In Reply

Sean posed a good question on his blog. This is an attempt to answer it.

So, how can we, a society of garbagemen, investment bankers, extreme sports enthusiasts, kickboxers, short-order cooks, tech support phone operators, and Wal-mart greeters be qualified to choose our leaders? Well, I agree with you that we can't. While the presidency could be seen as an extention of running a small business, and maybe, at its core, it is, the American political game has made the situation much more complicated. What's more, is that most of our founding fathers agree with you. True democracy on the national level died in Athens. The closest example in our history is the New England town meeting, which was never applied on more than a local level. Democracy is probably the most inefficient form of government. Remember that constitution thing you probably heard about once or twice in highschool? It was never the intention for populace to elect the president. The president would be elected by the Electoral College, whose members would be appointed by state legislatures, who were elected by the people. The elites of the early years of our nation saw the most notable citizens of communities who comprised state legislatures appointing some of their finest to elect the president. The oft unruly House of Representatives was the haven of the people, and they had to share their power with the Senate. All this considered, I'm not saying that we shouldn't elect our leaders. In fact, I maintain that it is essential that we elect our leaders.

The political elites of a nation must be held accountable for their actions by someone other than their peers. Ideally, and usually in the case of the U.S., that's us, the public at large, the librarians, doughnut bakers, and stockbrokers. If the elites are the only ones with the power to keep tabs on the elites, then the little guy suffers, if not with the current leaders, then sometime down the road. Through this important check, somehow we've been able to maintain a government that's been more or less of the people, by the people, and for the people for 230 years. It is not a question of qualification, it is a question of the necessity of maintaining our most basic national ideals.

Seriously, I laughed for like five minutes.

Too bad it isn't supposed to be funny.

I try to keep this a largely drama-free space...

...but occasionally, even I get a little moody.

I don't know if all those X chromosomes running around make telepathy easier, or that the Y chromosome inhibits it, but I'm quite sure of one thing: I utterly lack the ability to understand females.

Okay, so not all that dramatic. In other, entirely unrelated news, it's time for a new comic, but I have no ideas right now. Oh well, we'll see.

You Lazy Bums

Seeing as how no entries were submitted for my little contest, I'm doing the only logical thing I can: declaring myself the winner.

I've determined a really great prize for the winner too: the afformentioned cookie and undying praise and affection, as well as a 1992 Nissan Stanza...that's right, lucky winner, you just won a car!

Here now is an interview with the victorious contestant:

Mr. Greene (and his orchestra): How do you feel to have won such fabulous prizes?

Victorious Contestant: Well, frankly, I feel fabulous, and I'd like to thank everyone who made this possible...God, me, Family Guy, the guy who built the shower, all the people who didn't respond. Yeah, I think that's pretty much it.

Mr. G: Your friends on the internet sure blew this one, didn't they?

VC: Wow, they sure did, didn't they?

Mr. G: Of course! Say, that cookie looks delicious, mind if I have a bite?

VC: Why, not at all! You strike me as a fine fellow.

Mr. G: What are you going to do now that you've won this contest? Go to Disney World? Go to bed? Buy the Cleveland Caveliers?

VC: I think that I'm going to take a spin in my fabulous prize car, or make a sarcastic post on my blog.

Mr. G: Sounds like a high quality time, either way. Thank you so much for your time. You are clearly an outstanding individual.

VC: You're quite welcome, I'd come back any time.

Meagan is the greatest...

...she took me to Popeye's. It was very tasty.

The iPod Really is errrrwhere!

I'm not too strongly concerned with the cause, but this amused me too much not to mention. (I know most of you probably already saw this on Rodney's blog, so sorry if that bothers you)

A Few Questions: Some Asked, Some Answered

This week, the big question on every OU basketball fan's mind was answered:

That's right, Kellen Sampson, son of former coach Kelvin Sampson, will not being following Daddy to Indiana; he will stay on and play (or, you know, sit on the bench) for the Sooners. Oh yeah, and they hired some Capel guy.



Sometime in the last four days, Front Street has become James Garner Avenue. First of all, WTF mate? Second of all, why not Jimmy Bumgarner Avenue? Finally, now that it's gone, will we ever know why the hell it was called Front Street in the first place?

This is a story...

...a story about a young hermit crab named Jean Valjean.

Jean Valjean led a peaceful life in his friendly oceanside dwelling. He had a lovely split-level conch shell about 20 feet from el mar, and he liked to take daily walks down the beach, partially for exercise, but mainly to survey his mighty domain (all hail).

This is not to say the beach was not without its perilous perils...its perils could be quite perilous. But Jean Valjean was somewhat above all this nonsense; after all, he had his trusty shell. So, with fear of neither man nor beast, he embarked on his morning constitutional.

