Yeah… maybe I’m a Scrooge or a grinch, but I say bullshit. There’s no such thing as Christmas spirit anymore. There’s just buy buy buy! Sale sale sale! Now 30% off this shit, and 50% off that shit! Cities and towns decorate their streets not for the spirit, but to entice consumers to consume. Fuck each and every goddamned television and radio commercial for whoring themselves for our money. Fuck every newspaper ad and insert offering an insane discount on that must-have lead-laden crap made in China. Fuck the goddamned throngs of inconsiderate, mindless assholes that crowd every mall, department store, and curio shop in search of the perfect gift… or a gift that will suffice.

I’m not a religious man at all, yet I can’t help but laugh at how a religious event has been twisted into a reason to buy things. Whether you believe December 25 is a pagan celebration of the winter solstice, or a Christian celebration of the approximate birthday of Jesus, the roots of Christmas are based in religion not capitalism.

Back in the 1650s, Puritans in Massachusetts banned the celebration of Christmas for nearly three decades because they saw it as a throwback to their Crown roots. They couldn’t take time off from work, have a big feast, decorate their homes, etc. Even when the law was overturned, the disdain for Christmas continued for many years. In fact, Christmas in America attracted about as much attention as Kwanzaa does today until the mid 1800s. But, just after the Civil War, retailers realized they could use the Christmas season to market their shit we gotta have. Their first hurdle was getting Protestants to let go of their hostility towards Christmas. Then President Ulysses S. Grant designated Christmas a federal holiday in 1870, promoting the secular aspects of the holiday. Ever since then, the holiday season of advertising and commercialization has gotten out of hand.

If you’re less than 80 years old, you grew up with the heart-warming story of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer who saved Christmas with his nose so bright. But that entire story was made up by an employee of Montgomery Ward. A national Christmas icon created by a department store in order to sell more crap, then immortalized in songs, television, movies, and comic books. While Coca-Cola didn’t invent Santa Claus, they definitely “standardized” the image of a jolly fat man, with rosy cheeks and a flowing white beard wearing a gaudy pimp suit.

Now that same happy image sits on thrones in department stores across the country, surrounded by “elves” in curly-toed shoes and long lines of selfish, greedy vaginal vermin begging for Red Ryder BB guns and dolls that piss themselves. I offer a hearty fuck you to all you parents and your children who have infested our retail outlets with incessant screeching and crying. We should pass a law that outlaws these prepubescent shitstains from throwing a fucking tantrum in a public store, and punish their non-confrontational, tree-hugging, soy-eating parents for not smacking the fuck out of their misbehaving brats!

Christmas is all about the almighty dollar nowadays, as evidenced by the non-stop holiday ads in every form of media. It’s ridiculous. It’s like driving down skid row looking for a hooker. They’re all dressed provocatively, as if to say, “pick me, pick me!” C’mon, you know it’s true! Especially when you realize you’re looking for the best deal for the least amount of money. “Sucky sucky five dolla? Me love you long time.” Or, “Garmin GPS hundred dolla?” No difference.

The recent economic recession seems to made things worse: holiday email spam, television ads, radio ads, junk mail, “Christmasized” logos on retailer’s web sites… It’s a constant barrage of holiday marketing that retailers hoped would make a bad economy a bit better. Christ! There’s over 50 shopping channels broadcasting 24 hours a day, and late-night television is lousy with paid programming. Who the fuck is buying all this shit in the middle of the night? If the economy is so bad, why haven’t all these sleep-deprived materialistic fuckwads with credit cards and a shipping address heard about it?

Of course, the holiday ads don’t stop on December 25. Oh no. There’s the “After Christmas” sale, the “Post-Christmas Sale-abration” sale, the “December Clearance” sale, the “New Year” sale, the “Boxing Day” sale, the “Everything Must Go” sale… whatever the time, the retailers have a sale for it. If there was truth in advertising, there’d only be one kind of sale — the “Buy Our Shit So We Won’t Have To Be Bailed Out By The Government” sale. Fuck TARP and fuck Prince Henry, too!

Why do they always pin the hopes of their bottom line on four to six weeks of holiday discounts? Doesn’t it make sense to market like it’s the holidays all year long? Maybe if they did, so much attention wouldn’t be paid to their economic well-being at Christmas and we can get back to the real reason for the season.

But the holidays aren’t JUST about capitalism. Even though it’s only for one week a year, families put aside their differences and get together to celebrate a tradition. People are usually more generous during the Chrismahanukwanzakah season, and the shear amount of alcohol consumption makes everyone appear happier. However, the impending debt, crowded stores, stupid greeting cards, ungrateful phony attitudes, and endless drone of the old tired Christmas songs just makes me hate the time of year all the more…. which leads to posts like this. It’s more predicable than the first snow.

Fuck it. That’s all for today. Tina’s already shot me several disapproving glares for writing yet another annual “I hate Christmas” post. I’ll have my annual year in review post sometime before the new year… hopefully.

Anyway, back to my point. No, I’m not happy with the choice. I am happy, however, that our airwaves won’t be inundated with political commercials, our roadways won’t be littered with political posters, and Keith Olbermann can finally go back to sucking the cock of whoever gave him his job on MSNBC. Be sure to wear your bib, Keith… I’d hate for you to ruin your tie, my friend.

If you read my last blog post, you’ll recall that I was a bit mystified that I was leaning conservative. Call it age, call it wisdom, call it fear. I liked John McCain, because Barack Obama is pretty much an complete unknown. Oh, we know the life he wants us to know, the life we know from his two books, the life that the media agreed to report. I’m talking about the used-to-be-Muslim, socialist/Marxist, “James Cone-ian,” unrepentant terrorist, Chicago politics side of Obama that we all want to know about.

My friends, before I get going here, let me say that I am not angry, or bitter, or depressed that the candidate I voted for lost the election. Mr. Obama’s team was well-funded, and ran an extremely effective campaign. In the end, we Americans have a new president, and I honestly wish him the best. He ran on hope and change, and I sincerely hope he can change what is ailing this great country. Come on, I’m not stupid. If Obama fails, American fails, and I seriously doubt our country can survive another Carter administration.

However… my well-wishes don’t preclude him from well-deserved scrutiny and the occasional ridicule. If history says lampooning the past 43 presidents is fair game, then the 44th is also a legitimate target. Out of respect to the Democrats and liberal left wing, I will show their president the same respect and loyalty that they have shown the current Republican president. According to Francis Edward Smedley, “all’s fair in love and war.”

