Jimbo and his girlfriend were just exchanging job-related stories of good and bad things that happened at work today, but when I logged onto my computer afterward, I found something much more horrifying than happened to either of us at work today.
It seems that in Germany there is a pond, located in what is described as an affluent suburb in which there is an epidemic of spontaneous amphibian combustion. It appears that toads that live around the pond are blowing up like balloons and then blowing up like over inflated balloons, and toad parts are flying everywhere. German tabloids are calling it “the death pool.”
Boom! There goes another one. And everyone standing too close got splattered with toad guts.
Some would say that this portends the apocalypse and others would quickly add that this is what happens when society turns its back on God. Some would say that this is what happens in a society where men sleep with men and women pleasure other women. I don’t remember reading anything about this in Revelations, but I have to admit I haven’t read that particular book front to back for a while. I would imagine there are people who would say that when civilization begins to impinge upon natural habitats that things like this are bound to happen. Still others will blame global warming. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some people out there who would remind me that because so many people voted against Bush in the last election that it is our fault that toads in Europe are detonating. I’m sure that many would remind us that Darwin never predicted exploding toads. So there! I guess it shows his theories are therefore almost certainly wrong.
Kaboom! That was a messy one.
I have my own theory, and that is that this is some weird shit. I’m just hoping it stays on the other side of the pond. When our toads croak, I prefer it to be more neat and tidy.
Because Jimbo’s world is a prettier place without toad parts scattered all over.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Saturday, April 23, 2005
jimbo slays the serpent
In mythology, and in the bible (if you care not to lump it with mythology) serpents frequently represent evil. You probably remember in Genesis, chapter 3, that it was a snake who convinced Eve to eat fruit from the tree of knowledge and feed some of that dangerous fruit to her husband, also. You probably also remember that when God found out he was pissed. He pulled the serpent aside and told him:
“Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life...”
God didn’t stop there, however. He told Eve:
“I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.”
Yeah, right. Show me the husband that rules over his missus and I’ll show you an exception to the rule. Although what I’m about to say goes against everything we hold sacred and the basis of our religious beliefs, and the marching papers of the religious right, I have to say that the second quote is a bunch of crap. Surely, in the twenty-first century no one really believes that. If God said that to any of the women I know, he’d better expect to get his ass chewed, or at the least, he’d better expect to see the finger displayed.
So, since 99.9% of us aren’t going to take the second quote literally, why then do we not question the first one and why are snakes so loathed and despised? Who ever heard of a talking snake, anyway?
You are probably asking yourself, “What has gotten Jimbo so stirred up? Did someone move the bookmark in his bible so he lost his place? Did someone highlight something in his concordance? What was it that got him hotter than Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego?”
Well, the truth is that Jimbo has killed today, and although no one will mourn the passing of the snake he killed, it got him thinking. Today while cutting the grass at my old house, a garter snake darted out in front of me and under the mower. He became four or five smaller pieces of snake. I’ve killed snakes before, so it is no big deal. Perhaps if I had been younger and quicker I could have stopped in time, but I’m not and I didn’t. Snakes actually perform a valuable function. Perhaps had God actually dictated the bible, then the dork that wrote Genesis would not have written something so blatantly idiotic about snakes and women.
By the way, the lawn looked really good when I was finished.
Anyway, there is one less snake this evening patrolling the vast expanse of green that comprises the lawn at chez Jimbo. We probably won’t drink to his memory. Of course, around here, we’ll drink to about anything. If you are afraid of snakes, you can relax. There is one less to be afraid of. If you are afraid of women, well, there isn’t much I can do to help you.
We just try to keep our fears in check, here in Jimbo’s world.
“Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life...”
God didn’t stop there, however. He told Eve:
“I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.”
Yeah, right. Show me the husband that rules over his missus and I’ll show you an exception to the rule. Although what I’m about to say goes against everything we hold sacred and the basis of our religious beliefs, and the marching papers of the religious right, I have to say that the second quote is a bunch of crap. Surely, in the twenty-first century no one really believes that. If God said that to any of the women I know, he’d better expect to get his ass chewed, or at the least, he’d better expect to see the finger displayed.
So, since 99.9% of us aren’t going to take the second quote literally, why then do we not question the first one and why are snakes so loathed and despised? Who ever heard of a talking snake, anyway?
You are probably asking yourself, “What has gotten Jimbo so stirred up? Did someone move the bookmark in his bible so he lost his place? Did someone highlight something in his concordance? What was it that got him hotter than Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego?”
Well, the truth is that Jimbo has killed today, and although no one will mourn the passing of the snake he killed, it got him thinking. Today while cutting the grass at my old house, a garter snake darted out in front of me and under the mower. He became four or five smaller pieces of snake. I’ve killed snakes before, so it is no big deal. Perhaps if I had been younger and quicker I could have stopped in time, but I’m not and I didn’t. Snakes actually perform a valuable function. Perhaps had God actually dictated the bible, then the dork that wrote Genesis would not have written something so blatantly idiotic about snakes and women.
By the way, the lawn looked really good when I was finished.
