Apple Juice is Obsolete!

The offices of Practical Solutions for Banal Lifestyles (PSBL) has finally come through! The laws of science and metaphysics have finally been unravelled for your drinking pleasure. Yes, the future is here, my friends! What you've been waiting for all along, the Quantum Occilating Trichrome Juicer! The QOT Juicer is a revolutionary new product that allows you to extract the essence, in liquid form, to basically juice, anything. Yes, it's true, anything. You can juice everything from a pineapple to a television set!

Thirsty? Got a spare sofa that you're trying to get rid of? Juice it! Just shove that sofa into the juicer and out will come a nice, cold, delicious glass of couch juice (probably a small amount of spare change and cracker crumb juice as well!). Add some vodka, and you've got a cocktail party that the your friends will talk about for months!

Not only can you juice any substance or combination of substances that exist on Earth or anywhere in the universe, you can extract the essence, in juice form, of any emotion, feeling, or abstract concept known or explored in didactic poetry since the beginning of man! Jealousy shooter: 2 parts anger, 1 part insecurity, an ounce of tequila, and a dash of triple sec. Wistful Fizz: 1 part nostalgia, 1 part childlike wonder, and a dash of club soda.

You've always wanted to drown yourself in your sorrow? Well, now you'll know what a poor substitute beer is for the real thing! Now, for the first time in the history of mankind, we can drink to our health, for real! And we can toast friendship, without all that tedious mucking about with wine and champagne.

Oh, and did I mention it also makes really good orange juice?

(The idea for this post was unabashedly stolen from some of my closest friends)

Shut the Fuck Up!!

Unmittigated Zealotry for Sale!

I am not a religious person. There, I said it. It's very strange what the world has done to atheism. It's a little less offensive to some people to claim to be an agnostic, but I'm not an agnostic. I am an atheist. It's not that I believe that God does not exist. I am convinced of it. There is a subtle but important distinction there.

You see, the essence of science is not to prove things. And I tend to take a scientific view of most things. A scientific theory can be defined as, 'the best explanation that fits the data we have.' So when we talk about the 'theory' of evolution, this is what we mean. It is not 'just a theory' it is the explanation for the origin of species that science has.

So I have this theory, that God does not exist. This explanation seems to fit the evidence most closely. Since there is no evidence that God exists, and in the case of supernatural beings, I think the burden of proof would have to rest on the theist end, it is simple induction that God does not exist. As for souls, spirits, and other metaphysical constructs, we get a little grayer. God does not have to exist for people to have souls. I'm not saying I believe people have souls; far from it, however, I think it's harder to be definite on the issue.

Religion, as far as I'm concerned, has lost the most important thing that it ever possessed: aesthetic appeal. The most aesthetically appealing religions hail from the East. They have the most developed metaphysics, resting on a certain brand of logic. No western religion is based on logic, they are based on accepting texts as the word of God...this is silly. Eastern religions are (with few exceptions) based on the problem of human suffering, it's causes, and methods of eliminating it. This is neat. So most Eastern religions are humanistic. Whereas Western religions are theocentric, and oftentimes pretty much require an increase in human suffering.

Someday, I would like to start a religion, where men are capable of becoming gods (like Buddha, not like Mormons). The term 'god' would be much more loosely defined. Sex would be okay in my religion. Morality would be a lot more subjective. I think morality and religion are probably going to continue to be tightly intertwined, so it would probably be a good idea to make the rules very loose in my religion, so people could use logic to figure out the best path, rather than memorization of rules (how many Christians, or even Jews for that matter, actually follow all the rules laid down in Exodus and Leviticus). There would be no holy texts in my religion, because those things really muddle up the works, and people start worshipping the text, rather than doing what they're supposed to be doing: worshipping me.

I am Thankful for....um...I'm thinking...

