Governments of the world, prepare your watchlists!

That's right, ladies and gentlemen - Markatoa is back and with far less of those namby-pamby "feelings" or self-reflections that seem to be all the rage these days.  Self reflection is the exclusive purview of high quality hotels wherein the champagne is cold and the ceilings are made of mirrors from here on out.  (That's not entirely true - sometimes also the walls are mirrored.  Also, thinking is often pretty fun.  But let's not let facts get in the way of what we've got going on here, shall we?)

I spent most of this morning engaged in activity that I can only assume will end up having my employers internet provider flag us as possible terrorist threats and lead to me being taken away in the night.  What did I do, you ask?  Watch Al-Jezeera while streaming video of us burning the flag?  No.  I don't speak Arabic and well that other part is just a little declasse.  Especially when not used as a legitimate form of peaceful protest/resistance.  But especially especially in my work office.  Because people would notice, and then I would be the one fired.  Instead of the flag.  It was...an admittedly bad joke.

America disapproves of crappy humor.

Annnyway, it is neither of the above things that will have the FBI watching me like I was this weeks new episode of Friends circa 1995.  Nope.  It's the fact that I sat down at my desk today and the first thing I did was start looking up things about how to create home made smoke bombs and (very minor.  tiny, even) explosives.  I saw my google search history and realized that this is what psychos and really bad terrorists and people in movies do.  (The people in movies do it so that later the "hero" who is "computer savvy" can do two and a half seconds of "detective work" to out the bad guy.  In addition to which, air quotes.)

In my defense, I was looking for (and found) a relatively cheap and non-toxic way to produce practical smoke effects.  Why?  Because of reasons, that's why.  And also Halloween, I suppose.  But mostly reasons.  It felt like it would be a fun thing to learn how to do and that way, if successful I can always throw the smoke grenade at my feet and vanish into the night like a surly, fat, nearing middle age ninja.  Which is notoriously the most dangerous type of ninja.  People always expect svelte assassins who look like they have a commitment to the gym, or at least not needing a breather after eating a few Cheetohs.  Which is awesome for me, because they're far less on their guard when they see the jolly, jowly dude just creeping up on them with a "shucks, ya' got me" look.  They're more likely to think I'm simple.  Or playing an obscure game of hide and seek the rules of which remain obfuscated to the casual player.

Then...BAM...fat ninja killed.

I have realized that talking about how I would like to ninja-murder people and use my smoke bombs to escape is not making this sound more innocent.  I'm just going to quit here, while I'm ahead.  Mostly ahead, anyway.  My point being, if I suddenly disappear and cease all of the communications ever - I'm in a lightless cell, probably being waterboarded.

On the plus side, if that doesn't happen...homemade chemistry experiment smoke.  I'll report on my success/failure and my starring role in the United States Federal Penitentiary System depending on what happens next.  Stay classy, Internet.

I thought about being serious, once.

It just didn't take.  Ok.  It might have, at least a little bit.  But then during the work day it's so hard to stay focused.  I mean, really, if I can get away with writing crap like this and get paid in actual, American dollars (or at least data sent to my bank that represents actual American dollars) for it what incentive do I have to make this blog have a coherent point?

The answer, of course, is none.  I had a thought once upon a time - also known as a couple of months ago - of setting myself one of those ridiculous internet goals.  Instead of, say, cooking everything in Julia Child's the Art of Cooking and letting the world know about its effect on my love life I was going to do a movie review blog.  Because if there's one thing I love (other than my wife and family, of course) it's watchin' movies.  Sweet, sweet movies.

The idea was to dedicate some of my time to this hobby and actually put together a blog-thing that would have features like actually being edited and coherent (mostly) along with providing if not a vital service at least some sort of value.  My idea was to write a blog that would involve the watching and reviewing of 100 movies.  A mix of classics, Netflix finds, art films and present big-screen blockbusters.

I think I could watch 100 movies in a year.  I don't know that I could convince Ladytoa to do the same.  Who knows, maybe it will be my New Year's Resolution blog.  If nothing else, it can help keep my critical eye and my pimp hand strong.  Not as strong as Luke Cage's, but who's is?