To be in the political spotlight, you have to have a thick skin. Criticism is part of the job. There’s always going to be people that don’t like you. The disciples of the Messiah better get used to the fact that their beloved president is going to held to the extremely high standard he set for himself. Obama made a lot of promises. His followers believed he could do no wrong and could walk on water. Well, the campaign’s over Mr. President-elect, and you’re at the water’s edge. Put your water wings on and get walkin’.

Look, just because many countries and their leaders, as well as 52% of the American electorate and mainstream media fell in love Barack Obama, doesn’t mean I have to. This is America where — for the moment — we still have First Amendment rights. Yes, Obama is an “African American.” That doesn’t mean he should be treated with kid gloves, my friends. His detractors should not have their opinions squelched for fear of being called a racist or un-American.

And speaking of African American, in Obama’s own words he called himself a mutt (when referring to shelter dogs for his kids). He’s a swirl, people! Let’s not forget that he’s half black, and half white. His father was black and from Kenya, his mother was white and from Kansas. I’m a little tired Hollywood’s mouth pieces spouting off about how proud they are of America for electing a “black man.” They insist on planting their face in front of any camera and shove their view down our throats, telling us that he’s a great man, the JFK of our generation. Give me a break.

To be honest, I don’t understand all the love that was poured on Obama. Recently, the economy went into the toilet like a digested 32 ounce Porterhouse turd. It splashed up on the sphincter of our 401(k) plans like a Herb Moses pearl necklace on Barney Frank’s turkey neck. While most experts criticized Obama’s tax plan as detrimental, the polls showed B. Hussein Obama could handle the economy better than John McCain. Why? What makes people believe Obama, with his community organizing, eight years of state stenate, and two years of U.S. Senate experience could handle a trillion dollar budget better than McCain with his five years of U.S. House and 22 years of U.S. Senate experience? Am I missing something? Are people are fucking stupid? I looked it up; it’s on the Int0rn3ts, so it must be true! Some people still believe the Earth is flat, the moon is made of cheese, the moon landings were faked, Elvis is still alive, and a junior Senator from Illinois can be a better president. It was the Kool-aid. It had to be the Kool-aid. This infallible trust in Obama is based almost entirely on a few facts; he’ll change America and he’s Democratical… not another Bush Republican.

Oh, lest I forget the government dole. I think people also believed Obama would grant tax credits and stimulus checks. God bless the Treasury’s checkbook!

On thing that I find super creepy is everyone fawning over Obama, writing songs and painting pictures about him like he a Pope, or the second (another?) coming of Muhammad. Does anyone remember the murals of middle east dictators that we used to see on the evening news decades ago? Here’s one a couple or few of what I’m talking about. Maybe it’s just me, but that’s just a form of idol worship! As a kid, I never put pictures of rock stars or athletes on my bedroom walls… or at least I don’t recall doing that. My point is, it’s fucking creepy! Especially if you’re a citizen in a third world nation, and your jackbooted dictator forces you to paint his picture on the side of some shithole no-tell motel. Two words: super creepy. Now, compare those litter box dictator murals to the murals that the Flavor Aid-drinking supporters of Obama have painted around our nation: this one, this one, and this one. It seems eerily similar, doesn’t it? Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but with a name like “Barack Hussein Obama,” and the gaffe of “57 states,” coupled with his Islamic upbringing and these freaky weird murals… I can’t help but wonder what the hell we’ve gotten ourselves into. And it doesn’t stop at murals. Hell no. There’s shirts, too. Here’s another, and another. Damn. It’s only a matter of time before he has people graveling at his feet, kissing his ring. Sieg Heil!

Even the media — both press and broadcast — jumped the goddamn shark during this election cycle. They were mollycoddling the Chosen One, our Savior of Hope and Change, like the surrogate infant son of Allah. A study by The Project for Excellence in Journalism found that media coverage for both presidential candidates was equal after their conventions. However, coverage for McCain was 57% negative, 14% positive, and 29% neutral. On the other side, Obama’s negative, positive, and neutral coverage was 29%, 36%, 35%, respectively. Factor in affirmative action, and that almost seems fair.

Sarah Palin’s coverage was surprisingly more even, but was covered 3-to-1 over Joe Biden. Palin received 28% positive, 39% negative and 33% neutral coverage. But the negative coverage was viciously negative and downright evil. Mainstream media should be fucking ashamed of themselves for the flat-out lies they told! Oh yes, lies! Like saying Palin’s Down syndrome baby Trig was actually her oldest daughter’s illegitimate baby. That was a lie that no one in the media bothered to validate. I guess they were too busy enjoying Obama’s chocolate salty balls.

Cap'n Crunch should revoke their journalism degrees!

Forget the lies, much was made of Palin’s gaffes — the Bush Doctrine, foreign policy, what periodicals she reads, the clothes she wears — and she got a substantial amount of scrutiny for it. Yet, Joe Biden barely got a mention. During the vice presidential debates, Biden said, “[Vice President Dick Cheney] doesn’t realize that Article I of the Constitution defines the role of the vice president of the United States, that’s the Executive Branch.” In the same statement, he continues, “The only authority the vice president has from the legislative standpoint is the vote, only when there is a tie vote. He has no authority relative to the Congress. The idea he’s part of the Legislative Branch is a bizarre notion invented by Cheney to aggrandize the power of a unitary executive…” Where’s the outrage? How can a senator of 36 years not know that Article II — not Article I — of the Constitution outlines the Executive Branch? How can a senator of 36 years not know the vice president is the president of the Senate? Let me say that again. A six-term Senator doesn’t know that the Vice President of the United States is the president of the Senate! Was he asleep during history class? Was he absent the day he assumed office in 1973? Jesus Christ!

Can you imagine the parodies that would have ensued if Sarah Palin had fucked up like Biden did when he said, “When the stock market crashed, Franklin D. Roosevelt got on the television and didn’t just talk about the, you know, the princes of greed. He said, ‘Look, here’s what happened.’” Sounds innocuous, until you realize Herbert Hoover was president in 1929, not FDR, and no one was watching television. Television was in it’s infancy in 1929 (only a year old), and electronic tube televisions weren’t mass-marketed in the U.S. until 1934. I ask again, where was the outrage? No one cared. Everyone was too busy looking longingly into Obama’s eyes and groping his ass, I guess.

I was completely floored by another tidbit from Fox Mulder’s filing cabinet. During the campaign, Obama said of Pennsylvanians in small towns, “they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.” Really! Another blow to the Keystone State’s mining industry, near the end of the campaign an interview came to light that had Obama saying he would bankrupt the coal industry if they built any new coal power plants. Now, if I still lived in Pennsylvania, I wouldn’t have voted for the candidate that uttered such insults. Yet, Pennsylvanians voted for Obama 54.6% to 44.6%. Unbelievable.