So there you are, sitting around the table, a feast of unimaginable proportions lay before you. The food is on your plate. Your glass is full of wine. Your stomach is rumbling, because you've been fasting all day waiting for this glorious moment. And then someone brings it up. You were hoping this moment wouldn't come. The question is asked, "What is everyone thankful for?" They go around the table. You're thankful that you weren't first, that's for sure...but what else? I mean, there are innumerable things you ought to be thankful for... for instance, you wouldn't be celebrating Thanksgiving if you didn't live in America, and being born here is kind of like winning the lottery in a sense. The vast majority of people are not born in America, and the largest portion of people in the world are very poor and do not get to eat turkeys in November, and don't have presidents who pardon one turkey for a photo op on said holiday. As a sidenote, I've always thought this was a stupid tradition...I mean, the Turkey has not commited any sort of crime (beyond being born a turkey sometime before Thanksgiving), and therefore has nothing to be pardoned for. But the president always saves one from the choppnig block (actually, he pardons two). So anyway, there you are, dreading your turn turn to talk about what you're thankful for.

Invariably your turn comes around; you complement the cook, whoever made the food, whether the bird is dry or not, mention a significant other or two out of obligation, and if you're lucky, you can manage to crack a joke or two and not sound like you've been forced into it. Then everyone says grace, an interminable thirty seconds, and then, finally you get to eat. You dig in, thankful mostly that all that traditional stuff is out of the way, and you can finally do what Thanksgiving was started for in the first place, stuffing your fat face until you can't eat anymore, because if you do, you'll just yack it all up and feel like crap for the rest of the night, or worst, your stomach will burst and you'll die a horrifyingly painful death as stomach acid leaches out into your abdomen, destroying all sorts of sensitive organs and tissue.

Turkeys are hideous birds. Take a moment to click on the pictures. They're awful.
The top picture may be meant to be somewhat touching...but let's face it, it's kind of disturbing. I mean, there's really nothing majestic about these birds except that something like eighty percent of thier body mass is edible and delicious (if prepared properly and not injected with an absurd amount of meat-rubberizing hormones). I'm thankful that I'm not a Turkey. I'm thankful that I'm not from Turkey, for that matter.

It's not that I hate the Thanksgiving. Far from it, tonight, I got completely smashed and ate enough food to feed a young boy in a chinese sweatshop for three weeks. It's just that sometimes holidays are not fun in the same way that they used to be when we were kids. When you're a kid, you have no responsibility beyond having a good time...but now, holidays can become very stressful, especially if you're having dinner with family that you "haven't seen in a while." It's like some P.R. meeting or some sort international summit. You're on your best behavior. You make peace with your uncle who's an abusive closet drunk. Everybody knows it, but it's a bigger sin to disrupt the false stability of the holiday than to point out what an incredible asshole that guy is. Okay, so most of this is an extreme hypothetical situation. This year the day was mostly pleasant. However, I have had some really bad ones (wait till I post on Xmas).

I am thankful that some people will read this and get a laugh.

God is great, God is good, Let us thank Him for this food.

There's a long tradition of tyrants in this world. Some are smart, some stupid. Some are ugly, some are handsome. Some are more ruthless than others. But the one quality that they all possess, is a singular desire to maintain a status quo. To hold on to thier power.

It is no surprise, therefore, that Saddam Hussein did everything that he did. I mean, megalomania coupled with a certain degree of charisma can give someone the potential to do most anything in this world. Hussein was almost artistic in the way he subjugated the Iraqi people. I think it was Laurie Anderson who said that the only true avant-garde artists left in the world are terrorists, because they are the only people who can still manage to surprise us. Of course, that was true when Laurie Anderson said it, it may not be as true today. The terrorists of today are less and less able to shock anybody, save those who are victims. In fact, terrorist attacks are only becoming more banal and routine, particularly to those of us who merely read about them in the paper, or hear about them on BBC news.