The answer to that is no one, Internet.  No one will ever have a pimp hand stronger than Power Man.  Deal with that reality.  It's ok to be second best to Luke Cage.  No one is judging you for it.  Except possibly your girlfriend who wishes you were that awesome.

Wow - a whole post without too much incredible randomness.  Do we take this as a sign of growth or of the fact that work this morning has attempted to squeeze my brain out of my ears and I just don't have the energy to actually think in my normal fashion?  I don't know, yet.  But I'm interested to find out.

There's something off about Yummy Mummy

The other day in a store, I was saddened (as I am every year) by the discontinuation of the Yummy Mummy cereal brand.  I mean, don't get me wrong, the passing of the Fruit Brute always tugs on the old heart strings as well, but...Yummy Mummy, man.  Yummy frickin' Mummy.

The poor guy.  He's just stuck there, damned to walk the Earth forever, dispensing deliciously cursed treats to the children of the world but never able derive any enjoyment from them.  No amount of strawberry banana marshmallows will ever fill the hole left in his heart since The Incident. They turn to ash in his mouth and the milk they swim in transforms into bitterest blood. (Yes, I like to assume that all cereal mascot characters have something in their backstory that can only be referred to as "The Incident".  Don't even ask about Snap, Crackle and Pop.  Your mind would be blown.  I don't judge you, and expect the same courtesy in return.)

I might have mentioned in passing to Ladytoa that if they brought that back every year for Halloween that I would be, and I quote, "All up in a bowl of Yummy Mummy's business."  I might have added a "Like whoa" to that statement for emphasis, but I don't honestly recall.  For our purposes today, we'll assume I did not.  If later fact checkers prove me to be mistaken I will happily take full responsibility.

My wife got upset at this statement.  And I don't mean in that simmering way that wives are always upset (you know what I'm talking about, gentlemen.  It's cool.  You can pretend you don't while they're in the room watching you read this but you know. You always know.) and just waiting for a chance to pounce at a sign of weakness.  I mean she was legitimately bothered.  Like I did something horrible and shook a baby or mistook a local funeral for an underground "food rave" (again. She puts up with a lot, my wife).

I thought that she was messing with me.  Who in their right mind can actually be upset about Yummy Mummy?  People the world over love things that are Yummy.  Yum! Brands, Rachel Ray and others build their whole damned brand identities on it.  And Yumminess, make no mistake, is implicit in the mandate of the Yummy Mummy.  But, no.  She was for real offended by it.

Could it be that she's bothered by the fact that Mummies might have something to do with ancient Egyptian paganism and therefore they're not appropriate for children cereals?  I suppose it's possible, except for: A)the woman loves things based on ancient Egyptian paganism.  Like books.  And Kittens.  And Senet (looks like it's back to the House of Repeating Life for you, scummy) B) We don't have any children to worry about exposing to such things C) She's never expressed repulsion at Harry Potter, or comic books or Mega-Dino-Ultra-Laser Jesus -an invention of mine that will bring people roaring back to the Church.  The kids love lasers.  The fact that I have no real interest in bringing people to Church has no bearing on my love of lasers.  and D) that's an absolutely stupid thing to worry about.  If crap like that offends you, explain to your kids why it's not appropriate and make sure they have the information to make their own decisions while secretly hoping that they'll follow your way of thinking.

Well, it turns out not so much.  This is a thing that people in other parts of the world (not the Northeastern United States.  Mostly in the Commonwealth of Nations) call young ladies with children.  Young ladies with children that you might like to get to know in a sexy way.  What kind of a sick bastard takes something pure and innocent and already cursed to walk the earth in abject loneliness and turns it into this:

I assume she has at least 900 children.  Bonus points for a "Chav" Calendar though

I admit a certain amount of confusion even so.  Someday, if there is to be a little Markatoa or Markatoette the mummy in question will be my wife.  So if I want to talk about being all up in there where's the harm?  It already would've happened or someone has some 'splainin to do when it comes to those kids.  Maybe not the most romantic way to phrase it, and probably not a thing that needs to be talked about in public (haHA.  Take that, it's all on the Intertron now.) but can you let it ruin your love of childhood sugar memories?  I don't think that you should.

Pump the brakes, Parents of the World.