To add injury to insult, Jack Murtha, Pennsylvania’s 12th congressional district Representative said, “There is no question that western Pennsylvania is a racist area.” He quickly pulled his foot from his dentures and issued a retraction; “there’s still folks that have a problem voting for someone because they are black … This whole area, years ago, was really redneck…” Murtha won his bid for a seventeenth term. Apparently Pennsylvanians aren’t racists or rednecks. They’re fucking retarded!

Now that we have chosen our next King of Kings, I expect America will actually change. However, I don’t think it will be for the better. I fear that people will now expect to be treated different by a democratic government run by a sympathetic minority president. In June, I wrote of the race card and stated that if Barack Obama won the presidency, all “race cards” would expire. Well, guess what America! Race cards expire in January! African Americans will not be able to scream “racism” if they feel the Man is keeping them down. You can’t bitch about the Man if you are the Man, bitches! Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton will be reduced to common Americans, their clout for racial equality reduced to a girly slap fight.

While many feel we’ve turned a corner on racism in the country by electing Obama, I have a sinking feeling that we’ve begun a new chapter that will only widen the rift. I hope I’m wrong. I honestly do. I don’t want to ride in the back of the bus.

Sadly, that’s where my voting experience ends.

Knowing history I know Bushie 41 won the election in 1988, but my life was focused on all sorts of me-me-me-dom. C’mon, it was the 1980s, the decade of “Me!” I blame Reagan. I was 22 and living in Philadelphia at the time, but registered in West Chester where I grew up. I was thinking with the wrong head, traveling to and from upstate New York. I didn’t have time to register in a new city or worry about such nonsense as politics. It was all about me. What are politics going to do for me? I didn’t care, I didn’t form opinions. President who? Whatever.

By 1992, I was in Washington. I was living on my own far from my family, and generally being a productive, job-holding citizen of society. I registered to vote here in the small town in which I live and fully expected to wield that constitutional power granted to me by the forefathers of this great nation. It would be my first vote on the West coast, and I liked Clinton.

After work, I headed home for dinner. While eating, Tom Brokaw announced that Bill Clinton would be the next president of the United States. I sat there stunned, mouth open waiting for a forkful of food, as I wondered how they could announce a winner when half the country hadn’t finished voting yet. I hadn’t voted yet! Goddammit, my vote doesn’t count?! What kind of bullshit was that?

It was that day that caused me to never vote in an election again. What’s the point of voting if the East coast exit polls predicted the winner early? Fuck it, this country can elect a president without my vote. Fine by me, at least I don’t have to go to some gymnasium or community center and speak loudly and slowly to some nonagenarian volunteer that’s seen more presidential elections than penises. I was done.

Oh, I would watch, and I would form my opinions. I inevitably would favor one candidate and quietly hope he would win. But when it came time to vote, I was doing other things with my free time. In 1996, I liked Clinton still, even though most of my friends didn’t. But the other choice was Bob Dole, and I don’t think Bob Dole liked Bob Dole. And Bob Dole held a pen, and Bob Dole talked about himself in the third person. Bob Dole was weird.

In 2000, I watched again as Bushie Jr. and the inventor of the Internet battled it out. Again, I liked the democratic candidate. It was a Clinton fan, and since Clinton couldn’t run for a third term, Gore was the next best thing. The dot-com bubble burst, but the country wasn’t bad off. Things seemed okay heading into the 21st century. Of course, the election turned into fiasco, and no one’s vote counted. The arthritic dinosaurs of Florida couldn’t poke holes in paper, so the Supreme Court appointed W to office. Excellent. During the campaign, I remember Bush said he was going to restore honor to the oval office, in contrast to Clinton’s cigar-inserting, knob-polishing, seed-spilling antics. I recall talking to my friend Dave on the day Bush was appointed to office, I made a joke that it would be hard to restore honor now that we have Dick and Bush in office. He thought that was highly funny. I also told several friends that we would have lots of trouble in the Middle East. I knew Saddam Hussein disliked Bushie's Pop, and predicted Junior would finish what Daddy started. Nailed that one, eh?

Four years later, my views in the 2004 election were no different. I didn’t like GWB in 2000, and he didn’t do anything that won my favor. Of course, my own little secret imaginary election left me with a douche or a turd to root for, and I reluctantly sided with Kerry. I didn’t like either one. In fact, I hated them both. But if I had to choose one, I figured a democrat might get us out of a war that a lot of Americans and a lot of my friends didn’t like. Of course, since I didn’t vote, I didn’t really give two tiny goat craplets. Also, in 2004 my Dad was very ill, and I was going through some legal troubles with a former “employer,” for lack of a better description. I wasn’t paying too much attention to politics at the time.

Looking back at all the elections over the past 20 years, I sided with the Democrats every time. With the lone exception of my one and only actual Presidential vote in 1984, I seemed to always want a democratic president. I never really thought of myself as being either Republican or Democratic, but when push came to shove, it was always a Democrat. If I ever cornered myself in a conversation with friends about politics, I’d often be called a liberal democrat, as if it were an insult. I didn’t like the Republicans, and wasn’t afraid to say so. I always thought of myself as more liberal and less conservative, but if you asked me to define those qualities, I’d probably start to drool like a retard hopped up Ritalin. I feel that I’m liberal in some areas, and conservative in others. Just as I dress, I’d say I was somewhere in the middle but leaning to the left. The cookie-cutter labels don’t work with me.

Again I found myself in the Democrat’s camp for 2008, because I really dislike the current administration. The current Republican administration, with their smoke and mirrors lie that got us into a war, and their manipulation of the media. They can’t catch the real Osama, and they probably never will. National security has been whittled away, and they’ve taken many of our civil liberties and right to privacy after the attacks of September 11, 2001. The economy is completely in the porcelain turd tunnel. A gallon of gas costs more than a gallon of milk, many can’t pay their mortgages, and basic necessities like groceries and utilities cost far more than ever. Christ, the list goes on and on… the environment, education, healthcare, taxes. And to top it all off, our relationships with other countries is severely damaged. Americans are hated more than ever by people that matter; other first world countries. Fuck the liberated sand monkeys (for lack of an N-word) in the Middle East. They don’t matter.

So this primary race, I found myself pulling for Hillary. Again, as so many times in the past, the choice was between two turds. Which one of these two turds smells better? Which one could be polished up and thrown in front of FOX News and CNN cameras? I didn’t like either one, but putting that proverbial gun to my head and forcing a choice, I chose Billary. For no other reason than it would piss off so many Republicans, and because I feel Balack Hussein Osama has no experience in anything except roll call, where to go for lunch, and how to be more white. Look, it always comes down to ‘who will do less damage?’ And now that Billary lost the primary, it was down to the Anointed One, and that just makes me want to lift one cheek and let one rip. It can’t stink any worse.

