Wishful Wrinkling: The Irrational Complexities of Adulthood.

With only a bucketful of hours left in the year Y2K+7, it seems appropriate to take to the electronic equivalent of the streets and fly something up the YPS!! flagpole as a parting shot to 2007. Why would I do such a thing? I don't have an answer for that question, because one answer would likely lead to more questions and I don't have that kind of time. I'm old and fragile, not to mention the fact that my answers are few and far between these days.


It's no secret to anyone spending more than a few moments of quality(?) time at YPS!! that I am the dreaded combination of cynic and pessimist. It's not something that has me beaming with pride, nor is it something I diligently keep hidden under my hat. Perhaps that is because I rarely wear hats and that might be something I will take up in the new year. The Shriners always look rather suave in their fezzes (and no, I have no clue if that is an actual plural form of fez or if I have just made up yet another word of questionable value) and who can argue with the ever popular sombrero, which could possibly double as a bumbershoot as well as fashionable headgear.


By and large, 2007 wasn't what I would necessarily call a good year. For the most part, 2007 sucked with the tenacity of a vampire trying to bulk up for a heavyweight title fight. It's been a physical, spiritual, and emotional struggle pretty much from the firing of the starting gun until this very moment. It's certainly not worthy of purchasing a new set of steel-belted radials or inflating the blimp and flying it around the friendly skies kind of good year. I cannot personally verify that they still manufacture those kind of years. Perhaps they've been moved to some off-planet factory staffed by interplanetary migrant workers in some galaxy farther away than that shit they cussed and discussed in Stars Trek and Wars.


As far as new music is concerned, 2007 was rather dismal or maybe I've had too much ground clutter clouding my personal Doppler radar to hear the good stuff. Even when I put my few functional brain cells to the task of coming up with the obligatory best of '07 lists for boards frequented by music geeks like myself, I struggled to come up with a mere ten titles worthy of mention. Sure, Motorhead released yet another live album that kicks like a mule, but it was basically the audio companion to the DVD that was previously released. With some level of reflection, I remembered next to nothing about more than half of the titles on my list and that made me question the validity of the list itself. The only one that truly left a lasting impression on me this year was "There, I Said It!" by perennial YPS!! favorite, Tommy Womack. It's truly a masterpiece by one of the finer songwriters in the music world today.


Since I only see a handful of movies and only visited an actual movie theater once this year, I won't even attempt to slap together a list of good movies. Although I will say that Sicko was a damn fine film that left me simultaneously feeling enlightened, terrified and even more paranoid than usual about the future. Television is an even more desolate landscape of entertainment unless you're one of the supposed millions that loves "reality" television programs that seem to have little or nothing to do with reality. I will never be confused with those people, because I think the trend and the programs suck.


So aside from the entertainment, I guess that leaves my own private version of reality. The mere concept of "reality" generally induces a pained expression and a stout amount of scratching the noggin as I don't do too well with reality. Like most folks in this day and age, the workplace takes up a significant amount of my waking hours and leaves little time for whatever it is that well-adjusted folks do with their free time. I tend to wind my way through my personal rut like a lab rat in a maze clinging to the hazy idea of a finish line. Once there, I realize that I don't do well with down time as it gives me time to think and when I think, it's often hazardous to my mental and emotional well-being. Imagine file footage of the Hindenburg and you'll have an accurate idea of what it's like.


As much as I claim to hate it, I tend to function better with a schedule dictated to me by the powers-that-be rather than carpe diem-ing along with my own agenda. Unfortunately, I am not one to hop out of the sheets, fresh as a daisy ready to seize and/or pluck the day with a white-knuckled grip of enthusiasm. As each new day unfurls itself, I tend to greet it with a heavy dose of contempt and sincere uneasiness simply because that is what I know and what I do. S.O.P. for a faulty-wired fire trap of a bastage like myself.


Even in these mostly cloudy skies, I will add that there have been some bright stars that even I could see without the help of conventional astronomy equipment. They are people who make the days tolerable in their own special ways. Rather than provide a comprehensive list that would ultimately be incomplete and make me feel like a bigger schmuck than I am, I will just offer an open-ended thank you. I figure anyone still reading this long-winded psychobabble deserves said word of thanks and there are others who probably do not regularly read YPS!! that have crossed my path who are also guilty of making this world a much better place. Although they obviously won't see it here, they have earned VIP seating in my blackened heart.


As the year grinds to an eventual halt, I'm trying to leave as much undesirable personal debris behind and work on being a better person with a more positive (GASP!) outlook. In other words, I am hoping that 2008 is more like a monkey jockey matinee at the Sunday jackass races than electric fan castration, but being a pessimistic cynic, I'm not placing any bets on it.


In closing, I will offer you two pieces of information:


1) Given a choice between a gun, a rose, and a lavish deli tray, always choose the deli tray. If it's a cheese spread, go for the gun and demand something better.


2) When you insult the hot dog salesman, you insult us all.

On The Way To, And In, Branson, MO

1. Peace, Bro.
2. I'm a personal friend of Tommy Womack
3. X-caliber, keepin' it real
4. Bus vid!
5. Sloth, or deer? You decide.

