Episode I: The Phantom Da-da

The Supreme Corn

This morning, when told he couldn't drive the Jeep until he was, A. Old enough, and B. Trained to do so, 5YO Nagurski loudly announced, "I'll take my case all the way to the Supreme CORN!"

One of Da-da's two main parenting skills immediately kicked in (one is barf catching, the other is keeping a straight face). Da-da smiled, bit his lip, and said, "Now, won't The Supreme Corn be surprised."

The Supreme Corn himself was unavailable for comment.

It's the Arts, Already in Progress

It's time for some 2010-inspired art THAT ISN'T TRYING TO SELL YOU SOMETHING. What a concept. Pieces were curated by Bronko and Nagurski, ages 3.5 and 5 YO.

An example of what can be done with Corel Painter 8. Thank you, Paul.

 

That's a piece by yours truly. The boys picked it out, Da-da didn't.

Ski Condo on Mars Still Available

We break into Da-da's regular nonsensical mirthmaking for an odd one. Turns out NASA has removed an image from their site that shows... well, structures... on Mars. Structures that look like a ski lodge and a bunch of ski condos, which are probably booked this time of year, I'm imagining. Anyway, see for yourself:

[link and video]

The video showcases damning stills and close-ups. Worth a look, esp. if you're a forward-looking real estate agent...

Get Ready for 2011

Get ready for 2011 -- and CAT WEEK. For cats, it's always CAT WEEK.

Boxing Day Shocker: U.S. Given Back to Britain

Flabbergasted at first at the giftage, Her Majesty then started giggling like a little girl.

This from today's shocking AcmeVaporware/Illuminati release:

U.S. to Give Itself Back to Britain

AcmeVaporware Advanced Diplomatic Conservation Section
and Bavarian Illuminati Reveal 50-year Plan to Place the U.S. Back Under British Rule; Queen Thrilled Beyond Words;
U.S. Boxed Up and Re-branded, “The Colonies”

LONDON, UK, December 26, 2010 - In a deal reportedly worth well over
$10 quadrillion over the next fifty years, The Bavarian Illuminati and AcmeVaporware (AVW) today unveiled a detailed 50-year plan to box up the United States and give it back to Britain before a good-natured Boxing Day crowd of bemused Londoners. Citing all kinds of political power vacuum and illegal banking thingies and treasonous utterings of some of its more questionable subjects, AVW/Illuminati diplomatic officials began the process of putting Queen Elizabeth II and the British Government back in the driver's seat of, "The Colonies."

The plan calls for a complete and utter takeover of all levels of the U.S. Government, and promises to bring, "an almost Canadian," level of politeness, common sense and thrift back to Civil Servants, as well as all levels of Corporate America. In return for their unflinching generosity and guile, all AVW/Illuminati executives were secretly knighted, given titles and granted HUGE tracts o' land.

“Actually, because the majority of the land in the U.S. is British-owned anyway -- and Queen Elizabeth II the largest single landowner in the world -- we at AVW/Illuminati Ltd. thought this the next logical step,” said Dr. John Smallberries, former Chairman of AVW and newly minted Earl of Essex, doing donuts in a '52 Black Bentley across the verdant copses of St. Scooby-on-the-Heather. “This is all about infusing some good old fashioned manners -- and plain ol' Imperialistic verve -- back into our existing lifeless political PR showcase. 'Congress: the play we all pay not to see.' Well, not any more!” Dr. Smallberries later distributed knighthoods to fleeing children and clergy at well over 90 miles per hour.

“This is unconstitutional and ridiculous,” said former Vice President Dick Cheney, caught uncomfortably selling nuclear weapons to men in dark suits and glasses. “This is unbelievable and unprecedented. Inania like this is truly reflective of the expectations being placed on our shadow government representatives and how the Internet infrastructure is currently being used to erode our superior way of life by a nameless Netterati terrorist rabble.”

When asked for his reaction to the day's events, President Obama said, "Good," breathed a sigh of relief and went to play hoops. 