But then last Friday morning, while riding the Clinton-Mukilteo ferry to work, I read about Sarah Palin on Wikipedia. This was several hours before the official announcement when she was still thought to be on McCain’s short list. I liked what I read. A runner up in the Miss Alaska pageant, a former city council member, the mayor of her home town for six years, the governor of Alaska for two years. I read that she was trying to end corruption in her State’s government, and strongly supported drilling for oil. My first impression was positive, but then came all the negative “news,” especially of her teenage daughter’s pregnancy. Of course, those stories ended up being lies fabricated by the “Liberal Left Media Elite to Elect King Barack Hussein Obama.” That’s an activist group, right? It must be considering the way CNN and NBC News are carrying on.

On Wednesday, I watched Palin’s speech at the Republican National Convention — as 40+ million others did — and was wowed! She came off as a down-to-earth, regular person that faces basically the same issues most Americans face. She didn’t appear to be another long-winded blow-hard talking out her ass. Suddenly I was liking the Republicans, and the Democrats appeared scared.

When her speech was finished, I listened as so-called experts gave their opinions. I found myself agreeing with Sean Hannity and Rush Limbaugh. What the hell? If the interview guest was conservative, I was applauding their viewpoints. If they were liberal democrats blowing Barack Hussein Obama’s horn, I was getting irritated and yelling at the TV. Am I really leaning to the right now? Am I becoming [gasp] a Republican? Tina found all this highly amusing. I, however, can’t stop anxiously running my hand over my buzzcut head in wide-eyed disbelief. So, I checked with the Internets and found a small quiz. I scored “63% Republican.” Shit! Another more exhaustive test puts me slightly on the authoritarian right than the libertarian left of a political compass.

Holy finger-snapping hell, man! When did this happen? When did I start agreeing with the conservative right? Do I have a stomach flu, or is that the Republican in me making me queasy? How did I become a Republican? Somewhere in eastern Washington, a friend of mine is laughing.

Certainly these right-minded views weren’t fed to me with a silver spoon. I spent most of my childhood in middle-class suburban Philadelphia. Growing up, my immediate family didn’t go to church, and we never talked politics. To this day I don’t believe in a God. This can’t be! I’ve never (ever!) thought about soliciting gay sex in an airport bathroom, and never wondered what it would be like to shoot an old man in the face.

Now that I think about it, I can name a few I wouldn’t mind shooting… but that’s a topic for another blog update.

I guess you’ve figured out by now that I plan on voting this November, and who I will vote for. If you know me, that’s probably a big surprise. Then again, you probably don’t care.

Maybe you’re wondering what the hell the picture associated with this blog update is all about. After McCain selected Palin, the democrats were spouting off about her perceived inexperience as a politician. Of course, Balack Hussein Osama's experience has been questioned for 19 months as he criss-crossed his 57 states, but we all forgot about that. What I found odd were the pundits and self-proclaimed media elite comparing Palin to Obama. Suddenly, everyone was comparing Palin’s obvious executive leadership to King Hussein’s… well, to his “present” votes. It was fascinating to watch these so-called experts compare the apple VP candidate to the orange presidential candidate. Tina actually said “they’re not comparing apples to oranges, they’re comparing melons to nuts,” which is simply excellent!

Finally, take a look at this brief job description: …the head of the executive branch of government and the commander-in-chief of the military forces… has a duty to enforce laws, the power to either approve or veto bills passed by the Legislature, power to convene the Legislature, and to grant pardons, except in cases of impeachment. Sounds pretty presidential, huh? That’s basically the job of a State Governor in a nut shell, uh… melon rind. I’ll also remind you that of the 43 presidents in our country’s history, 17 were State Governors. Eight of the 18 presidents since 1901 have been State Governors. And there have been three presidents that were city mayors. So before anyone starts casting doubts about experience, maybe we should all do a little brushing up on our high school government history lessons.

Well, this is where I’ll leave you… let the flaming commence! I’m sorry to have to bring up politics, but they are a waste of fucking time, and that fits in with the title of this site.

I watch artistic gymnastics… oh, every time Halley,s Comet enters our solar system. Alright, every four years. But each time, I remember why I hate gymnastics. Besides the obvious reason of being flat-out boring as hell, the judging is done by bitter old crows that can’t even bend over to put the toilet seat down before they take a squat. Of course, these Olympics were no different, and there was an added bonus of an age controversy. Holy hell! I watched the prepubescent Chinese girls and wondered why the Fédération Internationale de Gymnastique believed their passports were accurate. Are those French bastards blind? Gymnasts must turn 16 during the year of the Olympics in order to be eligible to compete. However, the Chinese girls looked like they were playing dress-up with their mother’s cosmetics before putting on a gymnastic leotard that was a size too big and stepping onto the world stage. While the girls of other countries were showing signs of puberty, the Chinese girls looked like 10-year old boys. For all we know, they may have been 10-year old boys! They had no signs of hip widening, no budding boobies, no curves at all. Hell, those girls still had deciduous teeth in their skulls! I defy you to find a 16-year old girl that still has her baby teeth. C’mon! Maybe girls that smoked five packs of Malrboros a day since they were 3 still have baby teeth at 16, but no one else… and definitely not 83% of one gymnastics team! Hey, maybe eating Chinese cuisine stunts your growth. Think about it. Maybe that’s why they’re so damned short. I think I’m on to something here. Stop scaring us with all the “weed will stunt your growth” rhetoric, and start a study on Peking Duck, dammit. Pass the bong!

Of course, the FIG says the Chinese have provided all the proof they need, in spite of the fact that several documents have been uncovered — even official government documents — that indicates several of the Chinese gymnasts were not old enough to compete. The Opening and Closing ceremonies as well as the 16 days of games prove that the Chinese government spared no expense and worked very hard at showing the world their best face… right down to forging documents that falsify age. Top that, London!

I call bullshit, and the US Olympic Committee should not let this go! The IOC should come up with some sort of radiometric dating-type test to determine age. Carbon-14, anyone? Although, I’m pretty sure the test would be inconclusive on living organisms that aren’t yet 16 years old. Maybe the only way to tell their age is to cut them in half and count the growth rings. Maybe.

Finally, the image for this update. I made a few, but settled with the best one you see here. A close runner up was a group photo of the Chinese Gymnasts for the 2012 London games, which you can see here. I made a third image that’s funny in it’s own right, but I wasn’t happy with it. Check out an early photo of a 2012 Chinese gymnast in this image. It could happen. It probably will!