Anyway, there is one less snake this evening patrolling the vast expanse of green that comprises the lawn at chez Jimbo. We probably won’t drink to his memory. Of course, around here, we’ll drink to about anything. If you are afraid of snakes, you can relax. There is one less to be afraid of. If you are afraid of women, well, there isn’t much I can do to help you.
We just try to keep our fears in check, here in Jimbo’s world.
the myth of sisyphus
It hasn’t been a good week around chez Jimbo’s girlfriend. A husband of a friend of one of Jimbo’s girlfriend’s died this week. Jimbo’s girlfriend has gone to a visitation, a funeral and a wake this week. We were planting flowers and dug up some termites. The exterminators who have quoted the job want mucho dinero. Then, we had a hailstorm and Jimbo’s girlfriend was out in it in her new car. It wasn’t damaged, fortunately, however we had one inch hailstones in the front yard when I got home. Now she is worried if it did any roof damage. Then came the worst news. She found out her ex-husband is dating a 23-year-old woman.
First of all, no woman over thirty wants to hear that some man in the latter half of his life is enjoying the pleasure of a woman the age of his children, but for some reason it is even worse if it is someone to whom you were once married. There is some chemistry in young women that makes us all act crazy: ex-spouses, ex-girlfriends, and people in general. I knew it was serious when my girlfriend said that Jimbo would be with a 23-year-old woman if he could. I told her that wasn’t true; that I was happy where I am. And, I meant it. However, it hurt me that she didn’t think I could have a 23-year-old woman if I wanted. I’m sure most attractive twenty-something women would take numbers and stand in line for me if I were available. Okay, maybe not.
Sometimes life just doesn’t go the way we want it and our first reaction is to throw up our hands and say, “what’s the use.”
In Greek mythology there was a dude named Sisyphus. From what I understand, he was the founder and King of a place called Corinth. You remember Ricardo Montalban and his television commercials for the Chrysler Cordoba, don’t you? “Rich Corinthian leather,” he said to describe the upholstery. I think it was actually plastic, but when he said it, it made you feel like you wanted to be in the back seat of that car with the prom queen. That was never going to happen. You may also remember your architecture and the three types of columns in Greek and Roman temples. Doric, Ionic and Corinthian were the names and the Corinthian was the most elaborate.
Anyway, Sisyphus pissed off one of the gods. They weren’t monotheistic back then like most of us are now, so there were numerous gods and their bad sides were readily available. Sisyphus chained up the god of death and people stopped going to hell. The god who ran hell got lonely and mad and then got even with Sisyphus. The god he ticked off went old testament on him, or would have if the old testament had been available at the time. Sisyphus was condemned to spend eternity pushing a boulder up a mountain and when it reached the top, it would roll back down to the bottom. Then, Sisyphus would have to go back down the mountain and push the boulder back up again, over and over, until the end of time.
To some this represents the futility and absurdity of life. We go through our daily struggles and when it’s all said and done, to use the words of Jim Morrison of the Doors, “Nobody here gets out alive.” One of my favorite writers, Albert Camus, wrote about Sisyphus and his fate and compared it to the fate of most men. Camus said that we struggle with our burden, but that we keep doing it. Like Sisyphus, he says, we are superior to our own fate.
Despite the fact that bad things happen in life, it is the nature of man to keep going. We rise above “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” and like Sisyphus we will continue to push that rock up that hill and when it rolls back down, we push it back up again.
So on days when you’re feeling down, just remember Sisyphus and his struggle, and remember that your struggle is worth the effort. Remember to keep fighting the good fight. Tomorrow will be better. Look forward to it.
Because we always look forward to tomorrow in Jimbo’s world.
First of all, no woman over thirty wants to hear that some man in the latter half of his life is enjoying the pleasure of a woman the age of his children, but for some reason it is even worse if it is someone to whom you were once married. There is some chemistry in young women that makes us all act crazy: ex-spouses, ex-girlfriends, and people in general. I knew it was serious when my girlfriend said that Jimbo would be with a 23-year-old woman if he could. I told her that wasn’t true; that I was happy where I am. And, I meant it. However, it hurt me that she didn’t think I could have a 23-year-old woman if I wanted. I’m sure most attractive twenty-something women would take numbers and stand in line for me if I were available. Okay, maybe not.
Sometimes life just doesn’t go the way we want it and our first reaction is to throw up our hands and say, “what’s the use.”
In Greek mythology there was a dude named Sisyphus. From what I understand, he was the founder and King of a place called Corinth. You remember Ricardo Montalban and his television commercials for the Chrysler Cordoba, don’t you? “Rich Corinthian leather,” he said to describe the upholstery. I think it was actually plastic, but when he said it, it made you feel like you wanted to be in the back seat of that car with the prom queen. That was never going to happen. You may also remember your architecture and the three types of columns in Greek and Roman temples. Doric, Ionic and Corinthian were the names and the Corinthian was the most elaborate.
Anyway, Sisyphus pissed off one of the gods. They weren’t monotheistic back then like most of us are now, so there were numerous gods and their bad sides were readily available. Sisyphus chained up the god of death and people stopped going to hell. The god who ran hell got lonely and mad and then got even with Sisyphus. The god he ticked off went old testament on him, or would have if the old testament had been available at the time. Sisyphus was condemned to spend eternity pushing a boulder up a mountain and when it reached the top, it would roll back down to the bottom. Then, Sisyphus would have to go back down the mountain and push the boulder back up again, over and over, until the end of time.