“We are not precisely sure what Dr. Smallberries intended with this grand gesture, but we are immensely gratified with any gift of this size,” said Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, in a smart tea-colored suit created for the occasion. “We welcome back our estanged colonies with open arms.

Her Majesty's First Royal Colonial Action was to issue an arrest warrant for the entire Bush Administration, along with Sarah Palin, John McCain, Rupert Murdoch and all of Fox News, as well as Roger Goodell, NFL Commissioner (whom the Queen went after, herself, helmet-to-helmet). Her Second Royal Colonial Action forced all members of the Senate to work at a drive-in located in Devonshire (that will only show Peter Fonda movies, the Queen's favorite). Her Third Royal Colonial Action gifted Boston back to Ireland. And Her Fourth Royal Colonial Action renamed Washington, DC, "HOUNDS' DITCH."

While most Americans got behind this, Sarah Palin started taking potshots at the Queen for all of thirty seconds before she was clapped in irons and put in the Tower of London, where she'll be responsible for mouth-feeding ravens and working the gift shop for the rest of her life.  

When not killing wolves for fun, Sarah Palin often prepares to welcome visitors
to the new U.S.-themed Tower of London Gift Shop.

Happy Holidays from A Man Called Da-da and Trophy Ma-ma

Sure, the chilly clockwork innards are daunting, but Ma-ma's actually quite warm and loving if you get enough 3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine Jell-O into her. Happy jolly, everyone. This holiday fire is smiling just for YOU.

I'm Not Wearing Pants, Charlie Brown

It's not a well-known fact, but the holidays are PANTS-OPTIONAL. Polar bear Da-da's been wearing shorts since 1902, AND BIG BLUE VEINS ARE SEXY. Are, too.

Make It So, Mr. Rudolph

Santa's got a new ride this year. Prepare to beam Geek Da-da some goodwill and cheer. Make it so, Mr. Rudolph.

Fresh Holiday Crap!

You know it's the holidays when crap is only $8.99 a pound.

Xmas Eve Eve HOME INVASION

I locked the door, BUT MY RELATIVES STILL GOT IN.

Happy holidays, everyone, from A Man Called Da-da, A Woman Called Ma-ma, and Two Little Hellions Called Dammit and Jesus Christ.

Hopefully, grampa won't leave his undies in the sink again.

A Man Called Da-da's Holiday Tree Delivery Service for the Hot and Needy

Always stylish and Sting-like, A Man Called Da-da is GREEN, baby. Having made faux trees out of recycled Santa mustaches and green doves and bunnies, young Vlad and Da-da are off to deliver them to poor orphaned stewardesses flight attendants -- who are so lonely this time of year -- via our uber-trendy 007 Stealth Bakfiets. We are post-postmodern, yes we are. Raising this kid right, we are. Thanks, Yoda. (And note that that really isn't Da-da; the bike pic belongs to an excellent bike blogger who will no doubt tell me who he is because memory da-da is NOT. Look more like Yoda Santa, I do.)

Happy UFO/Lunar Solstice

Here's wishing we're all abducted and PROBED this solstice (I so need a good probing). Maybe the aliens can get Bronko and Nagurski to eat their liver and plomeek chili. Anyway, we'll see all of you -- YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE -- at the upcoming UFO show of force over Moscow in January, 2011, and then in London a week later. Not surprising choices, given the ostrichesque state of the U.S. media. We'll also be seeing you at the huge alien landing in December, 2012. Or failing that, a UFO Chili Cook-off. (Da-da would encourage you to enter, but he's already slept with all the judges: that is, with Da-da; Da-da sleeps with himself all the time.)

Additionally, for you loonies, there will be the first and only lunar eclipse for 2010 last night and this morning. The last time Da-da "enjoyed" a lunar eclipse, he fell asleep on the roof and woke up half-frozen. I'd rather kiss a space Santa. Or wait for grunion to run. Luckily, it's raining here. Note: According to Geoff Chester of the US Naval Observatory, "Since Year 1, I can only find one previous instance of an eclipse matching the same calendar date as the solstice, and that is Dec. 21, 1638. Fortunately we won't have to wait 372 years for the next one... that will be on Dec. 21, 2094."