I actually received a comment on my last blog update that gave me compliments on my writing, but criticized my abundant use of the word “fuck.” My first thought when I read the comment was to do a rant, something like from Eddie Murphy in RAW. He was imitating Bill Cosby saying, “yooooouuu can’t say filth flarn filth flarn filth… in front of people.” He called Richard Pryor and relayed Cosby’s incredulous criticism, and Pryor says, “Next time the motherfucker calls, tell him I said, ‘Suck my dick.’ … I don’t give a fuck… Whatever the fuck makes the people laugh, say that shit… tell Bill I said, ‘Have a Coke and a smile and shut the fuck up, the Jell-O pudding-eating motherfucker.’” Funny shit, but I thought better of it. The reader is right. I don’t need “fuck” to make my writing better. So, I’ll take his fucking advice and cut the fuck back on the gratuitous fucking use of the word ‘fuck.’ Seriously. I had fun overusing the word in this paragraph, but I appreciate the reader’s candor and will take his advice. Really. Stop laughing!

I was watching the Olympics last weekend, like I said, and my TiVo died. Some of you may know I have two DirecTV TiVos; a Series 1 and a Series 2, both hacked, both with additional storage space. A couple years ago during a sweltering Whidbey Island heatwave, the Series 2 stopped working. My first thought was the weakest link failed — the fan — and the system got too hot and triggered its self-preservation subroutine. Okay, maybe TiVo isn’t that smart, but it still stopped working. Since the Series 1 unit was still going strong, I just pulled the Series 2 from the rack to look at later. Later ended up being last weekend. Michael Phelps was swimming his eighth final for a gold medal, and both my TiVos were DOA. Worst. Timing. Ever.

My spidey senses were telling me it was a power supply problem. My Series 2 TiVo was originally a one-drive system, but my storage upgrade added a second drive (and more heat and more power load) to the system. As a last-ditch effort, I pulled the cover and looked at the power supply. I could see a bulging capacitor on the board, which confirmed my fears of a bad PS. Anyway, I yanked the drives, removing the louder and smaller drive. Using InstantCake, I turned the larger of the two drives into a brand new 6.2a single drive OS and slapped it back into the TiVo. My thought was one drive would be less of a load on the power supply than two drives, and it might power up. I hooked up my ailing TiVo to the TV, plugged in the power cord and… was disappointed. I had power; the case fan was spinning, albeit as fast as a dreidel on January 2, but the drive wouldn’t spin up, and there were no lights lit up on the front. Tha case fan wasn’t slow because of low voltage. The fan doesn’t spin freely when the power is off. It needs to be replaced.

To make a long story even more painfully long, after being plugged in and “dead” for 45 minutes, I was surprised to hear the Series 2 TiVo spin up! It acquired satellite signal and I was watching the Olympics again… although it was now 11pm, and the prime time show was about over. While watching, I did some Googling and found a site that detailed how to fix a TiVo power supply. They replaced the exact capacitor that was bulging on my power supply, so I ordered some capacitors on Monday morning.

Fast forward to this past weekend. I received my mail-order capacitors on Friday, and Saturday morning I pulled the TiVo from the rack again. With my trusty soldering iron fired up, I unscrewed the power supply, and replaced the bad 2200uF cap. I used 25-volt low impedance cap instead of the stock 16-volt cap, and I added a second 25-volt at the C31 position, which was left empty by the factory. It was an easy task, and I couldn’t help but think of my paternal grandfather who taught me how to use a soldering iron.

I carted the TiVo back to the rack, hooked it up, and was disappointed again. No lights, no spinning drive… but that retarded fan was spinning. The bulging capacitor was not the problem. I may have to spend the $69 for a replacement power supply. Of course, $100 will get me a new TiVo. I should go HD, but that shit’s expensive and I have a truck to pay for. What will I do?

On a side note, I won an eBay auction for a Series 1 power supply. Fourteen dollars and 8 days later, I swapped the power supply in my old Series 1 TiVo. Again I was disappointed. While the power supply worked perfectly and powered up the TiVo immediately, the video signal has no color, and when there’s motion on the screen, I get many lines of magenta interference. I thought it was the video cable, but swapping out cables didn’t change the poor image quality. I’m thinking the Series 1 TiVo is dead. I think I’ll wear black and mourn the passing of a 7-year old friend.

That’s all I got for you now, kiddies. I have to go. I have to do my part to conserve energy and properly inflate my tires. See ya next time!

On Thursday, July 3, I was supposed to work from home, but didn’t. I went to the doctor about my knee then spend the rest of the day with ice and heat on it. More on that later. On Friday, I drove around and took some pictures with a friend’s camera. It’s been a long time since I used a quality SLR camera, and I was having a blast… even though I knew I would pay for it later (again, more on that later).

The camera was a Nikon D80 digital single lens reflex camera, and it works exactly like the Old Time SLRs I used to used back in the Before Time, but better. Total control of the aperture and shutter equals full manual mode. A reflex mirror and real viewfinder! OMG, what fun! I could take long exposures with a small aperture for a greater depth of field which means everything is in focus. Nothing like the point and shoot cameras you can get at the Wal-Marche, with their tiny useless flashes and shitty LCD displays.

After a rude filter-shopping encounter with an old shrew (read: shriveled cunt) at the Oak Harbor Ritz Camera, I decided to download a PDF of the Nikon’s owners manual. I started playing with the settings, and put it in black and white mode with a red filter effect. This would allow me to take black and white photos where reds were lighter and the blues darker — like Ansel Adams photographs. For my first attempt with a borrowed camera, I don’t think the pictures turned out too bad. Take a look at the gallery.

When I got home from shooting black and white, it was dinner time. After dinner, I re-adjusted the camera back to color images with no filtering in order to take pictures of the town’s fireworks display.

Speaking of fireworks, my neighbors are complete fucking retards. They were having a barbecue, and had about 700 people jammed in their house. I may be two or three people off on that estimate, but let’s say there were a lot of people next door. Christ, one of their waterhead kids had a fanned mohawk haircut. Really, a mohawk? Mr. T from the 1980s called; he says he pities your drunk ass for shaving your kid’s head that way! Be a parent and tell the kid no at least once before he grows up into a total cocksucker!

Anyway, including the two front yards and gravel driveway, the door-to-door distance between the front of my house and the front of one of my neighbors is about seventy feet. The gravel driveway is slightly wider than three cars widths. Think of a one way street with cars on both sides, the remaining space is about a car width and a half. There’s basically the width of a car left in the driveway, and the vehicles parks along the edges of the yards are newer, no more than 5 year old cars. So what do my retarded fucking neighbors do? Before the sun goes down, they drag a hunk of plywood into the middle of the driveway and light off Class B fucking fireworks! The so-called “safe and sane” fireworks you buy at the stands in town weren’t good enough for these fuckstains. No. They had to have the biggest, loudest fireworks available at the Swinomish indian reservation. For those of you not familiar with the area, those are casino indians, not Slurpee indians.