To some this represents the futility and absurdity of life. We go through our daily struggles and when it’s all said and done, to use the words of Jim Morrison of the Doors, “Nobody here gets out alive.” One of my favorite writers, Albert Camus, wrote about Sisyphus and his fate and compared it to the fate of most men. Camus said that we struggle with our burden, but that we keep doing it. Like Sisyphus, he says, we are superior to our own fate.
Despite the fact that bad things happen in life, it is the nature of man to keep going. We rise above “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” and like Sisyphus we will continue to push that rock up that hill and when it rolls back down, we push it back up again.
So on days when you’re feeling down, just remember Sisyphus and his struggle, and remember that your struggle is worth the effort. Remember to keep fighting the good fight. Tomorrow will be better. Look forward to it.
Because we always look forward to tomorrow in Jimbo’s world.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
duck poop, or what do you say to a brooding mallard
I read this morning that the administration is going out of its way to protect a mallard duck and its eggs from being disturbed by protesters at this week’s global economic summit. It appears the hen laid her eggs in a spot near the white house where protests are planned later in the week.
Thank God we live in a country where our leader is so concerned about the environment that he is willing to bear the criticism of those who would disagree with his economic policies to protect a single mallard hen and her potential offspring. I guess I should have said he was willing to bear their criticism from a little more distance, in that the protesters will have to be moved further back from the white house and the hen. It is possible, then, to say that the President is killing two birds with one stone—that is if he were actually killing any birds. Instead he is continuing to kill the economy and he won’t hear the protesters reminding him of that fact, or, at least he won’t be hearing them from close range.
I think the mallard—let’s call her Georgette—is an apropos a symbol of the Bush administration as the eagle is of America. Georgette has laid a number of eggs; she’s laid them at an inopportune time in an inopportune spot, and now that she’s done it, she has to sit on top of them and give us that dumb-ass smirk. It’s hard work. It’s the wrong place at the wrong time, but whatever you do, don’t say anything about it, or you won’t be viewed as a team player. She’ll sit on those eggs until they hatch, and until they do, nothing good will happen. And when they do hatch, then we’ll have a bunch of ducklings running around, obstructing traffic and dropping duck poop all over the place. And these ugly ducklings won’t be enjoying a metamorphosis into swans anytime soon.
But, they will give the administration a little extra insulation from the real world.
And, they will give us another thing to talk about here in Jimbo’s world.
Thank God we live in a country where our leader is so concerned about the environment that he is willing to bear the criticism of those who would disagree with his economic policies to protect a single mallard hen and her potential offspring. I guess I should have said he was willing to bear their criticism from a little more distance, in that the protesters will have to be moved further back from the white house and the hen. It is possible, then, to say that the President is killing two birds with one stone—that is if he were actually killing any birds. Instead he is continuing to kill the economy and he won’t hear the protesters reminding him of that fact, or, at least he won’t be hearing them from close range.
I think the mallard—let’s call her Georgette—is an apropos a symbol of the Bush administration as the eagle is of America. Georgette has laid a number of eggs; she’s laid them at an inopportune time in an inopportune spot, and now that she’s done it, she has to sit on top of them and give us that dumb-ass smirk. It’s hard work. It’s the wrong place at the wrong time, but whatever you do, don’t say anything about it, or you won’t be viewed as a team player. She’ll sit on those eggs until they hatch, and until they do, nothing good will happen. And when they do hatch, then we’ll have a bunch of ducklings running around, obstructing traffic and dropping duck poop all over the place. And these ugly ducklings won’t be enjoying a metamorphosis into swans anytime soon.
But, they will give the administration a little extra insulation from the real world.
And, they will give us another thing to talk about here in Jimbo’s world.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
another chicken-choking episode
Chickens are in the news today. Jimbo’s girlfriend was telling him a story she heard on the news of an overturned truck and its load of chickens which were loose and scampering about the highway, as dazed chickens are prone to do, creating all sorts of havoc. Her storytelling was in response to my telling her I had read a story about chickens, and I asked if she had read it. Her story was entertaining, but my story was strange. It goes like this.
A guy in Colorado, where the men are men and the chickens are flightless fowl, was riding heard on his chickens when he found one of them had fallen into a tub of water. The chicken appeared to have drowned. The chicken herder then swung the chicken in the air to try to revive it, something all of us would have done if presented with the same dilemma, I am sure. When swinging the chicken around failed to bring it back to life, he tried the remedy that, I’m sure, all of us would have tried next: he gave it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He also did what all of us would have done in that he shouted to the chicken that it was too young to die, between times when he was administering the “kiss of life.”