Whatever. Da-da'll be asleep on the roof. With an umbrella. So it goes...

"WE NEED A LITTLE BUSINESS" (Sung to, "We Need a Little Christmas") -- A Postmodern Carol (#4 in a Series)

In keeping with postmodern sentences that all ostensibly begin with annoying prepositional phrases -- and for what's become the holiday buying season more than the actual spiritual event itself -- man, this sentence SUCKS -- A Man Called Da-da now offers you this postmodern ditty and a way out of his horrible grammar:

We Need a Little Business

[sung to the tune of, "We Need a Little Christmas" with apologies to Bronislau Kaper]

Haul out the folly
Ramp up the fee before my spirit falls again
Sell off the stock please
I may be rushing things but, check the calls again now

For we need a little business
Right this very minute
Panic in the windows
(Fox) Carols that will spin it

Yes, we need a little business
Right this very minute
It hasn't snowed a single morning
But Santa, dear, it's global warming

So crank up the chintzy
Turn up the longest string of blights I've ever seen
E-lect the fruitcake
It's time we put some whack-O in that Oval Thing now

For I've grown a little meaner
Grown a little colder
Grown a little sadder
Grown a little bolder

And I need a little barcode
tattooed on my shoulder
I need a little business now!

For we need a little boozage
Need a little snoozage
Need a little flinging
bringing The Hereafter

And we need a little trashy
"Happy ever after"
We need a little business now! 

NEXT CAROL: WOKE UP, IT WAS A ZOMBIE MORNING.

"NOEL ERUCTATION" Performance Note

If indeed you decide to take on this little ditty (below) -- or have children -- you will invariably begin to resemble this former Mensa-member and tenured University professor (adjuncts never look like this). Just a little heads-up as we move forward off the radar screen and onto a bigger back-end plate chock full of deliverables and action items and convergence, while targetting a new 24/7 viral synergy.

Happy holiday Friday!

"NOEL ERUCTATION" (Sung to, "A Christmas Song") -- A Postmodern Carol (#3 in a Series)

Since Da-da's already opened the Xmas Music Box of Doom, he might as well dust off something he wrote back in 1986: "A Christmas Song" cast in what he calls, "The Roget Language," which will be self-evident. Here are the original lyrics, for you few non-musicians who don't have it memorized (you poor slobs):

A Christmas Song

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nipping on your nose,
Yuletide carols being sung by a choir,
And folks dressed up like Eskimos.

Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe,
Help to make the season bright.
Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow,
Will find it hard to sleep tonight.

They know that Santa's on his way;
He's loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh.
And every mother's child is going to spy,
To see if reindeer really know how to fly.

And so I'm offering this simple phrase,
To kids from one to ninety-two,
Although its been said many times, many ways,
Merry Christmas to you 

And without further ado, here's the same thing in The Roget Language, invented by A Man Called Da-da way back in 1986, when he was a bored musician AND BLISSFULLY UN-KID-LADEN. Note that Da-da has successfully sung this all he way through without mistakes -- and recorded it -- but only once, as it's near-impossible. If you'd like to try, bon chance. We're all counting on you.

Noel Eructation

[sung to the tune of, "A Christmas Song" with apologies to The Velvet Fog]

Castanea-dentata progeny thermo-calefacting on a
     loculus flaming chasm;

Jacob Canescence ingesting ambiant proboscic cartilage;

Gothic Juleic arias effectively enunciated by a glee conglomeration,

And genraic-body-politic sheathed-adjacent-dimensional-vicinity
     “eaters of raw meat.”

Ceterus-parabus-gestalt-beings cognate, a meleagris gallopavo and
     viscum-album-arboreal parasites

Shall succor affecting capricious metamorphoses astronomic-canicular-
     finale-effulgent;

Exiguitous evanescent homunculoids combining-formulant-possessive
     oculi holistic-corpus-coruscating facula,

Shall espialate abiotic-neuter-pronoun inducta-lithoidically-obdurate
     to ostially-pandiculate-corpuscular-vespus post-meridian.