Say it with me now, Parents.  "I love my kids."  "I want the best for my children."  See?  That wasn't so hard, and I even believe you when you say it.  Now, I want you to repeat after me, or at the very least admit the following sentence deep down in the subsurface crevices of your soul.  Those dark, seedy places where you want to have someone call you by your Mom's name in bed or wake up with a stranger in your mouth on Date Night.  You know the ones I mean?  (You sick bastards.  No, really, that's just off sides.)  Down there where no one will ever see or hear what you have to say outside of a therapists couch or a bar stool, make the following admission. "My job is to get them successfully to the age of 18 with as little emotional damage as possible."

Not zero damage.  Not provide them with  a bucolic life filled with nothing but splendor and endless gold coins raining from the sky (although if you have that capability, my own life is kinda lacking in the gold coins department.  I tried to smash my head on bricks until coins came out.  It did not work.  You know what comes out of bricks when you headbutt them?  Concussions.)  Why do I bring this up to you right now?  Not because I've found out about any surprise children from my sordid past that have finally caught up with me after the last three states and four false identities - not that that sort of thing is ever likely to happen of course.  pay no attention to this blog post, The Man.  No, it's because far too often these days I see people who are so obsessed with being good parents that they're not letting their children actually be, well, children.

Neighborhood kid wants to babysit?  Not in this house - I only hire professionals who are at least neonatal emergency room nurses.  At least.  Preferably neonatal surgeons who come to the house and convert my kitchen into an operating theatre.  You know.  Like this guy.

Best surgeon ever?

Primarily this issue has come to be top of mind because I have a coworker who we can only refer to as Insaña.  This woman has a two year old daughter.  Yay!  Two year olds!  They're so cute, still relatively bouncy and will luckily never remember any of your horrible parenting from this time of their lives.  You have a totally valid excuse to come up with whatever bizarre parenting theories you want and try them out before they can cause irreparable damage to the tiny human in question.  Insaña, though, has decided that instead of trying to teach her child to communicate solely through Karate (that's mine, Internet.  Well, mine and Batgirl's dad's.  I would have referred to him by name, but it would've been confusing) she instead has taken the option of preemptively smothering the living hell out of this creature that she spawned.

She refuses to let her child play with other children outside of daycare, because they might be bad people.  She calls her daycare five times every day in order to verify exactly which teachers and children are being allowed to interact with her daughter and remind them exactly what words are acceptable to be said to the girl.  Oddly enough, she's pulled her daughter out of, or been asked to leave three centers before the current one.  But obviously that has nothing to do with her being full on Caligula-crazy.

Now, this is a bit of an extreme example but I see a lot of parents doing similar, if slightly less insane, things to protect their kids.  I get it.  I want kids to be safe too.  But I also want them to be human being when they grow up.  People who are raised solely by their parents without access to anyone else will just not be able to interact with the world at large when it's that time of their lives.  Like college.  Or work.  Or trying to find some sort of meaningful friendship (never mind any future romantic endeavors.  Because *damn* if you can't match that level of psychotic attention to my most minute desires, you can die in a fire.)

My point inasmuch as we can claim for there to be one is that life is simply wonderful.  It's a situation fraught with dizzying highs and truly abyssal lows.  Absolutely unmitigated beauty and heart-wrenching horror.  Eventually, some of that will get through your carefully modulated shields.  Someone will make fun of them when you're not around.  They'll need to get a job or talk to a snotty waitress without you there to back them up.  And if you haven't let them live at all for that first eighteen years, they will not at all know how to handle this situation.

I'm not saying to give your toddler a pointy stick, some wetnaps and a half-eaten sack of teething biscuits and drop them at the Hobo Camp by the train tracks but just understand there's a whole life out there.  It exists past your living room window and if you don't let them live at least a little bit of it, you're ultimately doing someone a disservice along the line.

I would like to point out, however, that hobotoddlers would be hella cute.  I might start abducting children to draw stubble on them and give them bindle sticks for my own personal amusement.  (Attention, governments of the world - when I say that I'm intending to start abducting children what I really mean is: I have no goddamned intention whatsoever of kidnapping anyone.  There.  Disclaimers managed)

I appreciate all the appreciatings.