I’m happy to report that the chicken survived and will lead a fruitful life and eventually graduate to the highest honor we can bestow onto a chicken. That is, he can someday be a Buffalo wing or, if he is a real team player, become a member of a bucket of Colonel Sanders’ Chicken. Perhaps, if the chicken were female, it would someday lay an egg that would rise to the highest nirvanic state of eggdom and be used to make Jimbo’s famous omelet. I believe it was Plato who said that life without Jimbo’s omelet was not worth living, but for any of you who are new readers and may have missed my recipe; it can be obtained at the following address.
http://jimboandhisfriends.blogspot.com/2004/11/jimbos-omelet-bon-vivants-guide.html
However, whenever you read a story like this, it is important to remember that someone could be making up the whole thing. It might just be a human-interest story to enliven an otherwise slow news day.
From here, however, the story gets weirder. It goes on to tell the tale of Mike the chicken who was beheaded in Colorado in 1945 and survived. I’m sure many of you are going to remind me of the song by Warren Zevon, Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner, an epic tale of a mercenary who also lost his head, but survived. You may also recall in that song there was some hint of CIA involvement, and perhaps some money was passed under the table resulting in the following line from the song.
“That sonofabitch Van Owen blew off Roland’s head.”
In the case of Mike, it appears the motivation was strictly dinner. However, after he lost his head, Mike survived a year and a half, his owner feeding him by putting food directly into his gullet and giving him water the same way, with an eyedropper. The story goes on to say that Mike was a popular attraction and that scientists examined him at the time. Of course, back then, science hadn’t come as far as it has now.
I envision that the scientists evaluated him and said to his owner, “Yes sir, mister, the damn thing ain’t got a head.”
Mike eventually met his demise in another senseless chicken-choking incident, when he choked to death on a kernel of corn. We assume at that point Mike met a frying pan and his haunted tale ended, unlike Roland, whom we understand still to be wandering the earth.
“They can still see his headless body stalking through the night
In the muzzle-flash of Roland’s Thomson gun.”
Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction, or some fiction is stranger than other fiction, depending on what truth or fiction you believe.
Here in Jimbo’s world sometimes only seeing is believing.
A guy in Colorado, where the men are men and the chickens are flightless fowl, was riding heard on his chickens when he found one of them had fallen into a tub of water. The chicken appeared to have drowned. The chicken herder then swung the chicken in the air to try to revive it, something all of us would have done if presented with the same dilemma, I am sure. When swinging the chicken around failed to bring it back to life, he tried the remedy that, I’m sure, all of us would have tried next: he gave it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He also did what all of us would have done in that he shouted to the chicken that it was too young to die, between times when he was administering the “kiss of life.”
I’m happy to report that the chicken survived and will lead a fruitful life and eventually graduate to the highest honor we can bestow onto a chicken. That is, he can someday be a Buffalo wing or, if he is a real team player, become a member of a bucket of Colonel Sanders’ Chicken. Perhaps, if the chicken were female, it would someday lay an egg that would rise to the highest nirvanic state of eggdom and be used to make Jimbo’s famous omelet. I believe it was Plato who said that life without Jimbo’s omelet was not worth living, but for any of you who are new readers and may have missed my recipe; it can be obtained at the following address.
http://jimboandhisfriends.blogspot.com/2004/11/jimbos-omelet-bon-vivants-guide.html
However, whenever you read a story like this, it is important to remember that someone could be making up the whole thing. It might just be a human-interest story to enliven an otherwise slow news day.
From here, however, the story gets weirder. It goes on to tell the tale of Mike the chicken who was beheaded in Colorado in 1945 and survived. I’m sure many of you are going to remind me of the song by Warren Zevon, Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner, an epic tale of a mercenary who also lost his head, but survived. You may also recall in that song there was some hint of CIA involvement, and perhaps some money was passed under the table resulting in the following line from the song.
“That sonofabitch Van Owen blew off Roland’s head.”
In the case of Mike, it appears the motivation was strictly dinner. However, after he lost his head, Mike survived a year and a half, his owner feeding him by putting food directly into his gullet and giving him water the same way, with an eyedropper. The story goes on to say that Mike was a popular attraction and that scientists examined him at the time. Of course, back then, science hadn’t come as far as it has now.
I envision that the scientists evaluated him and said to his owner, “Yes sir, mister, the damn thing ain’t got a head.”
Mike eventually met his demise in another senseless chicken-choking incident, when he choked to death on a kernel of corn. We assume at that point Mike met a frying pan and his haunted tale ended, unlike Roland, whom we understand still to be wandering the earth.
“They can still see his headless body stalking through the night
In the muzzle-flash of Roland’s Thomson gun.”
Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction, or some fiction is stranger than other fiction, depending on what truth or fiction you believe.
Here in Jimbo’s world sometimes only seeing is believing.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
clocky, the alarm clock's, badass song
It is not often one gets the chance to rail against something twice, but that opportunity has presented itself. This morning I saw a story and a picture online of Clocky, that awful alarm clock that runs and hides and brings society one step closer to Armageddon. For those who may not recall, I wrote about Clocky last week. If you don’t remember, just scroll down to the story Hell on Wheels, just a few blogs down.
Oh, Clocky, you demon from the depths of hell!
We got a chance to see Clocky today and he appears to be a cylinder, about the size of a beer can, covered with carpeting, with two wheels on each end. A 25-year-old MIT student created the demonic little timepiece and she is considering marketing her invention. I still see nothing good coming from this diabolical piece of modern technology.