An Unconventional...Part II

This sleigh-looking tray was full of goodies when it arrived for Christmas from one of our vendors. I was surprised when I got back to the office today to find that no one had claimed the "sleigh". It's metal, and reminded me of the treasure chest I decorated for my boy to store all of his treasures in. So, I grabbed it and ran!


I still had some gold paint, glue, and fake jewels from the treasure chest so I took a before image, and then got busy on my idea. I brightened up the gold that was already there, and added jewels.





See, the boy and I like us some movies. What better way to transport our goodies and DVDs than in a swanky sleigh? PLUS, I didn't even touch the other side so that the boy could add his own creative touch.

An Unconventional Christmas Post From An Unconventional Blog

I took this photo and sat on it for weeks, unable to do anything with it. Nothing I considered seemed to do it justice. Eventually I cropped it and sent it to a fellow blogger suggesting it could be used for something they might have a need for and that I myself wouldn't likely be using it.

Well, here I am posting it on the blog. And to the little fellow that was unknowingly the subject of this photo; Merry Christmas to you. - Bloggy











If This Is You

If this is you
Merry Christmas to you
May you find happiness
In all that you do

Sometimes you’re just a little kid
In a great big ole world
All of life’s madness, craziness
Spun up
and muddied
and swirled

Taking it bite-by-bite
And
day-by-day
‘cause it’s the only way
You can stomach
the pain

You think maybe a nibble
And a taste will do ya
But the hunger inside
It gnaws you in two, yea

And so you sit and you drone
Feeling all alone
And the throne in which you glide
Provides not even the best of a bumpy-ass ride

With your eyes downcast
Your lungs try to outlast
That hesitant cough of your desperate existence
To run and to hide only shows a lack of resistance

So just
what are
you to do?
Give into love
it survives
Down so deep
it lingers and thrives
It was the engine that got you this far, so see where it drives

Stop forcing things to see what make you
Stop kidding yourself that it takes another to save you
Stop lying to all for they see and won’t hate you
Be humble and tumble and let the drift take you
Accept that you affect the people around you in encouraging ways
The energy you use in anger and distrust confines you and binds you and strengthens the daze

If this is you
Merry Christmas to you
May you find contentment
In all that, in all that, in all that, in all that...you do


-Mr. Bloggerific Himself, 12242007

Birthday wishes from YPS!!

Happy birthday #62 to the duke of decibels, the vicar of volume, the lord of loud, the bishop of bad-assity...Lemmy.

A lovely image from Motorhead's latest slab o' rawk, Better Motorhead Than Dead...

Grrr Raff

Design for: MyFaceSpaceSuit

Imagine, one day in the future, you'll be able to order a customized MyFaceSpaceSuit of your very own. No longer will you have to bother with "updating your page". No longer will you have to directly speak to another human. Instead, a passerby will be able to take one look at you and quickly, nay instantly, determine your likes, dislikes and political affiliations.

Scenario #1: There he is, walking through the mall, all studly like. What's this?! He has a MyFaceSpaceSuit?! NO WAY!! Oh, look! He likes EMO and he wants me to have a nice weekend!! He's HAWT!! Thanks for the add indeed! *wink*

North POLE Riddle

What did Santa have a case of when Mrs. Clause rejected him after he stayed out too late with the Elves?


Not-so-subtle Hint:

It's a Disgraceland Christmas.

With all of the hoopla and general holiday crapola swirling around me in the workplace, I made my usual lowest common denominator approach to life as far as decorating. The Charlie Brown (or Phil Collins/Ernest T. Bass action figure) and his tiny ass tree figure has been on display all year and I pulled my Parisian bordello gold tree out of the file cabinet to put on display. The irony is that I had such a struggle to keep the Hershey's peanut butter kisses on the tree in the past and when I brought it out of retirement, two were still clinging to the holiday shrub. My main regret is that I never located my copy of Tiny Tim's Christmas disc to torment the co-workers, because torment is what the holidays are all about.

Bah humbug!

(Note the rotting apple behind Chuck Brown. It was given as a gift to a departing co-worker. When you care enough to give the very best, give rotten produce.)


Ah, but today is a holiday that I can enthusiastically support...HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KEITH RICHARDS!!

Images From Around The Bloggerific Workplace

The bottom of the Central Office vacuum cleaner. Being a computer geek, one is often asked for assistance with many, what I refer to as non-tech, items. Of the things I have repaired: a door hinge, a constantly running urinal (sorry ladies), a burned-out fuse in an ancient adding machine, and (repeatedly) vacuum cleaner belts. Regardless the number of times I replace them, I always forget which direction and have to correct it. This last time, I took a photo with the cell phone of the proper way and printed it and placed it in the cleaning closet. It's all about efficiency.

There is a new addition (or two) to the collection of toys since the last image upload. (Please leave the change, I need it for my Dr. Pepper fix.)



The one and only fan I have in the office. Sorry, no autographs did I sign for him. (The other thing held a small clock that died. I plan on some day taking apart my webcam and mounting in it to make it a nice, stylish, stand. Lovely, don't you think? It's a good thing.

OH HELL YES!!