I know.  I know.  I've done it again - I'm a month ahead of my holiday schedule.  Talking about Halloween in September and bringing what is clearly a Thanksgiving conversation into the mix today.  But ya' know what?  I don't care.  Maybe I'll mix the two things together.  Halloween/horror and Thanksgiving can never go poorly when mixed together.  Right? Right.  Observe:

If you haven't already, watch this movie.  I'll wait.

That picture right there represents all that is good and right in the world of giving thanks.  I may be making that up in order to fool you into watching it, but for now (and until you actually do watch it and curse my name) I stand by my previous statement.  The one thing about being thankful when it's not yet quite the Time of the Year for that sort of thing is that it doesn't matter.  You can be thankful whenever the damned mood strikes.  Although I will totally wear a pilgrim hat later.  To show my thanks.  Also, they're called Cockel hats officially speaking.  I learned that while looking to purchase one.  On the Internet.

Unlike some other things that I've been known to ramble about, I vaguely have a point this morning.  And that point is that I appreciate the heck out of my wife.  I appreciate her in the way that bull elephants appreciate...peanuts?  Lady elephants?  Lady Elephants that are suggestively laying down on a bed of peanuts?  (Note - I am not, in point of fact, comparing Ladytoa to an elephant.  That way lies madness and bruises on my face.  Because I'll likely fall down some stairs afterwards)

I am not what most people imagine when they hear the phrase an "easy man to live with".  Like many other people on this wonderfully spinning ball of mud I have issues and triggers and bs piled on top of my soul like toppings on a delicious Subway sandwich.  Sometimes, these things will cause me to explode in a bitter tsunami of self-recriminations and doubt.

My wife lives through these times, is kind to me and then (and this is the amazing part) comes back for more of me.  This broad likes me and that makes my entire life a better place to inhabit.  The thing is that every once in a while it really hits me how much what has to appear like the "simple" parts of being with someone really mean.  Just listening when you have a crappy day or holding your hand when the world decides it would rather zig than zag.

Because for all the grand gestures and surprise presents and lavish trips to exotic countries where virginal women will massage me with the finest quality oils redolent of the spices of far-off Araby (about which I am in no way complaining, let the record show) it's the simple kindnesses that make me feel at home.  Ladytoa - let me tell you - she gives good kindness.

Like other men have before and will after me, I sometimes find myself thinking "what have I done to deserve this person in my life?" (Except that I mean it in a good way.)  and I realize that the answer to that question is nothing, really.  Not to be down on myself but that's just not how the world works.  I can't just tally up my cool points in column "A" and if enough are present cash them in for sweet prizes from column "B" right?  Because if I could, I would totally have a mansion that had roller-rink floors.  Everywhere.  Changing floors? Ramps and Elevators.  And none of those hippy-dippy roller "blades" or whatever the kids are using these days.  Nope.  You wanna skate at my house you do it Old School.

No - it turns out that amazing wives are not handed out for skee-ball high scores or being able to trounce everyone at the local arcade at Mortal Kombat (those are still valid expressions of your manly teenage self-worth, yes?).  They are just a sort of universal mystery and the best you can hope to do is enjoy their company, try to be worthy of the continuation of the same and enjoy the ride.  And every once in a while let them know how much better they make your lives.

So, in the most publicly-private way the internet will allow, and with all the rambling for which you've come to know me, I just want to say thank you to my wife (who's real name is also a secret, but is not Ladytoa.).  You make my every day better, and there's no where in the universe I'd rather be than wherever you are.


Except maybe Cybertron.  Transformers are pretty bitching, after all.

Cybertronian wives.  Best of both worlds.

Holy Salty Cow-nipples! I'm profane!

Yes, obviously, some would argue.  I do not currently take place in the temple.  To you people who are using literal definitions of "sacred" and "profane" which have been out of vogue for a few centuries, bully.  But wouldn't you feel bad if this particular post was being written while I was hosting a black-light and soap-bubbles rave in the Aedes Iovis Optimi Maximi Capitolini?  Because that would be as sacred as Baby Jesus playing polo while mounted on the Apis Bull.

I'm not doing that, but it would be awesome and now I know the theme of my next Birthday Party.  It's defacing international landmarks and blacklight.  Mark your calendars.