To recap, Clocky rolls off your night stand when you hit the snooze button and runs and hides, so when the alarm goes off again, you have to chase him down. The people quoted in the many stories on the internet today seem to be enthusiastic about Clocky, as if he is a godsend rather than a work of the devil. Nothing against the young woman who brought him to life, but Clocky is one sinister machination. One of the people interviewed in a story about Clocky says that he set a record by hitting the snooze button once for five hours. This, my friend, is indeed a dubious record. It’s kind of like the time I sat down and ate an entire one-pound bag of M&Ms. I’ll admit to it, but I’m not proud of it. Sometimes I wish some of our old heroes could be resurrected to give us the advice we so sorely need. In this case I think we need a man like John Wayne. One look at Clocky and he would reprise his role as Rooster Cogburn in True Grit, and stare down the evil clock, and vocalize the following:
“Fill your hand you (little) sonofabitch!”
Clocky appears to be well padded and almost indestructible, but I have faith in my fellow Americans, and we will find a way to break the little bastard. He can run and hide, but we’ll find him and we’ll bust him, good.
I, for one, will not mourn his passing, but my fear is that they will make more like him to replace the ones we destroy. I just hope we all don't lose sleep worrying what sort of a calamity he will bring us.
Because we need our sleep in Jimbo’s world.
Oh, Clocky, you demon from the depths of hell!
We got a chance to see Clocky today and he appears to be a cylinder, about the size of a beer can, covered with carpeting, with two wheels on each end. A 25-year-old MIT student created the demonic little timepiece and she is considering marketing her invention. I still see nothing good coming from this diabolical piece of modern technology.
To recap, Clocky rolls off your night stand when you hit the snooze button and runs and hides, so when the alarm goes off again, you have to chase him down. The people quoted in the many stories on the internet today seem to be enthusiastic about Clocky, as if he is a godsend rather than a work of the devil. Nothing against the young woman who brought him to life, but Clocky is one sinister machination. One of the people interviewed in a story about Clocky says that he set a record by hitting the snooze button once for five hours. This, my friend, is indeed a dubious record. It’s kind of like the time I sat down and ate an entire one-pound bag of M&Ms. I’ll admit to it, but I’m not proud of it. Sometimes I wish some of our old heroes could be resurrected to give us the advice we so sorely need. In this case I think we need a man like John Wayne. One look at Clocky and he would reprise his role as Rooster Cogburn in True Grit, and stare down the evil clock, and vocalize the following:
“Fill your hand you (little) sonofabitch!”
Clocky appears to be well padded and almost indestructible, but I have faith in my fellow Americans, and we will find a way to break the little bastard. He can run and hide, but we’ll find him and we’ll bust him, good.
I, for one, will not mourn his passing, but my fear is that they will make more like him to replace the ones we destroy. I just hope we all don't lose sleep worrying what sort of a calamity he will bring us.
Because we need our sleep in Jimbo’s world.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
beat the devil
Jimbo has never been a cat person. For that matter, I haven’t been much of a pet person. When I was a kid, I had a dog named Rusty, and when Rusty passed on I guess I figured she was the only pet in my life. Like those widows you hear of who lost their husbands in the Great War and never re-married, I have remained loyal and probably will until the end of my days. I know there are a number of people whose lives revolve around their pets, and although I personally think that is weird, it is their lives and more power to them. If the pets are cats, I think it is even more weird, but that is okay and who am I to judge?
In the news today is a story about some deranged person who fired some shotgun blasts at the house of Siegfried and Roy because he reportedly had come to the conclusion that the two illusionists had an “unhealthy intimacy” with their big cats. I’ll admit that I would not like to keep big cats as pets, but if Siegfried and Roy want to do it, it is fine with me. Besides, I’m not going to mess with anyone who has the cojones to hug a lion or a tiger. I figure anyone who can hug a tiger can probably kick my ass, even with Roy recovering after being attacked last October.
Yes, sir, Mr. Siegfried; yes, sir, Mr. Roy. Whatever you say, sir.
In reading the story of this incident, however, I am struck by the similarities of the arguments of this deranged man to the arguments by another group of deranged people, the religious right. It seems that you have two guys who are doing something outside of the mainstream, and someone sees them and thinks it isn’t right. “I don’t hug tigers,” this guy is probably thinking, “so they shouldn’t hug tigers, either, and I’m going to do something about it.”
In a civilized society, we look a people that are different from us and think that we certainly wouldn’t do what they do, but we wouldn’t think of stopping them from pursuing what they are doing, as long as it doesn’t infringe on our rights. Hell, we might even make fun of them, but not to their face. It’s like the old lady down the street who treats her dog better than the family next door treats their children. We may snigger about it and it’s pink bows, but we sure as hell aren’t going to insist our politicians enact legislation to prevent her from doting over her dog. And, even if someone had a maniacal idea that a legislative line be drawn somewhere between petting your dog and hugging him and putting bows in his hair, we would dismiss the idea as being as un-American as it is. In a civilized society, such legislation would be recognized as unconstitutional.