I knew, just fucking knew, that my new truck was being showered in burning embers of black powder, and I couldn’t have that. At 8:45pm — with the sun still shining — I grabbed the camera and my tripod, and I peeled out of the driveway, which was the best white boy show of disgust I could muster. I drove up to Barrington Drive west of the Wal-Marche, where it was an all-out block party.

The streets were lines with cars, and people had set up lawn chairs on any semi-level plot of land they could find. One group of people even had a bonfire going, which I thought was highly illegal. The police had better things to do, I guess… seatbelt quotas must be low. People had their dogs with them, kids were screaming and running around with sparklers, moms were snapping pictures with cell phones (!), and dads were showing off their testicular size with fire and explosives. God Bless America, dammit!

I found a grassy knoll and set up the tripod — hanging my backpack o’ socket wrench set from the stabilizing weight hook — and placed the camera atop it. It was still quite bright outside, but at least I was ready for the show… albeit more than an hour early. When the show finally started around 10:15pm, I started taking pictures with the remote trigger. The pictures, most at 6 second exposers, turned out better than I thought they would. Check ‘em out in the gallery.

It was 11:00pm when I got home, and my jackass neighbors were still huddled about their plywood pyrotechnic platform swilling beer. They acted like Geordi LaForge from the Star Trek TNG episode “Identity Crisis” in all the foot-candles my fog and headlights threw at them. Drunk fuckers. Tina had turned on the floodlights out front in hopes they would give up, but no such luck. They continued to light off fireworks until 12:30am, when I finally got fed up and told them to knock it off. Washington state law was on my side after midnight; next step would have been to call the sheriff. Luckily they went inside to sleep off their stupor.

I mentioned my knee. I have no idea what the fuck is going on with my right knee, but I know it hurts. The amount of time I spend at my desk and the long 200-mile round trip commute from hell has often left my leg stiff and sore. But after a few steps and an hour or so of being straightened, things were basically back to normal.

However, in early June it really started to bug me. I got up from my desk to go home, and could barely walk. I couldn’t put any weight on my right knee. I finally stretched it out and was able to hobble to the car to get home. Once home, I slapped a heating pad on my knee and gobbled Tylenol like they were potato chips for the pain. Nothing helped… until I made an appointment to see my doctor. Days before I was supposed to go in, I was walking around like I was Michael Johnson, only whiter… and slower… and fatter… and breathing a whole lot more. I was upright, at least!

I canceled my doctor’s appointment, and when my knee got that confirmation, it started hurting again. Getting old sucks a fat one, so I made another appointment and finally saw the doc on the 3rd. He twisted my foot, pulled my leg, and pressed down on my knee cap while telling me to tighten thigh muscles. When he was done, my knee hurt more than it did going in, but he said that was good. He said that there’s probably no physical damage, that the cartilage is bruised, and my knee is “pissed off at me.” He used those words, “pissed off at me.” The official problem is Patello-femoral Pain Syndrome (but I think it’s more like Retropatellar Pain Syndrome). They’re both very similar.

The doc showed my a cool model of the knee, and explained my thigh muscles (quadriceps) aren’t pulling my knee cap (patella) evenly through the groove (trochlear groove) of my thigh bone (femur) when I walk or straighten my leg. It’s that uneven pull that is causing my knee cap to inflame my knee. He sent me home with instructions to exercise my quads, and take 400mg of Advil and 1000mg of Tylenol — at the same time — for pain and anti-inflamation. That’s not working. It’s been more than 10 days since I saw the doc, and I’m still in the same amount of pain I was when I saw him. The next time I see him, he’ll probably stab me with a large needle full of cortisone… or send me somewhere for an MRI. Fucking excellent.

Well, that’s all for now. I’ll keep ya up to date on my knee, ’cause I know how everyone loves other peoples’ pain. You bastards.

The racial and gender bias in the 2008 Democratic primaries was an issue whether or not we as a Nation wanted to admit it. You know there are a lot of narrow-minded racists in this country that would never vote for a black turd. There are an equal number of misogynist cocks that would never cast their vote for a female douche. It’s not hard to see where the votes for these two candidates came from.

Balack Osama, riding an overwhelming wave of African-American support, killed Billary in most big cities, while she lynched him (metaphorically, goddammit. metaphorically!) in rural areas. In fact, the success of any black candidate for any office can be directly correlated to the proportion of African-Americans in the population. Why do you think three of the past four mayors of Philadelphia (dating back to 1984) have been black? According to the 2000 Census, 45% of Philly is white, 43.2% is black. I grew up in Philly, and I remember the racial tension of the campaigns when the city elected its first black mayor. Even after Goode’s popularity waned following the MOVE investigation, he was still re-elected. Amazing! All this just proves my point. There doesn’t have to be more blacks in an electoral area, there just has to be a somewhat equal percentage of blacks and white… and with those numbers, black candidates are more likely to be elected to office. In predominately whites areas, black electoral success is not so easy. I wonder what would happen if both parties threw us a curve ball. In 2016, if the Democratic party nominated a cunt… we’ll call her Oprah, and the Republican party nominated a cocksucker, oh, let’s say openly gay comedian Scott Thompson (yeah, I know he’s Canadian). I think this country would loose its fucking mind. Congress would outlaw watermelon, fried chicken, rainbow parties, and maple leafs for sure!

Anyway, let me make myself clear. I am not a fan of Balack Osama. In fact, I’d have rather had a president with tits (and I don’t mean McCain’s man tits). The point of this blog entry is certainly not to defend race- or gender-based political decision making. I’m just pointing out that it exists and that it will be a factor in the upcoming general election. In fact, when the Democrats started jockeying for the 2008 nomination back in, shit, 1972 I think, I wanted Billary to be president because it would piss off so many republicans. But now Billary has bowed out and we’re left with Osama and Old Man McCain. Doesn’t it worry anyone that McCain is 71 and wants to be president? What if he died after being elected? Fuck, George Carlin died at 71, people! (And if you weren’t paying attention, I used all seven of George’s words you can never say on television above. Rest in peace, George.)

Anyway, I’m leaning towards wanting Balack Osama to win… but for reasons that aren’t so clear.

