soon before cops take the role of scientists and citizens the role of elephants? Don't answer that. I think the elephants are merely guinea pigs, so to speak. I think this program is a front, and the real targets are Americans like you and me (or the two Brits and Israelis that sometimes frequent this blog).

Imagine, you're out on the town, minding your business, when suddenly you feel a small, sharp pain on your scalp. A police officer brushes past, "Excuse me, ma'am." You think nothing of it. Next thing you know, your hair follicle is being analyzed in a lab in Langley. Now the government knows you got hammered at The Gauntlet during a work-sanctioned holiday dinner party gone awray, and there's traces of random uncontrolled substances. A quick look at a GPS log report shows the government where those uncontrolled substances might have been purchased, and WHAMMO! An innocent drug dealer is put in jail, and you're about to be out ten thousand dollars in attorney fees to pay someone for a legally-plausible explanation as to why you were at the Silverlake dog park at 3:32 in the morning without a dog...and a couple ounces of heroin.

Chilling, isn't it? Unless we write our game wardens telling them to stop this program, we're next. The NSA is already monitoring our phone calls. Do we want to let them track our drug deals as well?

Not in my America.

Bisexual Barbie

I don't know how many parents read this blog, but I came across an extremely disturbing story. I am a devout reader of Concerned Women for America because I consider myself to be a concerned woman for America. With my busy schedule, it's difficult for me to stay on top of the gravest threats we face as Americans, as many of the truly dangerous things we should be concerned about are often hidden from all but the most vigilant. Luckily, the Concerned Women for America has our back.

Imagine my horror when I learned that those sneaky gays are trying to turn our nations' four-to-eight-year-olds into bisexuals. The gays never announce what's on their agenda. No. They try to hide their nefarious plots by turning children gay one vulnerable child at a time, in secret. And they're using Barbie to do it, just as they've used Barney and the gay Teletubby in the past. It's sickening. On Barbie's website there's a questionnaire asking the child to click the the following choices to complete the sentence "I am a...: Girl, Boy or I don't know". What! There should only be TWO CHOICES!!! Kids cannot have gender confusion! This questionnaire is going to ruin our great nation and destroy the family. Please, tell me you can see how dangerous this kind of thing is.

I went to the Barbie site and couldn't find the question myself. I got bored. I'm just glad that the people at Concerned Women for America have someone on staff that can surf childrens' sites over and over and over to find the lurking dangers.

I don't want to end this post on a negative note, however. I would like to highlight one triumph that ought to take the homosexuals down a notch. Over in New York, there were these two male penguins who exhibited some homosexual behavior. They tried to hatch a rock together or something. Anyway, a penguin broad was introduced to their little habitat and one of the supposedly male penguins tried to hit on her! Ha ha! But don't take my word for it. Read what they wrote over at CWFA:

Silo and Roy, the “gay” penguin couple often used by homosexual activists to prove that homosexuality is a natural part of creation, have split up. The two penguins attempted to hatch a rock and were later given the egg of another penguin couple to raise as their own by zoo administrators. Yet, the couple couldn’t weather the forces of creation once a single female penguin was introduced. Robert Knight, Director of CWA’s Culture & Family Institute, has more on this story and its implications for the debate about homosexual marriage and parenting.

It's sickens me that the liberal media ignores these types of stories. While they prattle on about the Iraq War, bird flu, the supposed "Constitutional Crisis" and so-called Republican scandals, our nations' children are exposed to untold dangers in the form of lesbian plastic dolls designed to tear the fabric of this great nation apart. Thank God for Concerned Women for America.