But the religious right thinks they know better than the founding fathers, so they want to amend the constitution to make it read more like the founding fathers “intended.” I guess it is not surprising that they found some spineless, suck-up, wuss politicians who are happy to kiss their backsides and happily offer to change the constitution for them. Of course, the President is supposed to make sure this doesn’t happen, but he turns out to be the most spineless, most suck-up and wussiest of all.
And if the religious right is successful in doing this, what is next? Will we burn witches again? Will we declare Darwin a heretic? Will we outlaw Siegfried and Roy because the “magic” they use to make those big cats disappear is really spooky?
Actually, I’d like to see the religious right go after Siegfried and Roy. Sure, I think those two are a little weird, but you better not mess with guys who aren’t afraid to hug lions and tigers. Like I said, anyone who can do that can probably kick my ass. And they can probably kick the asses of the religious right, too. Plus that, they can probably do that thing that Tarzan did when he said something like “Simba attack,” and all of the lions would attack whomever he wanted them to. Yeah, I’d bet they could do that, too. We could see if there was a re-enactment of the story of Daniel in the lion’s den, or if the lions would have something to chew on. Maybe Siegfried and Roy would go down in history as the saviors of the Constitution. Not bad for a couple of foreigners.
But, rather than wait for them to get involved, I’ll keep doing my part to point out the satanic doings of the religious right and hope these evil doers will see the error of their ways, much as Saul was blinded by the light on the road to Damascus, and afterward saw things more clearly. His was such a life-altering experience he changed his name to Paul. Perhaps they too will have a life-altering paradigm change in philosophy, but I’m not counting on it. As long as the demon Dubya is in office and his Satan-worshipers are changing the constitution, we’ll be trying to protect it.
Because that is our constitutional duty, here in Jimbo’s world.
In the news today is a story about some deranged person who fired some shotgun blasts at the house of Siegfried and Roy because he reportedly had come to the conclusion that the two illusionists had an “unhealthy intimacy” with their big cats. I’ll admit that I would not like to keep big cats as pets, but if Siegfried and Roy want to do it, it is fine with me. Besides, I’m not going to mess with anyone who has the cojones to hug a lion or a tiger. I figure anyone who can hug a tiger can probably kick my ass, even with Roy recovering after being attacked last October.
Yes, sir, Mr. Siegfried; yes, sir, Mr. Roy. Whatever you say, sir.
In reading the story of this incident, however, I am struck by the similarities of the arguments of this deranged man to the arguments by another group of deranged people, the religious right. It seems that you have two guys who are doing something outside of the mainstream, and someone sees them and thinks it isn’t right. “I don’t hug tigers,” this guy is probably thinking, “so they shouldn’t hug tigers, either, and I’m going to do something about it.”
In a civilized society, we look a people that are different from us and think that we certainly wouldn’t do what they do, but we wouldn’t think of stopping them from pursuing what they are doing, as long as it doesn’t infringe on our rights. Hell, we might even make fun of them, but not to their face. It’s like the old lady down the street who treats her dog better than the family next door treats their children. We may snigger about it and it’s pink bows, but we sure as hell aren’t going to insist our politicians enact legislation to prevent her from doting over her dog. And, even if someone had a maniacal idea that a legislative line be drawn somewhere between petting your dog and hugging him and putting bows in his hair, we would dismiss the idea as being as un-American as it is. In a civilized society, such legislation would be recognized as unconstitutional.
But the religious right thinks they know better than the founding fathers, so they want to amend the constitution to make it read more like the founding fathers “intended.” I guess it is not surprising that they found some spineless, suck-up, wuss politicians who are happy to kiss their backsides and happily offer to change the constitution for them. Of course, the President is supposed to make sure this doesn’t happen, but he turns out to be the most spineless, most suck-up and wussiest of all.
And if the religious right is successful in doing this, what is next? Will we burn witches again? Will we declare Darwin a heretic? Will we outlaw Siegfried and Roy because the “magic” they use to make those big cats disappear is really spooky?
Actually, I’d like to see the religious right go after Siegfried and Roy. Sure, I think those two are a little weird, but you better not mess with guys who aren’t afraid to hug lions and tigers. Like I said, anyone who can do that can probably kick my ass. And they can probably kick the asses of the religious right, too. Plus that, they can probably do that thing that Tarzan did when he said something like “Simba attack,” and all of the lions would attack whomever he wanted them to. Yeah, I’d bet they could do that, too. We could see if there was a re-enactment of the story of Daniel in the lion’s den, or if the lions would have something to chew on. Maybe Siegfried and Roy would go down in history as the saviors of the Constitution. Not bad for a couple of foreigners.
But, rather than wait for them to get involved, I’ll keep doing my part to point out the satanic doings of the religious right and hope these evil doers will see the error of their ways, much as Saul was blinded by the light on the road to Damascus, and afterward saw things more clearly. His was such a life-altering experience he changed his name to Paul. Perhaps they too will have a life-altering paradigm change in philosophy, but I’m not counting on it. As long as the demon Dubya is in office and his Satan-worshipers are changing the constitution, we’ll be trying to protect it.