What I mean by my profanity (this time) is that the adWords team has rejected my application.  See here if you're unaware of what I speak.  It would seem that the content of my blog violates their terms of service for profanity reasons.

I know I don't exactly censor myself too hard here, but I don't think there's a single word or photo on this blog to date that a fifth grader couldn't find for himself in three seconds.  Hell, they'd probably be worse and then show me pictures of some horrible, sweaty cat-man loving a wheel of cheese.  I'm sure that exists on the internet and that children would be able to find it before I finish this sentence.

Like this, but a million times worse.  Thanks, Cracked.com

Oh well.  I suppose I'll have to go back to gyrating my glistening self to the sad beats of stripper songs to make a little extra money.  My wife has habits that I need to maintain.  Expensive habits.  Baking habits.  And now, thanks to Google, I'll be slathering myself in oil again to put on the show no one wants to see but everyone has to watch.

Someone best be bleeding out the head

I admit it - I'm not what philosophers might call a complicated man.  In fact, it's like the song says, "Simple songs about simple things is what makes my Markatoa swing." (you didn't know that I knew Big Bad VooDoo Daddy, did you?  And if you recognized the above song, I promise I also do have eyes like an angel.  Smile like the devil?  Not so much.  I end up with a smug, ridiculous look of barely concealed condescension when I try.  I feel like the devil would be way more suave than I am)  Part of that simplicity is the belief that if someone is calling me at or after midnight on a day that I have work to go to the next morning that someone I know better be in the process of dying or being born.

Failing that, maybe a close friend who accidentally is calling or having a moment of crisis can be forgiven.  Maybe if you're down in Rio for Carnivale and some buxom lass has been feeding you booze and promising to do things to you that will make your family blush for a hundred generations in either direction if only you called your Norteamericano friends.  Those situations are acceptable.  In the case of the last (and admittedly incredibly unlikely.  I've met my friends - none of the mansome ones would really inspire intercontinental lust in pre-Lent Lascivious Latinas.  I told you I liked alliteration.  Also, most of them are married.) I might give someone a pass.  But only because I would seek sweet, sweet revenge on them.  Also, because if you sleep with that kind of girl the mouth-herpes that you get infested with are almost punishment enough.  Mouth.  Herpes.  Ladies and gentlemen of the internet, don't be that guy.

You know who never gets forgiven for that sort of behavior though?  No matter how much herpes they get? Ex goddamned wives.

This is what ex-wives look like, right?  It's not just mine...please?

Now, Markatoa, that seems oddly specific.  I can hear these thought-questions rumbling around in your web-soaked brainpans.  How?  Both because I am amazing and therefor know what you're going to say before you do...and also because it's incredibly specific and sort of an obvious question.  To that I say well done you.  You've unraveled my motives.  You can win a prize.  It's almost Halloween so it'll be a fun-size candy bar (Fun size candy bars are no one's idea of fun)

The other night, my ex-wife sent me a series of messages.  Once I cleared myself out of the dream addled haze that I found myself swathed in, my trembling hands grasped my phone.  I wondered what might have happened.  Did my mother have a slip and fall?  In-laws devoured by an elevator? A friend giving birth to a secret baby at the Prom and needs an out?  Nope.  As I clutch the phone in my hands and try to stop my heart palpitations I find that...some bands are playing somewhat nearby and she was thinking that maybe Ladytoa and I would like to go see them.  For serious, woman?  In the process of the divorce you lost: all access to me after bedtime, my prodigious knowledge of 1970-1995 in comic book lore and my not-inconsiderable skills as a lover. (Disappointing people is a skill.  It's on my resume and everything.)  It's not that I hate my ex wife.  She's pretty cool and all that.  It's not that I mind the idea of seeing bands.  I like bands.  It's just...well, damn...a little consideration, maybe?

Maybe it's just a sign of being old.  Maybe it has to do with the fact that along with me, everything else is constantly getting older.  I have concerns about family and friends that I would never have imagined being serious when I was younger.  A slip and fall?  That right there is comedy gold.  Especially if the person slips and falls into a giant novelty pie that was for some reason sitting on the ground.  Or like, the most gigantic whoopie cushion of all.  That would be pretty boss, actually.  Now I hear someone fell and I think of what hospital they'll be admitted to and who can care for them while they recover.  That's not a bad thing - I want my friends and family to be taken care, but it's a very different, pretty foreign set of concerns than I used to have.