2008 is going to have one kick ass start.

Don't be a douchebag, pre-order your copy now.

Parts is parts.

It's like a cross between Norman Bates, a sex doll and something that completely defies category.

The Folded Sticker Says...Part Dew

As it turns out, yes, Bob was hopping with them. And, who could blame him? Of course he might do well with a nice hair cut and change of clothes but The Folded Sticker encourages a life of non-judgemental being. Judging a person by the wear-and-tear of their sticky outer covering is unnecessary and therefore a waste of good sticker-message searching time.

Judge not, and seeketh that sticker message lest yee be Goo Goned on your sticky backside!




Addition: The Folded Sticker thought that in light of all the upcoming holiday meals, I might should add the Quote of the Day. So, here it is, the Quote of the Day:

"Any good meal is just a digestive track away from a stinking pile of shit." -Bloggerific, 12112007

Introducing: The Folded Sticker Says...

Many times (many, MANY times) in the hallways of the gargantuan Home Office of YPS!!, the staff have discussed in whispery tones a deity known only within certain circles. Certain privileged circles only are privy to even the slightest shreds of scarcely documented information pertaining to...The Folded Sticker.

Over time, we've learned this; The deity, known only to us as The Folded Sticker, reveals to us (within the circle, mind you) the secrets of humanity and of time and spice. Yes, that's correct, time and spice. What would seem, to the untrained eye and the shallow of spirit, as a mere "folded sticker", is actually communication from up above. Somewhere, just over the Reignbow. (We'll get into the Reignbow a little later; suffice it to say, we really don't know shit about it.)

Today, the Inner Circle (known as Gaseous Erectus), would like to reveal the first of many secrets confided to us directly from....The Folded Sticker.





The orange color, we assure you, is NOT by accident. The Folded Sticker is WISE, and always chooses color, as well as shape, to best convey the message at hand. Clearly you can see the phallic designs of this original message, the bold coloring to catch the eye, and...the message itself..."Thou Shg".

Over the millennium, we've determined this to be a form of "deity shorthand" wherein "thou shg" should read (to the kids that are, you know, hip to the shorthand):

Thou Shag!!


So, children, go forth, and um, you know, shag baby, yeah!!





That is all. The Folded Sticker has spoken.

Well I'll be damned...

if it isn't time to call in the special projects team to wish Mr. Bloggerific Himself a damn happy birthday.

As a card-carrying member of the association, I offer the secret hand shake, a box of Red Hots of a particularly good vintage (July 2007), and a round of general wise-assity to remind the old boy of his aged status.

So in closing, I say happy birthday, you old dirty buzzard and offer you this advice. You'd best close the wings and/or cover your rig, because it's cold out there.

UPDATED! Actual banter heard in the Disgraceland waiting room...

Actual phrases heard in the workplace within a sixty minute time frame.


--"Peter got four new inches and I am so jealous."



--"With this wind, Baby Jesus is probably flying all over my yard."

(This is where you should take time to digest and reflect)



Let us continue.

Okay, to those needing the full context, de-smutified versions of the above. The first quote was the office manager talking about the snow that hit where her son lives in Wisconsin. The second one is the next door office neighbor talking about his Christmas decorations and how the high winds might be adjusting them. However, my smut detector filtered out the other psychobabble and jumped on these quotes like cops on Rodney King.

In the event that there was any question, winter has arrived and it's bad when the gorilla that you have hanging on your office wall horks your Stones winter gear.









If anyone is still confused and insists on showing any trace of enthusiasm for this time of year, let me remind you of this fact--Winter sucks!!










UPDATE!!
A co-worker was standing at the front desk outside of my office and in the general chit-chat, someone said "Why would a person bury 30 people in their yard?"

I chimed in with "Because 40 wouldn't fit."

That was followed by complete silence. Either they ignored my banter or it totally derailed their train.

UPDATED: Inspiration From The Comments...now with AUDIO (and video)

Many times I've stated that the folks that comment on this blog are what make the blog and without you, and your commenting ways, we got nuttin'. I still believe that is true.

The staff at YPS!! strive to bring you a Led Zeppelin/Smashing Pumpkins-styled blog. By that I mean, we strive to bring you the light and the dark (No turkey dinner comments please). We attempt to bring you the good and the bad (shush!). We try to bring you all aspects of our twisted lives, in oblong shaped packaging on the brink of explosion, cascading fiery droplets to Earth below. [Originally I was going to use a smashing of pumpkins reference here, but somehow "shooting our seed" didn't seem to convey the type of image I wanted.]

With all that, I present the following work: [Please Note: This is not a direct letter to anyone, or about anyone, it's just a "what if" type deal.]

For best results: Please read with Johnette Napolitano's (of Concrete Blonde) voice in mind.