Because that is our constitutional duty, here in Jimbo’s world.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
crossroads blues
Recently, I called out for help on this blogsite, much the same way Robert Johnson called out for his good friend Willie Brown, in the song Crossroads Blues. I asked for everyone’s help in locating the title for my truck and the VHS of the movie Crossroads, both of which I felt I should be able to locate, but couldn’t. For those of you who may have missed the movie Crossroads back in the 1980s, I can assure you it is worth watching. It is, in my opinion, the only good movie Ralph Macchio ever made. It is about a student of classical guitar at the Julliard School of Music who plays the blues on the side. In his research to find a lost Robert Johnson song, he discovers the aforementioned Willie Brown in a minimum-security prison—kind of an old folks’ home for convicts—and crashes him out. They go on a journey to Mississippi, he looking for the song and Brown for redemption.
I didn’t go down to the crossroads and fall down on my knees and ask for divine help as Robert Johnson did in the following lines from the song:
Asked the Lord above, have mercy now,
Save poor Bob if you please
When I received no clues from anyone, I went to my brother-in-law, who applied to the state for a duplicate title and we went down to Amazon.com and bought a DVD of Crossroads. We watched it last week and it was as good as the first time, for me.
I got a phone message from my ex-wife this week saying she had found something I had said I was looking for on the Internet. I figured it was going to be Pamela Sue Anderson’s website, but when I called her back, she said she had my tape of Crossroads. Her boyfriend is a blues man. He plays the keyboards for a couple of blues bands—a Korg electric piano and a Hammond B3 organ. Anyway, she had borrowed the tape so he could watch it and she hadn’t returned it. She confirmed she had watched the movie several times and could watch it again—it was that good.
What was once lost is now found. Unfortunately for Robert Johnson, if he did his deal with the devil at the crossroads as legend has it, he failed to live to see the fame and fortune he bargained for. He is massively more popular today, more than sixty years after his death, than he ever was in his lifetime, and many of us have never heard of him. Those of us that have, however, recognize the genius. Perhaps that is the immortality for which he traded away his soul—that is if you believe in things like that.
As for me, I think I’ll hang on to my soul as long as I can and try to keep it out of the hands of Dubya and the religious right. Maybe Robert Johnson was anticipating Bush’s America when he wrote:
Standin' at the crossroads baby, the risin' sun goin' down
I believe to my soul now, po' Bob is sinkin' down
Or, maybe not.
But that is the way it looks here in Jimbo’s world.
I didn’t go down to the crossroads and fall down on my knees and ask for divine help as Robert Johnson did in the following lines from the song:
Asked the Lord above, have mercy now,
Save poor Bob if you please
When I received no clues from anyone, I went to my brother-in-law, who applied to the state for a duplicate title and we went down to Amazon.com and bought a DVD of Crossroads. We watched it last week and it was as good as the first time, for me.
I got a phone message from my ex-wife this week saying she had found something I had said I was looking for on the Internet. I figured it was going to be Pamela Sue Anderson’s website, but when I called her back, she said she had my tape of Crossroads. Her boyfriend is a blues man. He plays the keyboards for a couple of blues bands—a Korg electric piano and a Hammond B3 organ. Anyway, she had borrowed the tape so he could watch it and she hadn’t returned it. She confirmed she had watched the movie several times and could watch it again—it was that good.
What was once lost is now found. Unfortunately for Robert Johnson, if he did his deal with the devil at the crossroads as legend has it, he failed to live to see the fame and fortune he bargained for. He is massively more popular today, more than sixty years after his death, than he ever was in his lifetime, and many of us have never heard of him. Those of us that have, however, recognize the genius. Perhaps that is the immortality for which he traded away his soul—that is if you believe in things like that.
As for me, I think I’ll hang on to my soul as long as I can and try to keep it out of the hands of Dubya and the religious right. Maybe Robert Johnson was anticipating Bush’s America when he wrote:
Standin' at the crossroads baby, the risin' sun goin' down
I believe to my soul now, po' Bob is sinkin' down
Or, maybe not.
But that is the way it looks here in Jimbo’s world.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
mr. jimbo, it's the third world calling
Every day at work I get ten calls from the third world, from places like Sri Lanka, India and Pakistan. Those of you who live in those places are probably asking right now, “Who does that Jimbo think he is, calling us third world? When we talk over here about your health care system and your President, we call you third world.”
Of course they probably say it in a different language than that and if we heard them say it, we’d have no idea what they are saying. We’d probably be asking why those Sri Lankans are always chatting about things we can’t understand, and suggesting if they had anything really important to say, they’d say it in English.
Those of you in primarily English-speaking countries are probably saying, “Jimbo must do a large amount of international business.”
To which I’d answer, some, but none so far in Asia.
The company I work for receives a number of magazine subscriptions free of charge and ten times a day someone calls me to ask me if I want to continue my free subscription or begin a free subscription to a magazine to which my company doesn’t currently subscribe. Every time one of them calls, it takes me a few seconds to understand what they are saying, because they are not speaking the same English I do. It is like the outsourcing craze has finally reached saturation.