I'm sure there was a time five or six or eight years ago when if someone texted me at Midnight I'd be all like "what?  the party's just getting started up.  just make sure you're here by like, 4:00 or so.  that's when these bastards start passing out."  But ya know what, Intertron?  I'm sure you know.  Mostly because I've said it before.  I'm not in my gorram 20's anymore and that sort of crud just doesn't fly.  The lesson here?  At least in my world (which is where you are when you come to look at this collection of default fonts and unedited layouts in a blogger.  My world is pretty limited in some ways.  But also filled with whimsy.  The world is like an autistic child's snow globe like that.  Ooooh) you think about what you're doing before you do it.  Unintended consequences are still consequences and saying "well, I didn't think about it" has never once been a successful defense in court.  Except when it will be in the future, when all jury decisions are reached by a panel of telepaths.

Two Men Enter, One President Leaves

Alright boys and girls.  Get ready, grab your popcorn, put your head down and let's get through this.  Today will include pretty much zero talk of anything that most people are interested in.  Or at least most people who accidentally wander into the mental killzone that is the Markatoa Triangle.  (So far, interestingly enough, only two sides of the Markatoa Triangle have been discovered and documented.  Where is the third?  Well, if you knew that you'd know far more about the world than anyone ever needs to.  Ever.)

For those of you who are outside of the United States or are inside them but just don't really care/fear that electricity is the devil and is not to be dealt with under any circumstances (in which case, how are you even reading this?  In your dreams - sandwiched in between that time you fled the chainsaw clown and that horrible thing you wanted to do with Rosario Dawson and some home churned butter - that's the Markatoa sweetspot right there.  You're welcome), tonight is the first of the American Presidential Debates.

For the love of all that is Holy, never search "Celebrity Butter" at work. 

This will be a night where we see two intellectual titans at the top of their respective games try their damn hardest to sound as bland and unoffensive as possible.  To take complicated matters of policy that many people are hungry to hear more about and distill them into "America is Great, and will be like, even greater if I get the big desk."  Seems counter-intuitive doesn't it?  Well, we can blame that on one of those things I mentioned disliking a long, long time ago (on the Internet anything longer ago than 43 seconds is statistically "long ago").  The American Two-Party system.

See, in a country the size and complexity of the United States does anyone really believe that all (or even most) points of view and policy positions can be boiled down into two visions?  Of course we don't.  It's a ridiculous thing to even contemplate and that's why we have socially-progressive, small-government Republicans and intensely conservative Democrats and all sorts of seemingly contradictory nutbags in between.

And big-tent style parties constrict people's thinking in a lot of cases.  They'll say "well, I like that my grandma has Social Security and is not eating cat food today, so I'll vote for this guy.  Democrats like Social Security, right?  Right.  So even though this particular person hates gay people and believes that everything on earth should be censored I think his party has my interests in mind more than the other guy."  It goes both ways, too.  "Gee - I sure do think that maybe we've been wasting a lot of our money as a nation lately.  And I sure hate the abortions.  Well, this guy here is Republican, so he ought to do everything I want.  Even though he fights his party on women's rights for which I passionately disagree with him."

The sad thing is, I think that if we were able to get over this whole thing and get a few more parties that could make a difference into the world, some functions of government would become smoother.  You know, if you had to work with other people and couldn't just have strict party-line majorities but were forced into compromise for the betterment of your fellows?  It's radical and amazing, I know.  But it's also how almost every company, group of friends and/or family ends up getting things done.  No one side gets every single thing that they want, but everyone gets enough to go forward.

Now - I know that the Intertron is filled with people who care intensely about this sort of thing and can't wait to tell me that I'm wrong.  So, go nuts, people.  I dare you.  I've seen that you're looking at this from time to time.  Didn't know that, did you?  Oh yeah...I saw you hear me.

Who knows, maybe one of you will even convince me the error of my ways and make me think the two-party system is the even more awesome than a chicken stuffed into a turkey stuffed with French Toast and baby's tears.  But I doubt it.  That was pretty much the best dinner I ever had.  Even if the tears took forever to collect.