A Wave in Hell (Signals that You Know Me)

A wave in Hell signals that you know me
Collusion brought out by feelings that you’re lonely
An unfair deal in uncivilized borders

You know the Devil he don’t care
The Devil’s without care
He’s without the worry and the fear
The very thoughts that keep us alive

He wades about in molten frustration
Of aspects from the life he passed by
So look to the sky my friend
And be weary of those upon you
They’re not as they appear (and wearily they adore you)
Take comfort in obscurity
Let animosity be your shield

A nod in Hell signals that you’re with me
Shipyards down there don’t allow no unions
No room for gatherings, or strength in numbers

You know the Devil takes delight
In his cut and his divide
The Devil doesn’t care
He’s already got the bosses’ hide
It’s the fat of the fire and the sizzle of his eyes
He’s not crazy from the heat
It’s time you realized

Earth is Purgatory and your fanboy status won’t save you
From all the things that you have done
You’ll scream and you’ll stew in a vat of "should have"
But neither those nor "could haves"
Will save you from the toil

You won’t work your way out of this hold
No upper management looking for promotion
No one here gives damn about a little devotion

No prospects to bribe
No funds to embezzle
No backs to stab (you didn’t even have friends where you came from)

To tip your hat in Hell signals your consent
Behaviors from above, practiced here
Simply increase the speed of your rapid descent

Hope you brought your beads
Stashed away some leaves (of an edited Tome)
Some link to the past

Some remnant of home



-Mr. Bloggerific Himself, 11242007 (inspired from Brando's "On the Waterfront" and a blog post with Bone Machine's comment - "When you get there, wave at me. I'll be the one complaining about the heat.")


I give you...the Big Dipper. MMmmmmmmm!! (And yes, this is how ALL Kentuckians are. We write poetry, make obscure musical references, and dine in swanky establishments...and post it all.)

Breaking News!

The irony runs deep.

At this rate, Johnny Winter and I will be Ebony cover boys before all is said and done.

Planting Earwigs Since ThirteenFiddyTwo - or - Devo Meet Kravitz

somewhere between heaven and hell

"I don't want a holiday in the sun" --Sex Pistols

It amazes me how one day, in this case a holiday, can open up a can of worms that I would just as soon not have opened. Keep that shit on the shelf on the cupboard, behind the green beans and the Campbell's Chicken & Rice soup. There's a nice place for it behind the dusty, vintage veggies that aren't begging to be cooked. Beets and nasty ass crap like that.

I've taken my carcass to the workplace with devout regularity for most of 2007. Maybe one sick day, a few days off due to a death in the family, and other than that, I've taken my place in the occupational conga line without taking a vacation or doing the things that normal, well-balanced people do. I think about how great it would be to get away for a while, but it never seems to materialize and when it does, as it did today, I find myself feeling under the weather. Nothing serious, just the gayer than gay itself cold and sinus hogwash that seems to rear its ugly head in the spring and in the fall...the seasons where most folks go ga-ga over the weather. Being an equal opportunity complainer, I complain about each season for one reason or another with winter getting the lion's share of the bile.

I awakened this morning and as I clawed my way out of my slumber, I began doing the math to see if it was indeed a holiday or some kind of cruel dream before I realize that it is indeed a work day and that I am probably already running late. No, I feel rather crappy so this must indeed be a vacation day. Very good. No need in getting up right away, because the bladder wasn't yelling "FIRE!" in the crowded urinary theater to incite evacuation. Everything was cool in that department. It was perfectly legal to drift in and out of sleep until the aforementioned evacuation was necessary.

Perfectly legal, but apparently not an option.

By that time, the mind had already kicked itself into motion from the earlier workout of vacation vs. work and was really starting to hum like something that does a substantial amount of humming. Of course, it would be easy if it stuck to one topic until that dead horse had been sufficiently flogged to a fine powder. But no, that's not how the mind work. At least not mine anyway. It goes in a thousand different directions like the screaming Japanese trying to avoid going under the foot of Godzilla and/or his posse of good-time boys. Unfortunately, I cannot remember if Ghidrah the three-headed monster was a part-time land dweller, but I am sure at least some of the other monsters did their fair share of stomping and clomping during their days of raising hell. Sort of like a green, scaly Celine Dion but with a much more pleasing singing voice.

Once the mind starts, sleep is a thing of the past. It's something that I've almost learned to accept over the years. That doesn't mean I have to like it, which is good because I don't. Thoughts of Thanksgivings past, good times, bad times, times in between, and stopping long enough to land squarely on the longitude and latitude of the present. Remembering people that were once in my life and thinking about others who are in my life in various degrees of presence. In between the memories and thoughts, songs swished in and out of the picture like the days when the M in MTV stood for "music." Cowboy Song by Thin Lizzy (which perpetually jostles for the pole position of my favorite song of all-time with the Rolling Stones' Gimme Shelter), several songs in the Joy Division catalog whose titles more often than not escape me, and fleeting mental images from Pink Floyd's movie version of The Wall. Yes, this was not going to be a classic example of a good day. The upside is that at least I didn't have that gay Paul McCartney song playing in my head. Since Sir Paul has put out more than his share of gay songs, I should be more specific and say it's that incredibly annoying and completely worthless Christmas song. I figure that song alone has converted countless folks to the Jewish faith simply because Hanukkah doesn't have a song so lame.