This morning, however was not like most other mornings for our crustacean friend. He peaked out on the world for the first time that day and saw not only the usual bright shining sun, oh no. Obscuring it was a large, red-striped disk high up in the sky. Not quite so high as those damned seagulls, what with their squawking and posturing (they could be a nuisance, but brandish a claw hither or thither, they got the message right quick, let me tell you), but still high enough as to have originated from some unusually powerful creature.

Naturally, the intrepid crab was eager to investigate this newfound obstruction, but not so eager as to just charge out and anger it, like so many daffy English k-niggits. He decided to go ask the opinion of his nextdoor neighbor, wise old Qinxiuhuangdi, the turtle that lived in a large, yet run down terra-cotta number a few rocks over. When our hero asked the old codger what he made of the grand Thing in the Sky, he put down his breakfast of seaweed, stroked his long beard, and let out a thoughtful "Hmmm..."

"...I've seen something like this before," he finished, 30 minutes later. "Either it's an imported variety of tree, or it's space aliens."

"Space aliens?" Jean asked. "Don't they come from Mexico?"

"What's Mexico?" Qinxiuhuangdi queried.

"I don't know, I read it on a wordy leaf that landed on my doorstep one morning."

"Oh, okay, well, no. Space aliens come from far away worlds, farther even than the sandbar, or the treeline...most likely, that's what this is."

"Good enough for me," our vigilant arthropod submitted. He turned tail and skittered his cute little split-level shelled butt on over below the space aliens' giant suspended disk. "Space Aliens!" he hollered, "What is your business here? I am the intrepid hermit crab, Jean Valjean. This is my beach, and I welcome you in peace. I mean you no harm, and permit you to walk down my beach!"

Just as he finished his speech, a shadow crept over him. With his last words, he felt himself being lifted high into the air by his home. He saw a pair of enormous green eyes set in a speckled (not to mention hideous) face, and heard a booming voice remark that he had a cute little shelled butt, then before he knew it, he found himself enclosed in a slick prison that was a shade of faded red.

Jean Valjean realized what was happening to him. He was being abducted by aliens.

To be continued...

I'm behind!

But in other news, I had this idea while contemplating Family Guy in the shower the other day...(c'mon, everybody does it).

An Arbitrary Competition: Get Esoteric with Me!

That's right, here's your chance to prove that we share an obscure path of understanding...leave me a comment that's as esoteric (between the two of us) as possible. I don't care how you do it, but at the end, the winner will be the one who best fits the topic without going over (that is, I have to get it for it to be an eligible entry). I'll give it a week or so, then declare a winner. I don't know what you get though...a cookie? My undying praise and affection? Eh, we'll see.

If you're wondering about the word, there's always my old friend Webster, but you should already know that it's neither sexy nor delicious (and what's more, that Who's the Boss is not a food).

In the Time-honored Tradition...

I got totally plastered last night. I was so fucking drunk I couldn't see my feet straight.

I was at this crazy party with some band people, and the bar they had set up was quite extensive. I started out slow: a few sips of this, and taste of that here and there, but pretty soon, I'd discovered my fondness for Jose Cuervo Especial tequila. Needless to say, errrrbody in the club gettin' tipsy. Well, errrbody in my club anyway. After a while, I didn't even mind drinking beer. (Yes, that's right, the nasty, fizzy, fermented barley crap that I hate) I was sipping a bottle of some sort of beer (don't really remember that well) when some frat boy came up and slammed his bottle atop mine. Thankfully, I was previously informed by Matt that at this point, it is a party foul to let the brew spill on the floor. Well, no party foul for me; chug chug chug, and Mr. Beer was dead, long live the next beer I drank. Well, it lived as long as the frat boy stayed away. He did it again, and once again, no foul for me, only this time I turned the beer over, letting the contents get all over ole Mr. Kappa Omega I'mabastard. Needless to say, he was none too happy with me. He tried to clock me upside the head with a bottle-a-bub', but luckily for me, I was trying to take a step at the time. I swerved so bad, his blow merely glanced off of my shoulder, and he went clattering into the wall. Unfortunately for me, I tripped over a coffee table and bashed my head on the floor.

The next thing I remember, I was in somebody's bathroom next to the toilet. I took advantage of my proximity to the facilities, then went out into the living room to find my way home. The guy who had given me a ride was passed out on the couch next to some girl, but there were some people who seemed sobre (I think) in the kitchen. I got one of them to take me home.

The car ride was okay, I'm pretty sure the interior had leather upholstrey, but who knows? I was paying too much attention to the pretty lights whizzing by outside the window. I think I was more or less dragged to the door. Somehow I ended up unlocking the door, and even locking it back again. I made it all the way to the couch, where I woke up this morning wearing a T-shirt that was three sizes too small for me with "Why are you staring at my chest?" written in big, bold letters on the front. I've yet to identify the owner.