Sometimes, when you are calling about your credit card bill or at the drive-through at your local fast food place, and the person on the other end of the phone or the speaker has been carefully trained by a major corporation to speak in a fluent American dialect, you don’t immediately realize the third world is on the line. But when it comes down to free magazine subscriptions, anyone who can read a paragraph in English, without extensive training will fit the requirements of the companies that outsource the job to them. Now, it seems, high-quality, high-dollar American telemarketers are being replaced by cheaper foreign labor.
Now, Jimbo likes good old American telemarketers about as much as he likes sitting down on a wet toilet seat, but at least you can understand those bastards when they are on the phone. And, in the old days when you asked them politely to stop calling you by suggesting that if they ever called back you would find them, rip out their heart and stuff it down their throat, you’d get a response like:
“Yeah, right.”
Now, we have a defense against them. On the rare occasions that they call at home, a four-word response will usually get rid of them: Do not call list. And when that doesn’t work, there is still the most powerful defense of all.
“Why are you calling me? I’m on the do not call list.”
“Sir, we’ve done business with you before, so we wanted you to know about special pricing we know you’ll want to take advantage of.”
“Well, if you ever call me back, we’ll never do business again. Do you freakin’ understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
That always seems to work.
Now, it seems that someone has found the wretched of the earth to do the dirty work of the telemarketer. Now your telemarketer has nothing to fear, knowing you will not be able to locate his boiler room in Cambodia so the threat of ripping out his heart will ring empty. If this keeps up, pretty soon the only jobs available in the United States will be managing the outsourcing of American jobs to the third world. You may recall in an earlier blog I complained about Wendy’s using Dave Thomas as their spokesman, years after he died. I said that if Wendy’s hired only the dead, then there would soon not be enough living people with jobs to buy their product.
http://jimboandhisfriends.blogspot.com/2004/11/dead-man-walking.html
Eventually, outsourcing is going to have the same effect. When everyone’s job is outsourced, who will have a job and money to buy the products and keep the economy running?
I guess the living and American workers need someone to speak in their behalf. I guess it might as well be me. After all, I don’t want it to be said that I was yakking on the phone with someone in the third world when everything we hold precious was finally flushed down the toilet.
In Jimbo’s world, next time the third world calls, I’ll tell them no, just like I did last time and the time before.
Of course they probably say it in a different language than that and if we heard them say it, we’d have no idea what they are saying. We’d probably be asking why those Sri Lankans are always chatting about things we can’t understand, and suggesting if they had anything really important to say, they’d say it in English.
Those of you in primarily English-speaking countries are probably saying, “Jimbo must do a large amount of international business.”
To which I’d answer, some, but none so far in Asia.
The company I work for receives a number of magazine subscriptions free of charge and ten times a day someone calls me to ask me if I want to continue my free subscription or begin a free subscription to a magazine to which my company doesn’t currently subscribe. Every time one of them calls, it takes me a few seconds to understand what they are saying, because they are not speaking the same English I do. It is like the outsourcing craze has finally reached saturation.
Sometimes, when you are calling about your credit card bill or at the drive-through at your local fast food place, and the person on the other end of the phone or the speaker has been carefully trained by a major corporation to speak in a fluent American dialect, you don’t immediately realize the third world is on the line. But when it comes down to free magazine subscriptions, anyone who can read a paragraph in English, without extensive training will fit the requirements of the companies that outsource the job to them. Now, it seems, high-quality, high-dollar American telemarketers are being replaced by cheaper foreign labor.
Now, Jimbo likes good old American telemarketers about as much as he likes sitting down on a wet toilet seat, but at least you can understand those bastards when they are on the phone. And, in the old days when you asked them politely to stop calling you by suggesting that if they ever called back you would find them, rip out their heart and stuff it down their throat, you’d get a response like:
“Yeah, right.”
Now, we have a defense against them. On the rare occasions that they call at home, a four-word response will usually get rid of them: Do not call list. And when that doesn’t work, there is still the most powerful defense of all.
“Why are you calling me? I’m on the do not call list.”
“Sir, we’ve done business with you before, so we wanted you to know about special pricing we know you’ll want to take advantage of.”
“Well, if you ever call me back, we’ll never do business again. Do you freakin’ understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
That always seems to work.
Now, it seems that someone has found the wretched of the earth to do the dirty work of the telemarketer. Now your telemarketer has nothing to fear, knowing you will not be able to locate his boiler room in Cambodia so the threat of ripping out his heart will ring empty. If this keeps up, pretty soon the only jobs available in the United States will be managing the outsourcing of American jobs to the third world. You may recall in an earlier blog I complained about Wendy’s using Dave Thomas as their spokesman, years after he died. I said that if Wendy’s hired only the dead, then there would soon not be enough living people with jobs to buy their product.
http://jimboandhisfriends.blogspot.com/2004/11/dead-man-walking.html
Eventually, outsourcing is going to have the same effect. When everyone’s job is outsourced, who will have a job and money to buy the products and keep the economy running?
I guess the living and American workers need someone to speak in their behalf. I guess it might as well be me. After all, I don’t want it to be said that I was yakking on the phone with someone in the third world when everything we hold precious was finally flushed down the toilet.
In Jimbo’s world, next time the third world calls, I’ll tell them no, just like I did last time and the time before.
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