It was during this mental chaos that I realized that while I don't really enjoy the rut and routine of being employed, it keeps me off the street and provides distraction from myself with the occasional burst of goodness. When I was presented with sudden freedom at high noon on Wednesday, I knew that I didn't want to go home but at the same time, I had nowhere to go, not much of anything to do and even less money to do it with even if I had something to do in the first place. Driving aimlessly for a bit proved to be largely unsuccessful and at some point in the confusion, I surrendered to the boredom and just went home. No need in donating even more paper money to the oil barons currently having their way with the world's wallet pocket.

As I stayed there blindly staring at the ceiling in my pre-spectacle morning burn-in phase, the thought of the upcoming months of snow, ice, and frosty bullshit began to get the best of me. You see, I hate winter with the intensity of a hundred women scorned and aside from the lack of bugs, I can see absolutely nothing positive or hopeful about winter. I envisioned dousing myself with the life's blood of modern society, gasoline, lighting a match then strutting through the streets wishing a happy Thanksgiving to each and every person like nothing was out of the ordinary and hoping that at least one person would try to light a cigarette from my sleeve. Roasting marshmellows is out of the question because I've got places to go and people to see in my fiery outfit that is swankier than swanky itself.

At the end of the day, I've rekindled my appreciation and enthusiasm for Independent Worm Saloon by the Butthole Surfers and that alone has made the day a success. After I've worn myself out from strutting in a suit of fire, I'd like to take a few moments to rest and play Goofy's Concern through a PA system larger than the hand of God until it cracks the universe into thirds and knocks over a stack of cocktail napkins. Then and only then, I might offer the world a Coke and a smile.

Holiday Greetings from WKRP and YPS!!

Respectin' the Dead Celebrities Since Some Year 02

To the man whose fictitious name rhymes with Nipple, YPS!! bids you adieu with these commercial outtakes. They didn't quite cut the muster, so they chose you.

A Message From Bloggy Jr.

No matter how much your Thanksgiving lunch/dinner sucks, always remember:

Your Packaging Sucks!! Thanksgiving Message Rerun

Did You Know:

Did You Know:

* The fennec fox is difficult to catch because of its keen sense of hearing and smell.
* Male foxes are called dogs; females are vixens; young are cubs.
* An adult fennec fox can jump upward to .7m (2.3 feet) and ahead 1 m (3.28 feet) from the standing position. This helps them catch prey.

The Heart, It Beats. The Lungs, They Burn.

On Saturday I rode on a bicycle longer than I've ridden in maybe 20 years. I'm not saying it was a long ride, I'm just saying there weren't that many rides over the past decades. I rode over to my sister’s house, unannounced, and introduced her to my new bike. It’s a bit early for Christmas, but the weather couldn’t be more perfect and I need the exercise.

As you can see in the background my cool ride came in shoddy packaging. I’m pretty sure all bikes are shipped in shoddy packaging. It’s not UPS that screws it up, I firmly believe it’s the fine folks at Huffy (and other manufacturers).

Anyway, I put it together the day I got it and I’m lovin’ it. (Except I didn’t love the seat so much and had to buy one of those squishy gel covers so I no longer have to pull the seat out my ass.)

So here’s Bloggy tellin’ you to get on your bike and ride! Don’t ride for transportation. Don’t ride for exercise. Ride for fun. I fricken dare ya!!

root beer drinkers and barn raisers

Packaging? The hell you say!

One of the ways that I simultaneously treat and destroy myself is partaking of a convenience store hamburger and a bottle of Diet A&W Root Beer. When I'm feeling particularly feisty, I might throw in a box of Red Hots (the official candy of YPS!!). Maybe two. The dainty boxes, not the hoss-cat size. I save the el gigante size for YPS!! staff meetings and video game marathons.

Since my schedule often borders on the hellish, I can't always break away to drive the mere 2-ish miles to the nutritional mecca that is the Shell Station on scenic Highway 231. It's a literal cornucopia of preservatives, additives, and shit that one probably should not eat. However, it will fight off the wolves of starvation when you find yourself in a tight spot. The digestive purgatory kicks in at the most inopportune moment, but that's neither here nor there. That's the magic of purgatory.

When a root beer fix isn't an option, a root beer fix is the only option. While strutting through the aisles of the nearest (and perhaps the only) grocery equipped with a salad bar, I happened upon a six pack of said elixir in bottled form. Since they had yet to set up the salad saloon, I snagged the root beer so that the trip wasn't a complete loss. Plus, they were quite cheap. The exchange took place and I went roaring back to the place of employment with some contents for my office wine rack.

As I fired down my shoddy lunch, it seemed like my root beer was a little "off." It wasn't flat. There was no wang to it. The root beer maestro didn't completely ferk up the mix. Something just wasn't quite right, even to my insane buds of taste.

Not being the most observant person (at last ranking, I was in the lower 10th percentile), I didn't realize that my soft drink snake oil wasn't in the traditional beer bottle brown color that I normally get at my trusty convenience store. Nay! Someone had the absolute audacity to put the nifty product in a clear, plastic bottle. That's just not right, folks. It's not.

I would have never guessed that the color of the bottle (or the packaging for the remaining few YPS!! enthusiasts) would derail my enthusiasm choo-choo. I can't quite put my grimy digits on the difference, but the clear bottle version seemed more harsh as it had its way with my taste buds. The beer bottle brown version seems to give the liquid goodness a nice, mellow flavor that slides down favorably.

