At thirty years old, and a so-far accomplished husband and father of a rapidly growing boy, I' not nearly as accomplished a drinker as I used to be. My current drinking habits can be best referred to as abstemious. I hate 'getting drunk'. It just doesn't suit my personality. I am a high-energy, meticulous sort of person, and I like my actions to be deliberate.
Therefore, the heaviest drinking I am likely to do will be maybe four or five drinks over the course of six or seven hours, on the weekend, in the comfort of my own home. Even then, such volume is pretty rare, as a 'wild night' anymore usually consists of three drinks over the course of five or six hours until I get pooped and crash at 11:00. Yeah. Getting old is awesome!
All that being said, every once in a great while, I get 'That One Beer.' You know the kind - it's the one that makes me sick or something. All the other beers that I have before it in the evening are fine, but That One makes me feel woozy, double-visioned that night, and usually gives me a headache in the morning. Not cool! That Beer gives me cotton-mouth and keeps me from sleeping restfully, and it often makes my knees achy in the morning.
I think I need a Beer-O-Meter... ...correction, an iBeerMeter. I explain the difference in this post. At any rate, I need some sort of scanner that I can run across all the cans, identify the offending beverage, and mark it especially to serve to obnoxious company or something. If I could manage to skip That Beer, I could continue happily drinking, never cross the line from pleasant buzz to intoxication. But, alas - I don't know how to identify That Beer until I've had about three-quarters of it. At that point, I can't pour it out - that would be a waste of beer!
Oh, what is a guy to do?
Showing posts with label biology or bio-like. Show all posts
Showing posts with label biology or bio-like. Show all posts
Monday, February 9, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Huggy Retail Customer
For several long, hard years, I worked at AutoZone. It's not the most glamorous job that a guy can do, and it was nothing short of pure torture at moments. Prior to getting married and having a family, I was such a free-spirited, happy-go-lucky kind of dude that I would breeze through a job for a few months and then blow it off when I got bored. When I realized that I had to have a constant income, I found that I could endure and put up with a crappy job for long lengths of time. Hence, my several years at AutoZone. These years were the segue between being a mechanic at a small auto shop in Okc, and working in the parts department of a local Ford dealership. I got laid off from the dealership when they were going out of business, but it's hard to regret where I've been, given that it has led to where I am now. But, that's not the point of this post.
When I first went to work for AutoZone, I hoped to get to work at the store near my house. It's only a couple of miles away, and I could have gone on bike if I had to. Instead, I was hired on and posted at a store about twenty miles away. At the time, I needed income, no matter what the trouble, so I went to work there. My performance was stellar, and I was noticed by upper management to some degree, and got transferred to another store a little closer to home. At that store, I went through three managers, the last of which was a big, goofy, take-one-for-the-team kind of guy. He had me convinced that in order to make it in the company, I needed to give a little extra, go beyond the call of duty, and even go so far as to work off the clock on special projects. I had my eyes set on corporate work if I was going to stay with the company. So, I gave his suggestion a whirl. One day (on my day off), I was totally burned out, but I had my eye on the prize, and I donned a wrinkled uniform shirt and headed off to the store to set up some displays. I didn't even bother to shave that day. I figured that the effort and free time given would far outweigh anything else. Boy, was I wrong! The head of HR for the district happened to wander into the store that day while I was setting up displays. I ran into him, face to face, in my completely disheveled appearance. He was pissed off!
Before I knew it, I had been transferred to the crappiest store in the district. This is the corner of town that has all the murder stories associated with it. The gas station across the street constantly had red and blue lights flashing. There was an occasion in which my coworkers and I watched as a sedan pulled into an adjoining parking lot and a woman came out of the passenger door to urinate on the ground. I suppose when you've got to go, you've got to go. I was the minority, being the white dude from a more affluent part of town, and was warned not to cross the street or I would get shot (I disregarded those warnings and never once had any trouble though). I had multiple black customers make accusations of racism to my face, gave them witty retorts, and developed loyal customer relationships with them because of it. At that store, I met at least one friend for life, and I learned many lessons of life. I learned that I hate chicken gizzards. I learned that black children are taught that white children carry lice. To my utter sadness, I learned that there are more blacks that are racist against blacks than there are whites. I confronted a black coworker about throwing around the "N" word, that I found it offensive and he should as well. And, I started learning that no challenge is so great that it can't be turned into an opportunity. I did my best, and I worked hard. I changed countless batteries and wiper blades. I helped customers diagnose fuse and relay problems. I had to hide in the office from voraciously amorous women on more than one occasion, much to the hysterical amusement of my coworkers.