But maybe there's one man out there, who still has the balls to subject millions of people to his will and continue to come off as a pretty nice guy. Of course, you already know just who that might be. The question is, is his brand of terrorism less, equal, or more artistic than the al-qaeda's or the now defunct regime of Saddam Hussein. Did you know that President George Walker Bush is part of school of thought that truly believes that the "end of days," the second coming of Jesus Christ, can't happen until the Jews are all back in Isreal (or maybe it's that Isreal has to be completely under the political jurisdiction of the Jews, I can't remember exactly)? Regardless, it is interesting to note that this dictates a nice chunk of his foreign policy, particularly as pertains to the Gaza Strip. Okay, I have not done the actual research on this tidbit, but a history professor told me about it, and I tend to believe her.

So, lets examine: Osama bin Laden believes that Allah has charged him with expelling the infidels from the Middle East. Bush believes that God put him in office. Saddam told his people that they should believe that Allah put him in office (a subtle but important difference). I think the question remains, who is the most sane of these three men? I think it all comes down to what carries more of a burden of insanity: a god complex or megalomania. Hmm... Since it could be argued that a god complex is just a more severe form of megalomania, it is pretty evident that Saddam Hussein is probably the sanest person in this group of crazed psychoes who have somehow ended up in charge of decision making for large numbers of people. And now which ones are still in power? An interesting trend: the most insane people are tending to stay in power.

The lesson: If you want to stay in power, you had goddamn well better be bat shit crazy and have a god complex to boot.

An Interview With an Indian

It is becoming increasingly prevalent in popular culture these days, to pretend to have different ethnicity than what you actually possess. I had a little sit-down interview with someone who has made an artform out of this practice. His name is Weetootwaag. Or just Twaag for short. He is probably of Scandinavian or Bulgarian descent, but is convinced that deep down inside, he is really a Scottish-Ojibwe. Let's see how the interview went.

Dr.K: Weetootwaag, or can I call you Twaag?

Twaag: Sure, whatever.

Dr. K: I understand...Twaag...that you claim to be the most knowledgeable person in the world of the Ojibwe language. How does it feel to be a Bulgarian with such a vast knowledge of a dying language?

Twaag: Um...I'm not Bulgarian....and I never made that claim.

Dr. K: Fascinating. And you are also a world famous bag piper, is that not correct?

Twaag: *laughs* I wouldn't exactly say world famous. But in some circles, yes, I am known to be fairly proficient on the Scottish Pipes

Dr. K: Amazing. Twaag... last of a dying breed... the only White Indian left in America who plays the Scottish Pipes. That's quite a tough legacy to hold true to, is it not?

Twaag: Um.. What are you getting at?

Dr. K: I am merely trying to establish for our readers that you are, in fact, the only White Bulgarian Scottish Indian left in America, and the spiritual battle, what can only be a losing battle, you must face on a day to day basis has laid a heavy burden on your soul...

Twaag: Um... Jesus, Doctor, when you put it that way... *sheds a single tear, a slight breeze flutters his long, flowing locks*... Umm...well, I guess I do what I can to keep the tradition alive. Bagpiping isn't exactly a dying art, but Ojibwe is and---

Dr. K: Absolutely astonishing, Twaag. I wonder, if you could tell our readers what it is that you've been keeping busy with these days?

Twaag: *somewhat annoyed* Well, I've been playing some piping gigs, I teach inner city African Americans the Ojibwe language, I guess I play D&D from time to time, and other than school, I guess I grab a beer at the bar now and then.

Dr. K: Really, interesting. And you drink a lot?

Twaag: *Shrugs* Sometimes, I guess. Oh man, *laughs* there was this party last week, I got so hammered *eyes glaze over in blissful remembrance of last drink.*

Dr. K: How long have you been binge drinking like this?

Twaag: Oh, I don't do it that often. A couple times a month or so.

Dr. K: So tragic. Twaag, your struggle with alcoholism has hampered your career goals as a White Scottish Indian, how has it affected your home life?

Twaag: I'm not an alcoholic.

Dr. K: My friend, you must not pretend that these problems don't exist. The first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem.

Twaag: I'm not an alcoholic.

Dr. K: Twaag, I feel that we've really gotten close in these last few minutes, and I want you to know, that you can tell me anything...of course, that doesn't mean that I won't post it on the internet... just...let it out. Tell me what you've been dying to tell someone! What your heart has been screaming to admit to for so long!