I do not want to say an unkind word about the good people of A&W, because their product is ultra-swanky. However, Diet A&W Root Beer in a clear, plastic bottle...

YOUR PACKAGING SUCKS!!

Now go forth and slap back a bottle of root beer and raise a barn. Thank you and goodnight.

One of the Most Viewed YPS!! Vids of All Time

Alaskan Safety Tips

My brother is going to Alaska on a bidness trip. I felt sorry for him because he's not as wordly as I am, so I typed up these tips for him. They could save his life!!


1. Do not eat the yellow snow. Just don’t. Ewww. Seriously. It wasn’t Elmer’s that put the “glue” in Igloo.
2. They’re not seals, they’re sea lions. That’s LIONS as in ROAR and as in they will bite your ass if you approach them. So, you know, don’t.
3. Avoid the snowshoe salesman on the street. Nerf does NOT make snowshoes.
4. It is NOT customary to wear diapers on your head for added warmth. This is just an “urban legend”.
5. Do not eat the yellow snow.
6. If you find yourself waiting in the cold for public transportation, huddling and farting for warmth is only permissible with the proper boy/girl ratio. During these moments, remember what the Beach Boys taught us: Two girls for every boy…
7. Fish do NOT make for good boomerangs. However, fish jerky can keep you alive for 3.62 days if lost in the wilderness.
8. If lost in the wilderness, do NOT eat the yellow snow.
9. Rubbing your extremities with whale blubber can prevent dry, chapped, skin.
10. It is considered impolite to sing Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Oooh, that Smell” in mixed Eskimo company.
11. For the love of all that is holy, stay away from the damn yellow snow!

A keen eye for fashion.

Like me, I'm sure that he just flips through fashion magazines for the articles.

Straight From Email

And I quote:

If this bitch down the hall continued to talk on her cell phone at the same fucking VOLUME, I was about to suggest she swallow the fucking thing so that she could get her little Nokia closer to her fucking vocal chords so that THEN maybe the people on the other end could hear her and she would no longer have to fucking shout.

The Bone School of Art.

Give a jackass a piece of paper, a Uniball ink pen, and a little down-time and this is what you get.

Resurrecting Haunted Posts Past

Even with sagging enthusiasm...

it's still about the packaging!!

It takes a lot of balls or at least one well-placed ball to clearly advertise and name your product the Uni-ball Deluxe.

I will admit to being a tad confused how one mere ball can be the branded the "deluxe" model. Perhaps with one huge-ass ball, there is really no need for two. Otherwise, it becomes a logistical issue. Personally, I'd rather have a complete set rather than one lone testiculus maximus.

That's just me.

In Honor of the Upcoming High School Reunion...OLD SHIT.

My second car and my first nephew, playing in the rain.




Prom #2, holding tightly so she can't run away.



Some jack-ass in the hallway, May of 1987.



The same jack-ass pretending to be the Easter Bunny. Bock bock.

We Are...YPS!!

Galvanized, Pasteurized and Theorized Since the Summer of '69.

Mormons, Beards, Stormy Weather, and Flatulent Germans.

"Man, I'm just tired and bored with myself." --Bruce Springsteen


When the tank is on E, sometimes it leads to something uncharacteristically interesting and perhaps out of the zone of familiarity. Other times, it’s the same old shit without even the slightest effort to break new ground or rework the wreckage. Since I’m a one trick pony in the dog and pony show of life, I figure this one can safely be filed in the same old shit folder without danger of being singled out as an outcast by the other folder dwellers. Although it’s looking like I might need to slap some extra duct tape on the seams all in the name of personal safety. Protective eyewear is optional yet highly recommended.

I rarely write about the daily activities because I shuffle through the same routine so often that any deviation from the rut would likely make my skull explode. While that alone would be entertaining, it would require some sweeping up and I’m not sure they’ve invented a Swiffer mop to handle that kind of chore. Even those Bounty towels can be rather hit and miss from my own personal experience.

I’ve realized in recent days that I spend entirely too much time at the workplace and even though this does force me to be somewhat social, I often feel completely out of step with the world surrounding me. Invariably, this tends to lead to a lot of confusion and makes people don their WTF expression.

Since I often have the pleasure of 12 hour work days, I don’t watch the television shows that the rest of the world watches, which is fine because most shows suck (excluding My Name Is Earl, which I rarely get to see, and Mythbusters). I don’t go see movies in the theater and rarely rent/buy them when they’re on the shelves. I guess it pretty much goes without saying that my musical tastes aren’t exactly top 40 and I’ve become bored and jaded with most of it, too. As far as the written word, I offered a bystander the confession that I’m unliterate, which was followed by the obligatory WTF reaction. It’s not that I can’t read, but that I choose not to read. However, this isn’t exactly true as I’ve found myself willingly reading a work by Shakespeare, which may be a first for me. And yes, it’s William Shakespeare and not some lesser-known Shakespeare who writes about smut and danger. Although I would definitely be inclined to read such a book if anyone has any recommendations, but keep in mind that I prefer the smut to the danger.