One day, I wound up with a day shift during the week by some miracle. There were two guys working in the store with me, and we were bored stiff. We had updated all the displays, run some cycle-counts, cleaned the bathrooms and battery charging stations, and had pretty much removed every speck of dust in the place. There had been no customers to speak of. The two other guys were in the back of the store, straightening merchandise or goofing off or something, and I was at the front counter. It was at that time that a young lady came in. She was a black girl, in her twenties with an average build and average features. I was excited over the prospect of doing something - anything beyond cleaning and straightening the store. I asked her what we could do for her, and she expressed that her car was acting up and she didn't know what was wrong with it. I tested her battery and alternator, and it turned out that she simply had some highly corroded battery cable ends and a couple of blown fuses. Because I was bored, I changed these for her, cleaned up her battery terminals, topped up her fluids and changed her wiper blades. Since I had not been in the store, the two other guys had come to the front counter to watch the store (and watch me, since that was far more entertaining than anything else that had happened all day).
When I had settled up with the girl for the couple of parts used and made sure that her car was operating properly, she threw her arms around my neck and kicked her feet up behind her back. She said, "Thank you so much!" She held the pose for a moment before going to her car to drive away. At the time, I was so shocked, I didn't really know what to do. Truth be told, I can't even recall whether I returned the hug, or just stood there stiffly, wondering what to do!
When she left the store, I turned to the gaping faces of the two other guys I was working with. I smiled widely, and said in a loud, authoritative voice, "That, my friends, is a SATISFIED customer!"
There was a lot of weird stuff that happened when I worked retail, but nothing that I would be ashamed of my wife knowing, and nothing that I couldn't share with my preacher. There are a lot of situations that you think of the perfect thing to say some time later, when it's far too late to deliver the line. This was one of those magical opportuinities where the situation was perfect for it, and I just happened to think of the right thing to say at just the right time.
I know what's going through both of your minds: So, what happened with AutoZone?
I saw two or three different managers over that store before I was finally transferred to the store a couple miles from my house - which turned out to be absolutely the most hellish that my short career with AutoZone had to offer. From there, I electively left the company to pursue a part-time position as a courtesy van driver for the Ford dealership (stay in school, kids), with the promise of a more white-collar position in parts wholesale (the opportunities are limited without a college education). They offered me a second, part-time position in the parts warehouse. Eventually, I went full-time in the warehouse. I refused to sell cars, and they never came through on the desk job that they originally promised. I asked for a job in the accounting department just before the ship started sinking. The management sold wholesale parts, the only part of the dealership that was making any money, and when they were bailing to save the ship, I was in the first wave of layoffs, being the new guy in the office. With the experience I was able to gather in the accounting department, combined with my parts and inventory experience, I was a perfect fit in my current position. God works in mysterious, wonderful ways, people. If the company I'm in can weather the recession, I gladly see many more years there. If not, then I'm sure other doors will open. And, I'm sure it will be something that I've never even thought of doing. Whatever happens, I welcome the opportunity.