Twaag: *Silently scowling*

Dr. K: About your alcohol problem...

The interview ended here. Wetootwaag is apparently one of those violent drunks, because he viciously attacked me and gave me a black eye. I do not begrudge him this, because he has a problem he is trying to get over, not to mention the fate of an entire race of people resting squarely on his rippling shoulders. I hope this little glimpse into the private life of a reclusive White Scottish Indian Alcoholic has made it easier to feel a little tolerance, and maybe even accept these obscure and often misunderstood people of a "trans-ethnic" sort.

Cynical Ramblings on Individual Virtue

My friends, it has come to my attention, that there is a potential candidate, never before considered for an illustrious position in the fabled Pantheon of Coolness, home of such things as Pirates, Ninjas, Zombies, and Pirate-Ninja-Zombies. And I think that they might just get a shot at that spot that just opened up when Corporate Lawyers got kicked out. In case thier obvious coolness (and the above photo) has not clued you in, they are hobos, friends...hobos.

Why are hobos so cool you ask? Why should hobos have the open spot in the Pantheon of Coolness? I'm glad you asked. Hobos are solitary individuals. They are also completely self-serving, though not in exactly the same way as Pirates, Ninjas and Zombies. They are are not interested in booty (treasure), killing lots of people, or eating brains. But they are interested in not being tied down by "the man." These increasingly elusive creatures are known for a pondering, simple, philosophical kind of life.

There is no rush; there is no hurry. There is not bother...just existence. "Live like a dog," says the 20th century's true cynic. The punks and hippies are descended from hobos in a way. The hobo, to counterpoint, however, detatched completely. He never muddled about in politics, never dreamed that any such pretension would be anything but a degredation of the peace and solitude one can find by just being alone.

And so, I am going to hear arguments for and against admitting the hobo into the Pantheon of Coolness. Anyone who wishes it, is free to give their input on this matter. And the Good Doctor reserves the right, of course, to completely disregard any and perhaps all of those comments. And finally, the hobo just might get the unwanted recognition he truly deserves.

A Thing or Two About Bart

I have this friend. Well...who can say what a friend is? His name is Black Bart. He is the pink pirate with the banjo. Standing in the foreground is some random bumpkin...most likely a sexual predator.

Anyway...what can I say about Black Bart? Well, for one thing, he's finally doing what America has been too lazy to do. He's invading China with no one to help but his sister and his girlfriend. He told me before he left, that they weren't supposed to drink the water. But if I know Bart (and I know Bart...very well), he will have built up a tolerance to it in a week flat. First, you gotta rub a little on your gums and see what happens. Then you take a little thimblefull, and slowly but surely, you will build up a tolerance. Then again, if not even the locals drink the water...I guess there's no point.

Black Bart is one of those enigmatic characters. Maybe not as wise as the Good Doctor, certainly not as good looking, but with a style and panache all his own. Did I mention that owns moon land? Yes, apparently you can do that. For a mere $150.00 you can own a plot in a neighborhood on the moon. You get a deed and everything. Some people said Bart was crazy. He would hear none of it. He said if he was ever in a court battle over it, he would rather be on the side that owned the moon land.

What else can you say about Black Bart? The nefarious "Pink Pirate of the Iron Range," has been rambunctioned into the annals of history by merely waggling a finger. He can heave a sigh, and women weep. He can laugh a laugh, and men will dance. He can strum a chord on his Banjo of the Lepton, and the whole world will quake in awe and wonderment! With a snap of his wrist, and a stroke of the brush, astonishing works of art are created. And you've gotta admit, he doesn't look half bad in pink.

Finite Rambunctions of a Lunatic Ego

There has bee a lot of speculation over the last couple of weeks over just who, in fact, the Good Doctor is. Myself. It is so hard to quantify. You can't pin him down in a sentence or two. Many a graduate student, in an attempt to write a thesis on this very subject, has found himself in a padded room, limited to a diet of lukewarm chicken broth and vitamin supplements, and in a few rare cases, an innability to comprehend spoken language...sometimes for years at a time.

