Kinkajou - A New Name For Terror

Meet the kinkajou. While it appears to be a devilish, lively cross between a ferret and a monkey, the kinkajou is actually from the same vicious nocturnal family tree as the raccoon. I, for one, have never heard of the kinkajou before this week, when an article appeared in the news about one of these feisty creatures causing trouble while rooting around on the rooftop of a family home in rural Texas. While the animal was eventually captured, it was only after it had bitten a deputy through a bite-proof protective glove. Once captured, the little bastard also escaped and terrorized a group of housecats and had to be re-captured. There is no word on whether anyone was bitten during the second capture. Apparently, lots of other people have heard of this animal and some have even raised them as pets.If you are at all familiar with my irrational fear of animals, nature, the sea, out-of doors, circus clowns, certain types of wood and children with two different-colored eyes, you probably realize that this wily little biter is simply another one of God's creatures that will torment me in my dreams. It has claws and raccoon-like fingers (which have always seemed creepy to me), sharp little teeth and quite a temper when riled.

How is it that there are new animals (mostly vicious) that keep coming into the picture that I have never gotten wind of before this? Where the hell have they been? I have a feeling that they have always been around and that they are being doled out one at a time to keep us on our toes. I read about new types of bear, monkey, rodent. spider, sea creature, Sasquatch and deadly new varieties of fire ant and honey bees that can decimate entire civilizations. Perfect.

I have given everyone fair warning that we need to start thinking about defending ourselves against these creatures - and I don't mean simply capturing one or two and tossing them into a cage at a zoo or loosing them in a "wildlife preserve". I say if they are not needed to provide me with prime rib, chicken tenders or pork chops, get rid of them altogether. Do you really think that there is a purpose for the kinkajou, other than to bedevil me in my dreams? I say feed the kinkajou to the fire ants - maybe if we can fill their ant-bellies with kinkajou meat, they will become logy and easier to exterminate.

I understand that there are do-gooders out there who want to make certain that no species of life on the planet goes extinct and I have a solution for them as well: Throw them to the kinkajou and the honey badger. When they get their bellies full of do-gooder, perhaps they too will become logy and the fire ants will be on them that much quicker. Circle of life, you know? Only to my own comforting end. Away with the badger and the sloth, the kinkajou, its raccoon cousin, rats, the smaller mice-rats, bears (unless they are tasty - I have never eaten bear), spiders of all ilk - especially those that fly, snakes, armadillos and hedgehogs. And I know they're teeny and seem harmless, but let's get rid of the mole. They are creepy, eyeless and hairless. Fuck them. And fuck the big cats and wild dogs while we're at it. They're mean and carnivorous and need to have the African Honey Bees set upon them.

Basically, what I am proposing is a world populated by people (us), their domesticated pets (reptiles excluded - fuck them, too) and friendly, docile animals that are tasty when served with potatoes or a green vegetable of choice. If ranch dressing or ketchup is needed to make the animal palatable, then we need to consider setting the fire ants to them. Once we have suitably dealt with these beasts, vermin, varmints and pests, we can get to work on the circus clowns. We just need to be sure we have some fire ants and honey bees left. It pays to be judicious when cleaning up a planet.

Happy Sweetest Day

I believe at some point, I was already aware that there was a holiday called "Sweetest Day". I was reminded of its existence yesterday and offered, "yes, it's called 'Valentine's Day'."

"No," I was told, "it's a separate day - a day to give cards and candy to loved ones..."

"Well, that's fine," I said, "except for the fact that I already do that on Valentine's day mostly..."

"This day is in October," my friend replied.

"And Valentine's Day is in February, I think," I said. It seemed we were at a stalemate. "I don't need two days, strategically planted around my calendar year to remind me to buy cards and candy for my loved ones. I should be able to do it any day I want, without a government mandate. Where are we living, anyhow - in a gulag?" I wasn't certain if a gulag was the correct term for someplace with a heavy dose of government mandate, but it was the first thing that came to mind, so I went with it. It earned me a "harumph" and a haughty dismissal. I pouted for a bit, then dove into the World Wide Web to research this apparent secondary Valentine's Day deemed the Day of the Sweetest. I was shocked at what learned.

Sweetest Day was not meant for loved ones at all, originally. It was planned by a "committee of 12 confectioners chaired by candy maker C.C. Hartzell" as an "opportunity to remember the sick, aged and orphaned." The "Sweetest Day in the Year Committee" distributed over 20,000 boxes of candy to "newsboys, orphans, old folks, and the poor" in 1922. This from Wikipedia.

The Sweetest Day in the Year Committee - lousy with candy-makers. Coincidence?

I would like to note that I am delighted that the committee included newsboys in their somewhat strategic outburst of confectionery good will - I think newsboys are often given short shrift when it comes to being compensated for their historically somewhat impoverished line of work. Standing on a street corner shouting "EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT!" and doling out newspapers for a dime is honorable work with long hours for little pay and we as a people should do more for our newsies. But I digress.

Candy for our newsboys - a  shot in the arm for the morale of our nation.