When I first went to work for AutoZone, I hoped to get to work at the store near my house. It's only a couple of miles away, and I could have gone on bike if I had to. Instead, I was hired on and posted at a store about twenty miles away. At the time, I needed income, no matter what the trouble, so I went to work there. My performance was stellar, and I was noticed by upper management to some degree, and got transferred to another store a little closer to home. At that store, I went through three managers, the last of which was a big, goofy, take-one-for-the-team kind of guy. He had me convinced that in order to make it in the company, I needed to give a little extra, go beyond the call of duty, and even go so far as to work off the clock on special projects. I had my eyes set on corporate work if I was going to stay with the company. So, I gave his suggestion a whirl. One day (on my day off), I was totally burned out, but I had my eye on the prize, and I donned a wrinkled uniform shirt and headed off to the store to set up some displays. I didn't even bother to shave that day. I figured that the effort and free time given would far outweigh anything else. Boy, was I wrong! The head of HR for the district happened to wander into the store that day while I was setting up displays. I ran into him, face to face, in my completely disheveled appearance. He was pissed off!
Before I knew it, I had been transferred to the crappiest store in the district. This is the corner of town that has all the murder stories associated with it. The gas station across the street constantly had red and blue lights flashing. There was an occasion in which my coworkers and I watched as a sedan pulled into an adjoining parking lot and a woman came out of the passenger door to urinate on the ground. I suppose when you've got to go, you've got to go. I was the minority, being the white dude from a more affluent part of town, and was warned not to cross the street or I would get shot (I disregarded those warnings and never once had any trouble though). I had multiple black customers make accusations of racism to my face, gave them witty retorts, and developed loyal customer relationships with them because of it. At that store, I met at least one friend for life, and I learned many lessons of life. I learned that I hate chicken gizzards. I learned that black children are taught that white children carry lice. To my utter sadness, I learned that there are more blacks that are racist against blacks than there are whites. I confronted a black coworker about throwing around the "N" word, that I found it offensive and he should as well. And, I started learning that no challenge is so great that it can't be turned into an opportunity. I did my best, and I worked hard. I changed countless batteries and wiper blades. I helped customers diagnose fuse and relay problems. I had to hide in the office from voraciously amorous women on more than one occasion, much to the hysterical amusement of my coworkers.
One day, I wound up with a day shift during the week by some miracle. There were two guys working in the store with me, and we were bored stiff. We had updated all the displays, run some cycle-counts, cleaned the bathrooms and battery charging stations, and had pretty much removed every speck of dust in the place. There had been no customers to speak of. The two other guys were in the back of the store, straightening merchandise or goofing off or something, and I was at the front counter. It was at that time that a young lady came in. She was a black girl, in her twenties with an average build and average features. I was excited over the prospect of doing something - anything beyond cleaning and straightening the store. I asked her what we could do for her, and she expressed that her car was acting up and she didn't know what was wrong with it. I tested her battery and alternator, and it turned out that she simply had some highly corroded battery cable ends and a couple of blown fuses. Because I was bored, I changed these for her, cleaned up her battery terminals, topped up her fluids and changed her wiper blades. Since I had not been in the store, the two other guys had come to the front counter to watch the store (and watch me, since that was far more entertaining than anything else that had happened all day).
When I had settled up with the girl for the couple of parts used and made sure that her car was operating properly, she threw her arms around my neck and kicked her feet up behind her back. She said, "Thank you so much!" She held the pose for a moment before going to her car to drive away. At the time, I was so shocked, I didn't really know what to do. Truth be told, I can't even recall whether I returned the hug, or just stood there stiffly, wondering what to do!
When she left the store, I turned to the gaping faces of the two other guys I was working with. I smiled widely, and said in a loud, authoritative voice, "That, my friends, is a SATISFIED customer!"
There was a lot of weird stuff that happened when I worked retail, but nothing that I would be ashamed of my wife knowing, and nothing that I couldn't share with my preacher. There are a lot of situations that you think of the perfect thing to say some time later, when it's far too late to deliver the line. This was one of those magical opportuinities where the situation was perfect for it, and I just happened to think of the right thing to say at just the right time.
I know what's going through both of your minds: So, what happened with AutoZone?