With so much of the calendar day swallowed whole by the occupational crapola, there’s not too much to cuss and discuss. Sure, I could do it, but who would want to read it? Not me, because I do enough of that as it is. Twelve hours in any workplace is a long day and when you find yourself doing the work of two or three people while others slide through their day like gravy through a goose, it does tend to make a person somewhat bitter. Thankfully, bitterness is something I understand and it has become my modus operandi.

Rather than giving in to the temptation, I’ve decided to go into the two recent diversions that have put minor blips on my radar in order to conjure up something vaguely productive.

Although it was originally presented in audio form, I am guessing it didn’t exactly lead to folks trampling one another to experience, so those folks that didn’t get stepped on in the melee will have the pleasure (?) of reading the crap. Yes, an Earth-friendly recycled heap for your eyes to gyrate over and yes, you’re welcome. Not that you thanked me. I think the phrase actually began with an F, but I heard it as “Thank you.”

So let’s set our time machine dials to last week and zone in on a little town called Evansville, Indiana. The Almighty and myself had agreed to go see that little ol’ band from Texas, ZZ Top, at the stadium up there for many of us. Down there or over there for more than a few of us. I had my own WTF moment when I found out that Travis Tritt would be opening the show. So much of a WTF moment that I was hesitant to even mention this fact to…(dramatic pause) The Almighty, who still keeps the memory alive of seeing a band called Squatweiler open for the Rollins Band. I’d likely have dismissed that memory many moons ago if it weren’t necessary to use them as a catch-all reference for shitty opening bands. It was bad enough that it wasn’t the classic line-up of the Rollins Band, but a boring opening band, too? Damn.

Fortunately for me, The Almighty had his own news beacon and found out about Travis before I was able to break the (bad) news. He’d already devised his own plot to miss Mr. Tritt and I was okay with it. I had my own plot myself and thankfully, both plots involved having some kick ass barbecue at Corky’s at the always lovely Casino Aztar in Evansville before zipping over to see the Beards. It was just sneaky enough to work.

As luck would have it, the parking garage was surprisingly light on traffic (as compared to the Joan Jett experience back in the winter), which usually means we get to waltz right into Corky’s and have a table awaiting our arrival. However, this was not the case on this particular day and unless we wanted to wait for others to choke down their barbecue, we’d have to sit at the bar. This seemed like the best idea for a couple of famished gentlemen in need of pork swimming in sauce.

We placed our order, they delivered our order and as we were winding down this consumption of fine cuisine, we heard the fateful words--“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome…the Osmond Brothers.” I thought I heard that correctly, but I couldn’t imagine any Osmond stepping foot into a den of sin and filth, not to mention being in the same building as smut-mongers like The Almighty and myself, who brought their own blend of sin and filth. Figuring that I didn’t really hear the words over the clanking of cutlery against fine china and that it surely had to be the Allman Brothers…

No no, it was the Osmond Brothers raising a ruckus on golden oldie after golden oldie that they did not write. A cavalcade of (s)hits, if you will. When it was time for us to make our exit, we stood outside of the blessed barbecue emporium to breathe in that Osmond magic. I was somewhat disappointed that a mere moment in the presence of the show, I actually recognized Little Jimmy from flickering remnants of TV days gone by. I even tried to snap a photo, but sadly, conventional cell phone photography equipment cannot sufficiently document the stunning brilliance that is Osmond. We made our way out of the place and on our way to see the Beards and hopefully not see Travis Tritt.

For once, good luck was on our side and we arrived at the stadium after Travis Tritt and before ZZ Top. We celebrated our good fortune from our vantage point on the 8th row center. As usual, ZZ Top did not disappoint and you can get the setlist and one so-so photo via camera phone at The Listening Party and yes, that is a shameless plug desperately trying to get a person or two to wing it over there and actually leave a comment or at the very least a muddy footprint on the welcome mat. Humor an old man, would you please?

The only thing that could rival some kick ass beards (both Frank and otherwise) would be the potential for natural disaster. It slid into our meager town on Thursday evening. The initial rumbles began as the majority of the office staff promptly got the hell out of there and the rest of us had to stick around and do whatever it is that we do. The weather radio began to squawk its head off to let everyone know that we indeed were on a plot of ground sporting a tornado warning. Yes, tornado WARNING.

I began my tired, old routine of telling folks that should it get bad that we would go downstairs to the restrooms as they were the safest area from flying debris and what not. (When you’re seeking refuge in a restroom, it’s the flying what not that terrifies me the most) In order to provide a glimmer of comic relief, I mentioned that I would not be going to the restroom because I did not want to die in a toilet, because I’d seen what that did to the legacy of Elvis A. Presley and wanted no part of it. When the time was right for hotfooting it downstairs, I gave the instructions and most of my people did just that, but there were a few that decided that it would be much more delightful outside. Sure, the threat of a tornado is dangerous, but it does not compare to the strength of a nicotine fit.