Convocative-biped-contingents abstrusely fathom that
     sanguine-inveterate-hoary-Seraphim-Nicholas' imminently
     coincidental-intrinsicalitous space-time-inclusion;

He's geotropically deposited ample post-infantic glee contrivances
     and nonfunctional garniture on his static pluviosity conveyance,

And ecumenic ova-secreter's animate-cell-conglomeration's evacuating
     post-respiratory miasma,

To scotopiacally photopiate if mammalian epidermis-controlled
     quadrapeds manifestly grasp aeronautical engineering principles.

And thus, I'm infeodatingly relegating this unadulterated homogenaic
     reductivistic locution,

To juvanescent neonates from fused organic unity to nonage bifurcation;

Albeit abiotic-neuter-pronoun's existed phonemically-sequential
     vibration, multifarious temporal episodes, imminently rife
     procedures;

Jocular Savioral Anniversarial Womb-exit – to you.

Go ahead and try. You're not doing anything else today, anyway. Practice practice practice and then do a RONDO with 12 other people and Da-da will personally sign your uvulas. And then later: SUCCOTASH. (Relax, it's just lima beans and corn.)

 

NEXT CAROL: WE NEED A LITTLE BUSINESS.

For the Love of the (SNOW) Game

Da-da (white coat) gets a moon pie from a friendly passerby.

Being a high-powered mutant hatched atop some Godforsaken roof-of-the-world desert where the wind howls 60 mph every day is kinda fun (in a painful way), and because of this soothing environment, Da-da of course LOVES rain, snow, fog, wind, hail, freezing cold, and really any weather that makes you hang onto something heavy so you don't vanish into the screaming void (which describes parenthood quite well, ahem). Anyway, much to his family's dismay, Da-da is consequently impervious to cold and really any weather except HEAT (heat being Da-da kryptonite).

What Da-da loves most of all are SNOW GAMES. Snowy football games. Football games played IN THE SNOW. Is this clear, yet? Football games (and tailgate parties) played in blizzards, the freezing muck, the ice, the fog, the driving rain, the lava, the toads, pyroclastic flows, etc. Love it.

Indeed, Da-da's not so much of fan of teams (which have fallen to mere BRAND status these days), but of open-air stadiums. If Da-da had endless moolah, he would regularly be seen at outdoor stadiums like Soldier Field, Lambeau Field, Heinz Field, Potter's Field, etc. Old fashioned, raw-knuckled, missing-teeth and -limbs kinda tombstone-y stadiums, where the chill-wind hakken kraks howl so fiercely that you can't feel your -- or anyone else's -- thighs, anymore. The kinda place where you start seriously thinking that it might actually be a good thing to wear a giant fake cheese on your head.

People stop Da-da on the street all the time (esp. the police) and inquire as to why he loves watching snow games so much. Is it simply the love of nasty weather? The festive, snuggly winter triumph of tenacious life over death? No, officer, it's quite simple:

Da-da LOVES to see millionaires suffer. 

 Watch as they slip and slide, fall down... boom. (Da-da likes to see billionaires suffer, too, but they seem to have the smarts to stay inside, buncha pansies.) Da-da would say his heart goes out to those poor schmoes playing in the elements who make the league minimum ($325k), but that's $325k more than Da-da makes, so they can shiver and bleed and eat snow like the rest. (Truth-be-told, Da-da loves everyone. Everyone is Da-da's brother. He's just a little grumpy. Children do this to you.)

Da-da's beyond old school. He's more stone age school, a snowy schadenfreude that demands all football and baseball and hockey games be played above the arctic circle, surrounded by hungry polar bears and fans on old Russian tanks, the game played endlessly until one team succumbs to either the elements, or the toothy fauna, whichever comes first. The survivors are then frozen till next season, which saves everyone time and money on off-season shenangians.

Da-da's gotta go. It's time for his two-hour soak in the Neva River.