I saw two or three different managers over that store before I was finally transferred to the store a couple miles from my house - which turned out to be absolutely the most hellish that my short career with AutoZone had to offer. From there, I electively left the company to pursue a part-time position as a courtesy van driver for the Ford dealership (stay in school, kids), with the promise of a more white-collar position in parts wholesale (the opportunities are limited without a college education). They offered me a second, part-time position in the parts warehouse. Eventually, I went full-time in the warehouse. I refused to sell cars, and they never came through on the desk job that they originally promised. I asked for a job in the accounting department just before the ship started sinking. The management sold wholesale parts, the only part of the dealership that was making any money, and when they were bailing to save the ship, I was in the first wave of layoffs, being the new guy in the office. With the experience I was able to gather in the accounting department, combined with my parts and inventory experience, I was a perfect fit in my current position. God works in mysterious, wonderful ways, people. If the company I'm in can weather the recession, I gladly see many more years there. If not, then I'm sure other doors will open. And, I'm sure it will be something that I've never even thought of doing. Whatever happens, I welcome the opportunity.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Attention Sportball Fanboys (and -girls)
For the third year in a row, I don't see us watching the Superbowl. Jen and I are not what you would call fans of spectator sports. I find football to be barbaric, low-brow, and hillbilly-ish. We will probably be at the gun range instead. All that being said, I have to admit some jealousy of this. I mean, holy crap! Is that what it means to be a sportsfan? If so, I might consider converting! Well, I can't stay for long, as I have to go and hook up the DVD player in our bedroom so I can keep my fluish wife entertained. Even so, go look at the link. You won't be disappointed.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Eating Out Rant
My wife sent me this link.
It reminds me of my view on ordering a hamburger out. There is a pre-ordained, universal scale by which red meat is cooked. You can look for yourself if you would like! This is just one reference in which you will find the following:
The waitress will ask, 'How do you want your burger cooked?'
Don't ask me if you don't care. Don't ask so I can tell you 'medium rare,' in the hopes that I'll luck into getting a 'medium' burger just so you can bring me a burger that's 'well done' - just like all the other damned burgers in the place! Fire the cook and hire a chef. The lazy-eyed, drooling, 45-IQ'd spatula-flipper can't cook a burger any but ONE way. Own it!
I'm not speaking of fast-food here either. At sit-down restaurants that have the audacity to charge $7-$8 and upwards for a burger, this crap is occurring with more and more frequency around here! Once, I had to send back a certified black angus burger THREE TIMES before I gave up and ordered something else!
Instead of, 'How do you want your burger cooked?' the server needs to say 'Our inbred cook only knows how to burn burgers. You want to order something else, or just find another place to eat?'
Wow! Where did that rant come from?
It reminds me of my view on ordering a hamburger out. There is a pre-ordained, universal scale by which red meat is cooked. You can look for yourself if you would like! This is just one reference in which you will find the following:
Rare: Cool RED Center
Medium Rare: Hot RED Center
Medium: Pink Throughout
Medium Well: Slight trace of Pink
Well Done: Browned throughout.
The waitress will ask, 'How do you want your burger cooked?'
Don't ask me if you don't care. Don't ask so I can tell you 'medium rare,' in the hopes that I'll luck into getting a 'medium' burger just so you can bring me a burger that's 'well done' - just like all the other damned burgers in the place! Fire the cook and hire a chef. The lazy-eyed, drooling, 45-IQ'd spatula-flipper can't cook a burger any but ONE way. Own it!
I'm not speaking of fast-food here either. At sit-down restaurants that have the audacity to charge $7-$8 and upwards for a burger, this crap is occurring with more and more frequency around here! Once, I had to send back a certified black angus burger THREE TIMES before I gave up and ordered something else!
Instead of, 'How do you want your burger cooked?' the server needs to say 'Our inbred cook only knows how to burn burgers. You want to order something else, or just find another place to eat?'
Wow! Where did that rant come from?
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Jen's Fitness Challenge
Aw, F! I'm not exactly sure how I got roped into this. But, needless to say, I have committed to getting myself into better shape. I kind of like my current shape. Well, ok. I admit that there are some improvements that I would like to impose on my body. Besides that, life is more fun with an improved body. I'm certainly not going for Hulk or Mr. Universe stats, but there are some things that I am looking forward to doing.