There is a versimilitude inherent in his whole ego. He is by turns, a Boddhisatva, a Guru of unparalleled wisdom, a dilettante of incredible candor, a god (or at least considered by many gods to be a "really good guy" and worthy of "coming round for tea on occaision"), and an expert marksman.

What is he a Doctor of, you ask? Well, in some ways, it's a self-proclaymed tytle. He will be the first to admit that. However, the responsibility that demanded him to be the Good Doctor, was thrust upon him. He did not take it up lightly, or with anything short of the most abject humylity. This was not a voluntary act. But when the need arose, and there certainly was a need, he showed his almost infinite compassion towards the world and took up the Stethescope of Ambiguity and the Caduceus of Bipartisan Politics, and looked the world straight in the eye, stared right the most obscure and malicious corners of the human soul, the blackest, most loathsome scabs precariously situated over the festering wounds in the human spirit, and here he did not quake, my friends! Here he stood fast! And raised his arms in triumph, for all to see! For all to rejoyce and say, "YES! This is what it means, to tame the beast within! To sow the seeds of healing in an impoverished collective human spirit!"

And then the people knew. The Good Doctor was here to stay. He would fight their battles. He would warm their souls by the Snuggly Hearth of Ambiguous Certitude. "Sit by the fire," he says calmly. And there is nothing you can do, but curl up in a nice folding chair and listen as he imparts the True Wysdom that he alone possesses and can share. You feel comforted. There is a catharsis. It's small at first, but it grows within you over time, building slowly, rising to a tulmultuous, albeit mildly apprehensive, transfiguration of not only the dangerous bits of your mind, but very shallowest recesses of your soul.

And you start to feel better. You start to feel as though finally, after so many years of doubt and incongruity, you can finally settle down, relax, stopping worrying about all the piddling bits of basically pocket change problems, because the Good Doctor is here to take them upon himself.

A kind word, a friendly handshake, these are not the things that he offers. No, the Good Doctor offers a little of what he likes to call, The Ultimate Zen of Ambiguous Light. Let it illuminate your path forever.

When the Going Gets Wierd...

I don't have to finish the quote. It's not that important. And it seems almost trite in these dire and unsettling times. What really was Hunter S Thompson's legacy? Did he even have one? Did he even mean to leave one? Does anyone even give a shit? All of these are valid questions, and I have no intention of answering any of them. So quit asking.

The problem with trying to "sum up" a person "in a nutshell" is that it is impossible. Especially for people as mult-faceted as HST and myself. Even the most trivial figure in history, the yeoman farmer who did nothing all his life, except plow the fields, fix the fence, and maybe birth a few calves, had, when you really look at it, a deeply philosophical life, that cannot be summed up in the way that I just have. And the real tragedy is, no one will ever, ever know the full extent of a person. Ever. I don't care if you're married to them for 70+ years. There's just no way to know a person's inner most self without being that person. You try to put it down on paper. You try to write some insignificant weblog about it. No one's going to read it, except a few people that you know who drop in once a week and make a comment or two. You can spill your deepest ponderings out onto this digital diary, and the most you'll ever get is a cursory glance through it from most people, and maybe a thorough read through by your closest friends. If it's interesting enough, you might have a better shot at it.

My guess is, that most people who write blogs, don't write the most interesting things about themselves, though. They write about the trivial and mundane activities that they go through from day to day. They don't write about what's really going on during those trivial events. Of course, one has to admit that there probably are a lot of people that are genuinely boring. But I'm not ready to admit that this is true of more than the smallest, most insignificant minority.

I have been disillusioned before.

When the going gets wierd, the wierd go out for ice cream.

When the going gets wierd, the wierd throw a barbecue, where all the women dress like Nancy Reagan, and the men wear bondage gear.

When the wierd gets going, there's no stopping it for all tea in France. It's only going to get wierder from here on out, and if you doubt me, remember that Pat Robertson is still a man of a certain amount of influence in this world. Fuck you Pat Robertson.