Markatoa Sells Out!

Warning: the above statement is not a true thing that happened.  Unless, of course, it becomes true in the future.  I know that no one who reads this blog does so for my deep commitments to the Arts.  Except maybe that one dude.  You know, the 80 year old Art History professor who frantically tried to use the internet to prove to his Intro to Art class that he was "hip" and "with it" and that he "had his finger to the pulse of society" and then couldn't get his googlebookss to search anything but this page.  The poor bastard.  He, and his classes, have my deepest sympathies.  On the plus side, last I heard he had taken to projecting my awesome ramblings onto the walls of his classroom as a sort of commentary on post-modernism.  Study it hard, kids.  It's all going to be on the final.

That right there?  Also most likely untrue.  I can't really speak to it though, because now that I mentioned it I think it would be awesome so it might as well be my braintruth.  I should totally hire April O'Neil to investigate this.

Next on the docket?  The mystery of my pants.  

However, I do get a lot of things from Adwords telling me that I should sign up for having ads appear on my shiny, completely unrefined and stock-themed blogotubebot.  Because that's what the modern kids love these days - completely unpersonalized, stock crappy webpages.  (Needless to say, the kids these days have problems.)

Now, given the number of people who look at the crud that spills out of my mindfingers (those are like normal fingers, but controlled by my subconscious.  Or at least my stream of consciousness.  Also, you can blame them for typing all this stuff.  It weren't me.  It was the One-armed mindfinger.)  I have absolutely no dream about this replacing all the sweet, grubby, filthy luchre that my boss flings at me to dance and prance and every once in a while to do the job for which he initially hired me.  Which is way less sexy than my dances.  Ask my wife.  She loves it when I dance.  That and my amazing ability to make dinner and wash dishes afterwards (ladies) is why she married me.

I am, however, freakishly, frankly fascinated by the concept (not to mention alliteration.  It's one of my favorite things about language that's not onomatopeoeia; which ironically doesn't sound a damn thing like what it describes).  Mostly because all the things that they tell me include the fact that the ads will be targeted based on my blog's content and that all I need to do is keep writing to start raking in phat sacks of internet cash.  I can't help but wonder what that would look like.  Ads about Prince Phillip or SexRhinos (tm) or Ninja Turtle Porn and the CyberBritish?  I feel like it's almost my civic duty to have those ads appear if for no other reason than to see what kind of entirely asinine companies would pop up on the page.

And then possibly to patronize them.  Ladytoa will be quite sad if one of them provides Halloween Rhino Costumes, but at least I'll see one of my dreams fulfilled.

Point being in the near future, there may be ads.  And I may fuel my next binge on the revenue generated by all you sick bastards clicking on links for gods only know what.  If they end up not being as funny as I hope they'll be I'll take them down.  Because I'm a fickle bitch.

Oktoberdongfest.

For those of you who stayed past that horrible title, (for which I really apologize, but I just couldn't think of anything else to say.  You're lucky, this post was almost about my unreasonable and mostly unfathomable attraction to Christina Ricci.) thank you.  Also, you'll be happy to note this isn't actually a dong festival or anything.  Also also, for our foreign readers, dongs is a thing we here in America sometimes call penises.  I'd like to get it going so that they could be called Penii but I just don't have the support...yet.

I know, right?  It was a confusing time in a young man's life.

Now, in my defense it was sort of a childhood crush that developed with me as I grew older.  I mean, sure, her forehead could probably devour most of the third world and still be hungry for souls, but at the same time...ok, no.  We're done with this part of the conversation.  I remember that now.

Anyway...I did a thing last night.  Two things, actually.  First, I went to a place and paid a Korean woman cash money to touch my wife (hot) while I sat down and watched (hotter?) and read a book (maybe not so hot.  Fine, I admit it.  My wife got a massage while I held her purse.  Like a champ, though.  No purse has been better held in the history of things that have been held.)  After that was done and the lady was all nice and limbered up we wandered into the Lingerie Store.  I could tell you the name, but here at the place in the internet that's looked at by literally like five people (at best) it would be inappropriate to use my powers to sway the natural course of commerce that much.  My wife, you see, needed a new bra.