Of course, her crazy New Year Stunt caused me to do some work beyond push-ups and crunches. Jenni was talking about how she wanted to buy a scale so she could post a weekly update on her measurements and weight. I told her that we didn't need to buy a scale since we have a perfectly good one in the garage.
This, my friends is the scale in question. This is after I disassembled it to clean out the spider nest that had been constructed between the viewing lens and the zero. I don't recall whether this one came from Grandma's house, or if I picked it up at a garage sale, but I thought it was beautiful and wanted it, even though we had no use for a scale at the time. It's a vintage Health-O-Meter, a relic of a forgotten era when things were made of a legendary material known as 'metal.' Everything was built with beautiful lines, and everything had an 'O' in the middle of the name - much in the same way that everything has a lower case 'i' at the beginning of it now. Take this Juice-O-Mat for example:
Yes, this was the Golden Age in which a computer was a device as large as a high-school gymnasium, and had the awesome processing power of a modern greeting card today. This device was known as a Calc-O-Tron, I believe. They cost as much as a Banana Republic and could play chess, or do grade-school arithmetic. If these devices were built today, they would be boxy looking, made of plastic, and would be called iHealthmeter, iJuicemat, and iCalctron.
But, I digress. Please allow me to get back to my tangent. Fortunately, I've been feeling very industrious recently. I've been taking pics of my new shotgun, which I'll write a post on soon. I'm trying to get a nice little collection of images together so I can post a graduation from 21-year-old, hunting pump to elegant, zombie bane.
I've been doing quite a bit of organizing, cleaning, and creating, so the restoration of the Health-O-Meter is a logical progression from what I've been doing anyway. As Jen posts pics of her progress, so shall you see the progress on the old scale. I'm thinking of having the case blasted and powder-coated some wacky color. I'm a sucker for red, but a period mint green might be really nice. The lens is pretty scratched up, and I'll probably see if the scratches can be buffed out. It's glass, so I'm not afraid of scorching it on a buffing wheel. I'll probably wind up scraping and painting the guts of the thing. It appears that about half of them were zinc-plated, and the other half were white steel. They have all gone mostly to rust. Thankfully, the steel parts are thick, and should clean and paint easily. The step pad on the surface of this scale is some kind of linoleum or something. It is very brittle, and has been coming apart as we've been handling it for this project. I'll probably replace it with a piece of leather or vinyl or something. Brightly colored urethane might be nice if we decided to go black on the case. I don't know yet. The little chrome bezel has seen better days, but I'm not exactly sure what to do about it yet. I could have it stripped and re-plated, or I might just clean it up and see how it looks after everything else. I suppose I could take it down past the chrome, prime and paint it to match the case. If I did that, I would probably go back over the raised lettering in a different color to bring that out. Well, it shouldn't take me all year to do something about the scale, so I'm sure that you will all get the opportunity to see its transformation.
Oh, yeah - I guess this is where I can get back to the main point, huh? I've made it my goal to gain some weight, trim a couple of inches off my waist and put them on my chest and biceps. I don't think this will be hard to do. I'll try not to change shape too radically, because I don't really want to have to replace my nice clothing all at once. We shall see what we shall see.
Of course, her crazy New Year Stunt caused me to do some work beyond push-ups and crunches. Jenni was talking about how she wanted to buy a scale so she could post a weekly update on her measurements and weight. I told her that we didn't need to buy a scale since we have a perfectly good one in the garage.
This, my friends is the scale in question. This is after I disassembled it to clean out the spider nest that had been constructed between the viewing lens and the zero. I don't recall whether this one came from Grandma's house, or if I picked it up at a garage sale, but I thought it was beautiful and wanted it, even though we had no use for a scale at the time. It's a vintage Health-O-Meter, a relic of a forgotten era when things were made of a legendary material known as 'metal.' Everything was built with beautiful lines, and everything had an 'O' in the middle of the name - much in the same way that everything has a lower case 'i' at the beginning of it now. Take this Juice-O-Mat for example:
Yes, this was the Golden Age in which a computer was a device as large as a high-school gymnasium, and had the awesome processing power of a modern greeting card today. This device was known as a Calc-O-Tron, I believe. They cost as much as a Banana Republic and could play chess, or do grade-school arithmetic. If these devices were built today, they would be boxy looking, made of plastic, and would be called iHealthmeter, iJuicemat, and iCalctron.