As a country, I think we must nominate and elect an African American. Seriously, how will the rest of the world view the U.S. if we don’t nominate a black man for President? We’d be seen as the racist, war mongering assholes that we were 230 years ago, sans the powdered wigs. If we elect Balack Osama, every single race card in America expires! No shit! Think about it. “Yo dawg, I not be gettin’ dat job at da McDonald’s because I is black.” Ugh, sorry my negro friend, you did not get the job because ebonics is your primary language and you have more “bling” on your teeth than Mr. T wore in The A-Team. There would be no more affirmative action. No longer could the race card be effectively used against us cracker-ass crackers! Whites and blacks would be on equal footing. If anyone tried to play the race card, all we’d have to do is point to a picture of our black president. Shit, I’d carry a picture of Balack Osama in my wallet! The so-called race card would be as useful as little orange $500 Monopoly bills at the gas pump… or, as my uncle Bob used to say, “as useful as a limp dick in a whorehouse.”

Gas prices fucking suck! There’s not a whole lot more I can say than that. I’d have bet all the sweat on my nut sack plus three quarters, a nickel, and two pennies (that’s all I got, man) that I’d never long for the days of $3.30 a gallon gas. Just a dollar lower than today’s ass-raping prices would save me $132 a month. When we started this commute from hell to Seattle (also known as hell), gas prices were about $2.30 a gallon. Now they’re nearly double! Personally, I don’t give two squirts of camel shit why the prices are so goddamn high. Someone, be it A-rabs, the government, big oil companies, or little green martians, needs to do something about the price of gas in this fucking country before the price of everything is out of the reach of us middle-aged white guys making forty to fifty thousand a year. Seriously! The price of everything (and by everything, I mean everyfuckingthing) is going up and up thanks to the high cost of fuel. Of course, salary isn’t rising to match the rising cost of everything. Increased spending plus stagnant earning equals no money. Anyone else see a problem here?

That’s all I got. It’s too hot to write any more. Where the hell did this sweltering heat come from? The first 20 days of “June-uary” barely made it to 65°F here in the northwest of the Pacific Northwest. Now it’s June 29, and we’re in the middle of a near-record heat wave. Someone turn off the furnace! My butt crack is a canyon of swamp-ass! Simply excrement!

I have a tale to tell about my right knee, but I’ll wait until I get back from the doctor about that. I was supposed to see the doc on the 20th, but missed the appointment because of shitty traffic from Seattle to Whidbey Island. That appointment was rescheduled for July 3.

Since I’m stuck inside tethered to the shitter, I watched racing on television. The 92nd running of the Indianapolis 500 and 49th running of the Coca-Cola 600 took place, and I watched ‘em both. I’ve talked about the Indy 500 before, but watching NASCAR is something new for me to be watching. However, I’m by no means one of those sleeveless flannel shirt-wearing, Busch beer-drinking Southern rednecks or Appalachian hillbillies. You know the type, the double-wide trailer-living dumbass that eats, sleeps, and shits their favorite driver by plastering stock car numbers on every worldly possession, including their vehicles and muffintop women. Holy hell, man!

After 1,100 miles and 2,400 left turns, I noticed something. There’s no black people in motorsports. Yeah, I know, not an original observation, but I found it funny. Tina and I started making fun of the sport, and invented our own sanctioned racing series — “Popeyes Fried Chicken Series.” You won’t find this racing series on FOX, ESPN, or even the SPEED Channel, oh no. Thanks to a multi-million dollar deal, the Popeyes Series races will be seen on BET. And just as the Truck Series is different than the Cup Series, so too shall the Popeyes Fried Chicken Series. Here’s some of the highlights:

• There’s no more pace car. Instead, the Popeyes Series will use a chase car painted like a police car with a red and blue light bar and sirens that will stay out on the track during “normal” conditions. This will encourage fast driving and aggression. In the event of caution, the chase car will leave the track so the drivers can resume slower speeds.
• When a car crashes, Popeyes Series drivers must bail out of their car as fast as possible and run like hell from Race officials in the chase car and television helicopters flying overhead. If caught, the driver loses points in the standings.
• The vehicles may only be a 1971 to 1996 Chevrolet Impalas, any year Chevrolet Caprices, second generation Buick Regals, or any 1985 to 1993 Cadilac Coupe de Ville. The wheels must be 22 inches or bigger and wrapped in anything but Goodyear tires. Here’s an example… and another… and another… and another… and another.
• The drivers must blare hip hop music while racing, so loud that the trunk lid and quarter panels rattle with each beat. They must also drive with one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand hanging out the window, without sitting upright in the driver’s seat.
• To add a bit of a challenge to the race, each car will be equipped with an unregistered hand gun that may be used while passing to take other drivers out of the race, “drive-by” style. Points will be earned for every drive-by that results in a wreck.
• While it may not meet normal NASCAR safety standards, all Popeyes Series drivers must wear pants that hang around the ass and expose at least six inches of underwear. Helmets are still required, but must have Kangol or FUBU printed them, and be worn sideways.
• All cars must have a passenger seat, and drivers must fill that seat with one of his homies or one of his ‘hos. During pit stops, the pit crews may only supply Olde English 800 or Colt 45 to the driver.

Hopefully you’re laughing at all that nonsense, and not thinking I’m a racist. Racism is, basically, discrimination based on skin color. I’m definitely not discriminating against black people… I’m just making fun of the stereotypes. This is no different than the stereotypes of rednecks and hillbillies mentioned above, or the time I poked fun at the driving skills of Asian drivers 18 months ago, so don’t get your panties in a wad. In fact, here’s a picture of me looking apologetic.

Okay, I had planned on writing more. I made another graphic to segue into another “race” issue, but I think I’ll save it for another day when I’m not playing King Wafwot, ruler Bathroomia. Hope everyone has a great Memorial Day holiday.

Bellevue, yes. When I bought my new truck., the dealer didn’t have two ignition keys, the 5-digit code to the keyless entry pad on the driver’s door, the remote key fobs, or an owners’ manual. In fact, all they seemed to have was the truck itself and nothing that went with it. Anyway, after emailing the dealer they said they couldn’t find any additional items for my truck. To hell with them. They’re a nice bunch of car salesmen, for what that’s worth, but I can find the shit I need/want for my truck on the Internets. For about $65 total, I bought a manual from helminc.com, two PATS keys from some entrepreneurial locksmith on eBay, a 34-page 2005 F-150 dealer brochure from some entrepreneurial brochure collector on eBay, and five remote key fobs from another entrepreneurial alarm installer on eBay. If you’re wondering, five fobs were cheaper than two — I just have three extras now. The 5-digit code was found on the VSM behind the rear seat, mounted on the back wall of the cab. I found that small tidbit on the forums at F150online.com. It was a 90 minute project to recover that code.