What? You didn't know Da-da was hot?

Learn the Fingerings

Diatonic Da-da always says, "It doesn't matter what you play, so long as you put some decent air into it and learn the fingerings." Note: some things are harder to play than others.

"SANTA CALLING" (Sung to, "London Calling") -- A Postmodern Carol (#2 in a Series)

Since The Clash would NEVER do a Christmas album, and since Da-da's had this tune in his head all day, a postmodern carol's been born. Yeah, same to you.

SANTA CALLING

[Sung to the tune of, "London Calling," with apologies to The Clash]

Santa calling, to the faraway towns
Now Christmas declared, the sled's comin' down
Santa calling, from the Northern world
Come out of the naughty, you boys and girls
Santa calling, now don't cry or fuss
his list is all made, in Santa we trust
Santa calling, see we ain't got no ding
'Cept for the ching of that reindeer thing

[chorus]

The Nice age is comin', the sack's zoomin' in
touchdown expected, the house full of kin
The getting go running, but I have no fear
'Cause Santa is coming, and I know he'll deliver

Santa calling, to the gimme-tation zone
Forget it, brother, you can go it alone
Santa calling, to the kiddies of mess
Start cleanin' up, and do more with "Yes"
Santa calling, and you better not shout
you better not cry, and you better not pout
Santa calling, see he just ain't no lie
He's the one with the twinkly eye

[chorus] 

The Nice age is coming, the sack's zoomin' in
touchdown expected, the house full of kin
A naughty/nice error, but I have no fear
'Cause Santa is coming, and I... I know he'll deliver!
Now get this:

Santa calling, yes, he does exist, too
An' you know what da-da said? Well, some of it was true!
Santa calling, and he'll make it worthwhile
And after all this, won't you give him a smile?
Santa calling...

I never egged my nog so much so much [fading] so much so much...

NEXT CAROL: NOEL ERUCTATION.

God, Please Help Those Mothers SCORE

Now that it's nearly college football bowl season -- and given that Da-da's bloodthirsty young charges, Bronko and Nagurski, are already being scouted at 3 and 5 -- Da-da will venture a brief, fearless, third-person commentary on prayer and football.

You probably don't recall the Supreme Court’s decade-old ruling that prohibited a high school in North Carolina from broadcasting a prayer over the school's stadium PA system immediately prior to a game, as it violated the Constitution’s mandate on the separation of church and state. That’s fine, but has the Supreme Court delved into what’s REALLY going on in the stands? Da-da doubts it.

Basically, both sides -- the tragically in-bred VISITORS and the shining HOME TEAM -- are doing what homo sapiens sapiens have been doing for the past million years or so: praying for carnage and overweening VICTORY, at all costs.

With an eye toward his youngsters' scholarship future (never too early, as they say), Da-da was invited to a college game in the middle of the season between two middleweight schools who just happened to be playing one another. Frankly, even Da-da was SHOCKED at the steaming bloodlust of such educated people (and Da-da's been to lots of Scrabble tourneys) on either side of the gridiron. Observe the prayer of the folks on one side of the field, here quoted in its entirety; Da-da's changed the names of the teams and spiritual advisors to help them avoid embarrassment and prosecution. Take warning that the following contains questionable language, and note that this was the BLESSING on one side of the field, cast from the one-eyed, one-legged, Right Reverend "Hacksaw" Boilermaker himself:

“Please God, let the Tortuga Behemoths beat the HOLY BEJESUS out of those g*ddamn Hamburg Warthogs on this, our night of Holy Redemption and Ultimate Revenge. And Lord, please have their QB Billy Bob Whackenfacker SUCK BIG TIME in the Red Zone, as he has in his last five appearances. Oh... AND COVER THE POINT SPREAD THIS TIME YOU SCUMBAGS!”

Such heartfelt sentiments echo about the head- and limb-festooned halls of history. Remember the Crusades? Back then, after sticking your sword in the ground, you knelt and asked your personal Diety for your enemy’s quick demise, THEN you stuck your sword in your enemy. Play ball! It’s still vogue in most armies to check with the Almighty prior to handing your opponent his head on a platter, not to mention enjoying all the later Edenic fruits rightly belonging to the victor’s art of Pillaging Proper. You get all that?