Long story short, our area was spared of damage and the flying what-not (unless the lectures prior to the evacuation count as flying what-not and they probably do), but what has yet to officially be called a tornado raised all kinds of unholy hell in the downtown area. Thankfully, our downtown isn’t exactly thriving on a Thursday evening or any other day for that matter. While some homes and businesses were damaged or destroyed, I don’t believe there was any loss of life in Owensboro. I’m not sure but I think that some areas outside of the city weren't so fortunate. It definitely didn’t rip the city a new one like the tornado of January 2000, but it’s not something to do for kicks either.

After talking shit about the Osmonds, ZZ Top, and tornadic activity, I’ve definitely got to go out on a high note here and rather than smack myself in the nether regions to hit that note, I am going to pass along something that I learned from pre-Friday workday television viewing. In this case, it was on the History Channel, which I usually try to avoid because it might actually be educational and having seen what education does to people, I want not part of it.

I was flipping through the channels to see how the city fared and happened to join a show in progress about Adolf Hitler. Knowing next to nothing about the guy outside of the fact that he was an evil bastard of a man, I watched a little bit before it was time to wander aimlessly towards the workplace. For those requesting that high note, here it comes, baby...it's coming to get ya.

Adolf Hitler had some gastrointestinal issues and suffered from flatulence. Yes, flatulence. All this time, I thought he bastardly deeds were all due to his inability to grow a full moustache. Nay. He was a chronic pooter and it probably reeked of semi-churned sour kraut.

Zeig hurl, der farter.

UPDATED: We Are YPS!! The Confessional Edition

High on Riboflavin and Inappropriate Grandiose Ideations, Since...Well Since We Were Crowned Dos Bastardos, Actually.

I thought I'd add a couple of images from yesterday. The first is the first storm that blew through the area yesterday, around 4:15 or so. The second I call, "The Corner of My Room"...mostly because it is.

We Are YPS!!

The Waste-Not, Want-Not Generation Since, 1641

We Are YPS!! Number 2 Lead Pencil Edition

Wuzzling and Sculching Since, 1987.

We are YPS!!

Downhome and Folksy Since, 1732

half smiles of the decomposed

Thornton's parking lot
Henderson, Kentucky
October 13, 2007

purge.

It's been one of those (insert suitable measure of time here) that keep psychiatrists, liquor stores, drug dealers and gun shops in business. It's no surprise that Joy Division continue selling albums some 27 years after they imploded. It all makes sense. Maybe not to everyone, but for those folks that are clued in to an objective reality, they know. The rest walk around with their heads in the clouds and shit rainbows, so their opinions do not count. There is no escaping the unbridled reality no matter how diligently you strive to do it. You wake up, it's there. You wind your way through the hurdles and mine fields of your respective day, it's there. You try in vain to sleep, it's there. Begin the cycle again, repeat as necessary. Like some kind of metaphysical shampoo that gets rubbed into the scalp so hard that it bleeds and bores right through your skull. You can find peace knowing that it's the conditioner that finishes you off. Gee, your hair smells terrific, but the scabs are sort of unsightly no matter how charismatic the smile. Cover it up with some head gear and make it something festive to throw the dogs off of your trail. How about a sombrero? A fez? Just remember that a fez is only appropriate if you're squeezing yourself into a tiny car and performing in a parade. After all, a parade isn't complete without a storm cloud hovering overhead ready to drop more shit than the horses that bring up the rear...no pun intended. You can get away with wearing a sombrero anywhere and everywhere except in a Shriner vehicle because it will likely cause the tiny vehicle chick magnet to tip over like a turtle in distress. No, that little bastard isn't break-dancing, it's in serious trouble. You look closely into the eyes and you'll see the difference. Not quite as photogenic as the internationally-known turtles with ninja skills. The rest of the species only gets exposure on Animal Planet, the occasional appearance on the funny video show when one clamps down on an exposed nipple (or various other appendages), or maybe in some kind of extremely kinky pornography of a Venezuelan origin. Of course, it would be ideal for your MyFaceSpaceBook site encouraging everyone that reads that soul-free crap to have an ultra-fine weekend. Thanks for the add, you're keen, but don't tell anyone that I actually participate in those Satanic rituals. It's worse for your spiritual well-being than reading self-help books and listening to uplifting music filled with hollowed-out clichéd sentiment. Perhaps it's a crime or just another form of self-preservation intermingling with a dollop of indifference. Don't ask, don't tell, and who gives a shit in the first place? Not me and probably not you.

It's rampant fecality, baby.

The Falls of Rough

Me, the boy, my oldest sister and the folks took a quick trip to Rough River and here are a few photos from the area.

Somebody was looking one way as he exited an old, one-lane, bridge and just as he turned... he bumped into a post. :(

Dueling Holidays.

In honor of Columbus Day, you get the Eddie Spaghetti (Supersuckers) version of The Commodores' Sail On.


and in honor of Canadian Thanksgiving Day, I say thank you, Canada. Thank you very much.

My feelings on Power Point (or your YPS!! Quote Of The Day)

To those folks who seem to require Power Point for anything and everything in their lives, I'm sending out this long distance request just for you.

"There's a Power Point presentation in my pants. Double-click, suck my dick. Next slide, please."

I Like-a Da Fish!! - or - For My Friend's Husband