The only thing I still needed the dealer for was my license plates and programming the PATS keys. PATS keys are special keys that have a transponder chip molded into the head of the key. If the truck doesn’t recognize the key, it disables the fuel pump preventing the vehicle from starting. Normally, I would have been able to program my own keys IF I had two working keys. But, since my truck must have been repossessed by the bank, or traded in by a crack whore, I only had the one key and lacked the ability to program my own keys. This is where the dealer comes in.

I drove my truck to Seattle last Thursday, and during lunch drove to the dealer in Bellevue. I picked up my license plates, and asked if they could program the keys so I could save a trip. Some old grizzled salesman overheard my conversation with the kid that sold me the truck. He told us it takes about 45 minutes to download the data in order to program keys. Forty five minutes? Damn! I asked about their Internet connection speed, joking that I could download the entire ECU with a 28.8 kbps modem faster than that. They either didn’t like my humor, or didn’t understand it. Either way, it meant I still had to make the nearly hundred mile drive to Bellevue on Saturday. Excellent.

So, on Saturday, I left the house around 10:30am. I had several errands around town to complete before I could head south, including going to the locksmith to get my PATS keys cut, going to the bank to make my first payment on this truck, and making a deposit at another bank. Finally heading south, I stopped to get the truck washed at the Blue Cow and a tank of gas at the Indian Chevron station — casino Indians, not Slurpee Indians.

Oh my god, something I learned about this truck a few days after I bought it… The first time I filled it up, I had $100 on me. I knew gas was $3.299 a gallon and figured the tank was the standard 27 gallon variety available in 2005. A bit of quick math in my head said no more than $80 in gas (since I was just under a quarter tank) and I could use the change to get the truck washed. Well, I watched as the pump went past $80… then past $90… and I had to stop at $100! What the fuck? How does 30.3 gallons of gas fit into a 27 gallon tank? Remember that 34-page brochure I bought on eBay? It told me there was an optional gas tank available. My truck has that optional 37.5 gallon tank. Sonofabitch! Fill-ups cost me over $120 at today’s gas prices. Back in the days B.A. (Before Asthma), $120 was enough to keep me high at nights for six weeks. Now it only takes me approximately 575 miles. Oh, how being a responsible adult sucks the balls of so many goats.

Anyway, back to my trip to Bellevue. I got the to dealer around 2:00pm. They had me pull into the service bay, and told me it would take 90 minutes. What?! I thought it was 45 minutes! So much that old salesman knows. Fucker. I had a seat in the “lounge.” It consisted of a TV with the channel selector glued to CNN, a coffee maker, a leather couch with a mother and her kid seated on it, a leather chair, and leather love seat. The chair and love seat had been turned into some foreigner’s mobile office. He had his laptop and papers all over the love seat as he was sitting in the chair, talking to someone on a cell phone in some foreign terrorist language. My first thought: “Someone who thinks he’s this important drives a Ford?”

My bladder said, “hey, you haven’t pissed since 9am, empty me!” Being here for hours on end when I bought the truck in February, I knew the toilets were just through a doorway in the lounge. When I returned, the Sultan of Couchoffice was gone, and Mom was going through the motions of gathering her shit. I didn’t get the impression they were together, but maybe. I took a seat in the Sultan’s throne, and read the news via my phone.

Just then, some older gentleman came in from the service bay and took a seat on the couch. He was on the phone, talking to his wife, I’m guessing. He told her they were able to fix the “flasher lights.” It appears he had his vehicle in for repair because his hazard blinkers were broken. Whenever he pressed the hazard button in, the lights came on, but didn’t stay on. Ford “fixed” his problem by showing the old codger that you pull UP on the button to engage the hazard lights. Apparently, this poor bastard didn’t get a manual with his vehicle either. I couldn’t help but laugh! How much did that cost him? When the old man looked at me, I turned my phone to him and pretended that a bus load of kids tipping over on I-94 in Minnesota was something to laugh at. What does he know? He can’t even operate hazard lights! Ha ha!

By 2:50pm, they were done programming my keys and kicked me free. It actually did take them 45 minutes to program those keys. I guess that old salesman did know what he was talking about. Will wonders ever cease? I was northbound on I-405 by 3, and home with dinner in hand before 5. In all, programmed PATS keys was so anti-climatic, and hardly worth all the blog space I’m giving it here.

And if you’re wondering about the title of this update, it a reference to NASCAR. Apparently, when these hillbillies crash their cars into walls or other drivers, and some retired hillbilly racer in a cowboy hat shoves a microphone in their face to find out what happened, their response is, “I ran out of talent.” So, when you wonder why ol’ Jim hasn’t updated his blog in 6 weeks, that’ll be my answer. “I ran out of talent.” Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?

One thing I learned this time about the process of car shopping — never ever give your phone number to a salesman. Jesus Christ. Every other day I got a phone call from some “saresman dat coudn’t speak goodly engrish.” I was (and probably still will be) getting emails from aggressive salesman that couldn’t wait to get me to commit to a test drive. Time to set up a message filter, I reckon. Damn, that kind of behavior drives me fucking crazy, man. I don’t need you hounding me, like some screaming four year old whining at his mommy for some toy at Wal-Mart. When I worked sales at Radio Shack in a former life back east, I was attentive, but never pressured people.

So, with all the crap cleaned out of my old truck and my three choices in hand, I headed out of town on Saturday. I stopped by Blue Cow car wash in Anacortes and spent twelve dollars to wash my trade in. I was totally amazed at Blue Cow. They gave me a wet paper towel for wiping down the dashboard, and an air freshener to mask the smell of feet and ass funk. When it was my time to go through the wash tunnel, they took the radio antenna off, pre-soaked and brushed the truck with sudsy water. In the tunnel, they used all Rain-X products. I was soaped up twice as brushes and hangy-raggy things danced over the vehicle. Then my undercarriage was washed, I was rinsed, clear-coated, and made spot-free. Near the end, I was blown like I was never blown before. When I exited the other end, a couple of Blue Cow employees wiped me down, removing what little moisture was left… on my truck. I pulled over to the vacuum cleaners, and when I got out, I wondered why I was getting rid of the truck. It looked fantastic! I put the radio antenna back on and vacuumed out all the grass blades and pebbles from the carpet. Simply beautiful. The truck looked better than the day I bought it.

Back in the truck, I fired up TomTom on my phone and headed south. I drove down I-5 to I-405 to Bellevue to look at my first choice. I had my three choices prioritized. I was going to make a “loop” around Lake Washington — down I-405 to Bellevue for my first choice, further down I-405 to Burien for my second choice, then up I-5 to Everett for the final choice. But when I got to Bellevue, my plan didn’t work out.

I got to the Ford dealership in Bellevue at 2:30pm. They were busy as hell there. It was like they were giving away free