In light of this, Ambrose Bierce once gave the definition of “prayer” as: “Asking that the laws of the Universe be annulled on behalf of a single petitioner confessedly unworthy.” Ambrose had obviously been to a few Home games.

Mix with that the words of venerated Notre Dame football legend Knute Rockne: “Football has been rousing emotions for hundreds of years in a variety of forms, all having in common the idea of whacking a ball from one place to another with varying degrees of violence as the means of propulsion.”

Put the two together and you have a conflict that would take armies to suppress; the franchise rights alone could make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.

Anyway, later that night, after the police cleared the field, Da-da uncovered a copy of the beseeching, visceral prayer to The Big Kahuna from the virtuous chosen ones screaming in the VISITOR bleachers. This from Father Vlad the Impaler:

“Please, Dear Lord, have Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration WHOMP the living CRAP out of those Godless ONE-EYED PIG F*CKERS! KILL THE F*CKING SOCIALIST BASTARDS! DIE DIE!!”

Amen. Pass the Manifest Destiny, brother.

Why There is No Trumpet Christmas

The below mp3 has limped around the circuit for a while, but having sat in way too many holiday horn sections, it always makes me laugh:

Why There is No Trumpet Christmas

Another Mysterious, Subliminal Holiday Ad

Huh. Wonder what's going on here, though note that sometimes a Freudian 7-Up ad is just a Freudian 7-Up ad. Indeed, even as Freud said, "Every hot dog dream is a wish of Freud," he also said that people shouldn't strive to eliminate hot dog complexes, but should instead get into accord with them, as they are legitimately what directs human conduct in a world of big and little wieners. Speaking of that... 

...quod erat demonstrandum. (Note: Marthaman wins the Mirthless Smile of the Millennium Award.)

"We Three Things Zoom in from Afar..."

This just in... three huge, fast-moving objects have been detected zooming towards earth, set to arrive around Christmas 2012. Real, or telescope schmutz?

3 Very Large Objects In Space Flying To Earth

E.T. does not need to phone home anymore, someone, or something is on it’s way to earth.

(The Examiner) - SETI Astrophysicist Craig Kasnov has announced the approach to the Earth of 3 very large, very fast moving objects.  The length of the "flying saucers" is in the range of tens of kilometers.  Landing, according to calculations of scientists, should be in mid-December 2012. Date coincides with the end of the Mayan calendar.

A few very large objects rapidly approaching the Earth - says SETI astrophysicist Craig Kasnov.  Don’t take his word for it you can check it out for yourself.  He recommends to go to the site http://www.sky-map.org/ and enter the coordinates of the giant UFO:

19 25 12 -89 46 03 - the first large object
16 19 35 -88 43 10 - a cylindrical object
02 26 39 -89 43 13 - the object as a circle

The project participants are assured that the facilities are absolutely real, and the American space agency NASA is trying to conceal important information.

None of these objects can be seen from the northern hemisphere. The second set of numbers in each line tells us that the "object" or "objects" is/are coming in from very deep in the southern hemisphere sky.

In any case, the only thing we can do now - wait for it - says Kasnov. Soon celestial objects will be visible in a good telescope.

Keep your eyes on the skies… the truth is out there.

 [link] 

The truth might be out there, but it sure ain't at NASA. Da-da scoped the three objects' coordinates listed, and... the objects are there, very large and bizarre, kinda like Da-da. Da-da therefore gives the large weird inbound things his full support, esp. as one of them looks like a giant blue phallus. (Looks like Da-da will have to have a little talk with the planet about where little planets come from.) And Da-da can wait to see what certain political whackos do with this -- not to mention DOOMSDAY FOX.

No worries. It's just the Vogon Constructor fleet set to clear Earth out of the way of the new intergalactic superspacehighway.