Whatever the good intentions for providing a sugar-high for the sick, aged, orphans and newsboys, it seems that at some point, in a sly move by the confectioners, "friends, relatives and associates whose helpfulness we have enjoyed" were added to the list. Eventually, the elderly, infirm, orphans and newsies were phased out of the program altogether in a move that left these unfortunates to fend for themselves for obtaining sweet relief from their sugar-jones, leaving only loved ones to enjoy the chocolate-covered goodness of what has been deemed by many as a "Hallmark Holiday". I submit that this was the plan all along and that the orphans and newsboys were mere pawns in a calculated candy-money-grab for the pre-Halloween wallet share of our nation. I, for one am ashamed. And I vow that I will never celebrate Sweetest Day, unless it is to drive a U-Haul full of Baby Ruths to the local orphanage or old-folks home. And I plan to deliver my news to the masses via this blog, which is the electronic version of the newsboy from our past. So, EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT! And spread the word.

Russia - Land of Genius

This is called a "Zorb", which I imagine translates to "Rolling Coffin" in another language, probably Russian. Let me begin by reiterating yet once again that I am by no means a thrill-seeker. And by "no means" I mean "no fucking means on Earth or surrounding planets capable of supporting life". I do not mount roller coasters, wild animals, vehicles with tires taller than my children, flying apparatus that rely on the whim of the wind, or women with that crazy gleam in their eye. Thrill-seeking behavior, the mounting of any of these and of which I want no part. That stated, I would like to add "Climbing into an inflatable rubber ball and being pushed down a grassy hill, abandoned mining road or icy slope". This is the purpose of the Zorb. It is made to accommodate human beings for any number of activities, including being placed on a body of water, so that the man or woman inside can walk on the water, much like a hamster propelling one of those hamster balls that hamsters use to walk around in when their human captors do not trust them to move about freely on their carpet. Not only do I consider these giant, inflatable contraptions unsafe at any speed, I would be concerned about suffocation. And claustrophobia. And hamster dander.

Human Hamsters. On water. Two kicks for the price of one.

 

Now, let's bring Russia into the picture, shall we? While we Americans are busy using these Zorbs to crawl around on water and push each other down golf course fairways, The Russians are putting these rubber man-movers to good use by rolling them down icy mountainsides. Recently, the Russians outdid themselves by running the Zorb not only down a frozen slope, but over a cliff as well, killing one of the occupants of the ball and sending the other to a Russian hospital in critical condition. Well done, Russia. You would have thought that perhaps at least one of the gents climbing into the ball would have looked over the proposed route of travel and asked, "Vait - zat ees cleef?"

 

And they always seem so smart.

 

They got to space before us, after all, and I've seen all those movies with Russian spies that are always one step ahead of their overly-cautious American counterparts and everyone got a glimpse of the superior Russian technology  in Rocky IV, when they were training Drago and measuring his punching power power by LBS PSI. Impressive, to say the least, especially with all the clinical lighting and such, which only added to our sense of dread for the beloved pugilistic protagonist. And as Michael Lyon so adroitly pointed out, after reading the story of the Zorb plunging over the edge of the cliff, "This is what happens when you live in a place without injury lawyers".

I cannot think of one other place on the planet that would build their ice-Zorb-track on a mountainside with a cliff on it. Before I read this story, I wouldn't have thought the Russian people capable of that kind of dumb, either. It only shows that you can never tell. . Just remember that the "come hither" look in the lovely lady's eyes at the Stumble Inn might actually be batshit-crazy-dulled-by-alcohol. Some things are simply unpredictable

The Los Angelesation of Steve Nash

 
Meet Steve Nash, He used to play point guard for our Phoenix Suns. He was really good, even though he usually looked as if he had slept in his locker. I have always thought that the beloved two-time league MVP resembled Kelly Leak from "The Bad News Bears". Jackie Earl Hailey, who played the foul-mouthed ball player was not a handsome kid and grew up to be, not surprisingly, not a handsome adult. Poor Steve Nash unfortunately fell prey to the same heavy-handed hammer of God when his face was pasted to the crown of the 6-foot three, One hundred and seventy eight pound athletic machine blessed with the reflexes and musculature usually reserved for animals of prey.

Jackie Earle Haley - the 5'5", non-athletic version of Steve Nash.

 

However, since being traded to the Los Angeles Lakers, the long-time "glitziest franchise in sports", Nash has transformed himself from a frumpy, tousle-haired, quiet-spoken optimist to a GQ coverboy, worthy of the attentions of the Laker Girls. All of them.

 

Cover Boy.

 

Now, Nash looks more like Conan O'Brien with his trendy haircut and upswept pompadour.

 

The Red-Haired, funny Steve Nash.

 

What happened to our old Steve Nash? Worry not, sports fans - I'm certain he'll be back, as soon as he heals up. I'm sure he'll be the same old self-deprecating, likable fellow that we've all grown to know and love, just with a better tan and haircut. After all, live in Rome, do as the Romans do. We'll miss you, Stever. Just like we miss Kelly Leak.