You'd think this a normal situation.  Boobs being any country's most valuable resource their care and maintenance is a vital National Security thing.  Anyway, within a step or nine of the door no fewer than four women offered to get really handsy with Ladytoa's chest region (I just came up with that name for her because I am hilarious.  If you have read this and figured out my secret identity, say nothing if you value your lives) ostensibly to "take her measurements" and "make sure she was comfortable."  Followed by a Bra Specialist - which is a job that actually exists and that I DO NOT HAVE which just shows the ultimate unfairness of all life - going into the fitting room with her so that they could try stuff on and see what worked and what didn't.

While I would be lying if I told you I wasn't amusing myself with sultry tales of the Fitting Room while they were gone (I was.  And they were good.  Like, I should totally write for Red Shoe Diaries if this was 1994 or whenever that godawful show was on good.  Daytime softcore porn Emmy good.  That's a thing, right?  And if it's not we should get Hollywood on that pretty much immediately) I couldn't help but just think of the huge difference between ladyshopping and manbuying.

I understand that this is a serious issue that can cause discomfort for the ladies and any discomfort of the sweet chestal vicinity needs to be minimized but I just cannot imagine for the life of me a situation in which men would just hang out with a stranger (Not even a friend or a bible camp counselor.  See you thought I was going to make a Catholic Priest joke.  And I would have, but it wouldn't be a joke.  Because it's a tragedy and also you were already thinking it, so why bother?) and chat while trying on undergarments and touching each other. (Note the above situational awkwardness depends on a certain level of heterosexuality and attention to the idea of personal space to become, well, awkward.  We'll say anything over 39% hetero will count and anything less than or equal to up to 97% communist.  I just made up those numbers but I stand by them firmly)

I don't mean a tailor fitting you for a suit or anything like that.  I mean, dude walks into a store to buy a jock strap or even some boxers and some other guy walks up with a tape measure and says "Hi there, I'm John Thomas, may I measure your dong for comfort?"  I just don't see that going over very well.  Assuming there was no immediate violent reaction and the measurements got taken, I feel like a man would say thank you, and take his options with him into the fitting room and then make his own damned decisions about how he was or wasn't enjoying the package wrapper at issue here.

You better get the extender, Johnny.  I'm kind of a big deal.

I certainly wouldn't be comfortable with someone else (of any gender, actually) coming with me and then trying to help me adjust my genitals.  I mean those are my personal business that exist only between me and my closest friends.  They're not for you, stranger. I've lived with these bad boys for 30+ years of my life, through good times and bad (Looking at you, High School!). I'm fairly certain that I know when they're being pinched or restricted.

I know, I know.  There is a difference between breasts and Penii.  There better be, or I've been doing this all wrong for years.  It would explain some of the confused looks and divorces I get from time to time, though.  Further investigation is obviously warranted.  But when a young lady has gotten, ya know, in that situation.  A boob situation, as it were, you would think that she would understand how it all goes.  I trust like 97% of all ladies to know what's comfortable and what's painful when it comes to their own bodies.

Is it a perceived customer service issue?  Is it because when you're spending like $60-$100 on a single item of lace and wire (sometimes) they want to go the extra mile so you feel like you weren't taken advantage of? I just don't know...but I can't for the life of me consider how any other undergarment purchase would make sense to do this with.

So far, I have received zero comments from people who are not me.  While my opinion is obviously amazing (why else would you be treating your eyespaces to all the glory that my words transport into your very brains?) I wonder sometimes if I'm wrong or people have alternate thought-processes.  (I do not really think that since my thoughts are the best goddamned thoughts.)  Let's have one of those healthy discussions.  Maybe some of the ladies would like to tell me why it's not weird at all for a stranger to violate their breast orbit?

I'll be back soon, Internet.  Sooner than you'd like and with all sorts of things to talk about.  Maybe Christina Ricci things, if you're not lucky.

**EDIT** - Dammit! Dongtoberfest!!! How could I have missed that?  Oddly enough, that came to mind while I was supposed to be fixing a pretty major mix-up at work.  Don't worry, though, only 14% of my job function requires anything that could possibly impact your life, gentle reader.