Like Da-da always tells his boys: fear is as fear does. Just imagine what the stock market will do once the Space Brothers fix all your silly Terran problems. BANG ZOOM.

NOTE: Apparently, the SETI astrophysicist mentioned above doesn't exist, so is the story bogus? AND CAN DA-DA REEEEALLY SEE YOU BEHIND YOUR CLOSED DOOR? Actually, since NASA is trying to debunk this, Da-da's suspicious, as the communal hive-brain in charge of NASA is dumb as a box of dead crabs, and controlled by even bigger dummies who drink pureed mouse in underground bases with grumpy lizards. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

The Postmodern Santa: Ride-by Caroling

(Image courtesy Plan59.com)

Old school 1950: carolers regaling neighbors with (passable) good cheer are invited indoors to get warm, have a cup of nog and some tasty homemade holiday snackages. Nearly everyone was tolerant of everyone else... provided they knew their place and were the right color and religious affiliation. No one was staring at small screens; instead, they LOOKED AT EACH OTHER, reveled in family, friends, NEIGHBORS (remember those?), and the world around them. Everyone was afraid of REDS and THE BOMB, but there were a lot less attorneys. And you could unwind at the drive-in!

New school 2010: noise polluting, "fundamentalists," are charged with misdemeaners (disturbing the peace, unlawful assembly, possession of the Holy Spirit, etc.), get a $1000 fine and a short trip to the hoosegow. All are fined (the State just wants your money, not law and order) and incarcerated equally under the law. No drinks or snackages are served, but there is a small chance for illicit prison sex. Meanwhile, everyone is staring at small screens, ignoring the world around them, not feeding their children, running over neighbors, etc. Everyone is afraid of terrorists, global catastrophes, predatory bankers, whackos (military, terrorist, etc.) with THE BOMB -- AND there are about a billion attorneys, most of whom are either politicians, or worse. Oh, and drive-ins are only used for flea markets.

Which decade would you rather live in?

So, back to FUN. Our best postmodern caroling option is piling a mob of people onto thousands (millions?) of bicycles and parading past residences singing non-denominational carols at speed, so as to annoy/entertain only for the briefest festive/illegal moment, hurtling from the scene of the fest/crime before revelry/charges can be leveled. Your basic ride-by caroling. Your only problem is not being allowed to drink Blind Dog Bourbon-laced eggnog and ride, which kinda takes all the fun out of it -- as does the cold and rain and grumpoid, texting drivers who are quite happy to run over your bike-caroling CriticalChristmasMass ass.

That's it: we're moving to Copenhagen. Danishes for all my friends!

(PSST, The Dutch are the NEW CANADIANS.)

(Via The Recumbent Blog)

Da-da Welcomes You to the MANCESSION (Already in Progress)

You've heard of the Mancession, o'course. Well, it's true. Now that the U.S. has fallen to the ranks of Second Empire service economy, middle aged men are officially obsolete as women of all ages (and some younger men) are cheaper and better looking at providing service than old broken-down (yet stylish), bearded male veterans suffering from kid-induced Mr. Mom mania. So, grab a seat, Mr. Mom-dude, and sit with me at the back of the bus, resigning yourself to shopping for the cheapest organic spaghetti (should be $1.99), raising screaming hellions alone in the trenches, watching your beard grow ever whiter, and feeling your brain less and less (I think this is where I parked it), while your spouse careers it through delightful lunches PREPARED BY SOMEONE OTHER THAN DA-DA, trips abroad, advantageous bonus structures, and brisk, funny chats with intelligent adults. The funny thing about all this is that women are by nature better, in Da-da's humble opinion, at being BOSS MOM than most men are, excepting the odd Da-da Fezziwig, o'course.

BUT there is a bright side: a whole new career path in police Santa line-ups! (Hm, which one is Da-da?)

Ok, none of them are Da-da, BUT HE'S JUST AS FOXY. And MAN, Da-da's alien hair transplant worked with a vengeance.

Foxy Da-da is always foxy. And redundant. And foxy.

It's Xmas Inside Dick Cheney's Head