But, I digress. Please allow me to get back to my tangent. Fortunately, I've been feeling very industrious recently. I've been taking pics of my new shotgun, which I'll write a post on soon. I'm trying to get a nice little collection of images together so I can post a graduation from 21-year-old, hunting pump to elegant, zombie bane.
I've been doing quite a bit of organizing, cleaning, and creating, so the restoration of the Health-O-Meter is a logical progression from what I've been doing anyway. As Jen posts pics of her progress, so shall you see the progress on the old scale. I'm thinking of having the case blasted and powder-coated some wacky color. I'm a sucker for red, but a period mint green might be really nice. The lens is pretty scratched up, and I'll probably see if the scratches can be buffed out. It's glass, so I'm not afraid of scorching it on a buffing wheel. I'll probably wind up scraping and painting the guts of the thing. It appears that about half of them were zinc-plated, and the other half were white steel. They have all gone mostly to rust. Thankfully, the steel parts are thick, and should clean and paint easily. The step pad on the surface of this scale is some kind of linoleum or something. It is very brittle, and has been coming apart as we've been handling it for this project. I'll probably replace it with a piece of leather or vinyl or something. Brightly colored urethane might be nice if we decided to go black on the case. I don't know yet. The little chrome bezel has seen better days, but I'm not exactly sure what to do about it yet. I could have it stripped and re-plated, or I might just clean it up and see how it looks after everything else. I suppose I could take it down past the chrome, prime and paint it to match the case. If I did that, I would probably go back over the raised lettering in a different color to bring that out. Well, it shouldn't take me all year to do something about the scale, so I'm sure that you will all get the opportunity to see its transformation.
Oh, yeah - I guess this is where I can get back to the main point, huh? I've made it my goal to gain some weight, trim a couple of inches off my waist and put them on my chest and biceps. I don't think this will be hard to do. I'll try not to change shape too radically, because I don't really want to have to replace my nice clothing all at once. We shall see what we shall see.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Science as a Religion?
Let's think back to people in 1900 in, say, New York. If they worried about people in 2000, what would they worry about? Probably: Where would people get enough horses? And what would they do about all the horseshit? Horse pollution was bad in 1900, think how much worse it would be a century later, with so many more people riding horses?
Who could not love the work of Michael Chriton? This one is worth a read in its entirety.
Linkarooni
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Spambot Girls - The Breakup.
This is a recurring spam message that I keep receiving in my email at work. In this oddly-posed, red-clad, low-resolution picture that I was sent anonymously over the interweb, this Ukrainian girl just looks so cute that I've fallen in love at first sight. Whether she is 'shopped together as a conglomeration from pics of other girls or if she is the real deal, and although I am separated from her by terabytes and thousands of miles of land and ocean (and possibly reality), I regret to inform both of my readers that I can see no other recourse but to leave my marriage in pursuit of TatianaG, my one true love. She's obviously the only attractive woman in the Ukraine, as evidenced by her picture being the only one that has been sent to me. And, her complete and utter devotion is shown in her persistence of sending me her picture multiple times a day for weeks on end. My spam filter cannot stand between us, and all I have to do is "Click here to sign up (Absolutely FREE!!!)" to be in ultimate bliss with my TatianaG. Each of those capital letters and superfluous exclamation marks say it so well! Sure, she thinks my name is "Dating!" but it says in RED LETTERS that she is waiting for me! On those grounds alone, maybe I should have my name legally changed to "Dating!" (with the exclamation mark, of course) prior to my journey to Ukraine to claim my bride.
Wait a minute... ...she was born in 1977 and she's 29? Oh, she's one of THOSE girls. In twenty years, she'll still claim 29, I'm sure. Her body type won't be so "cuddly" then, and people will be giving me consolation that my 29-year-old wife looks so much older.
Know what, TatianaG? I'm sorry. Beyond the merits of your demure smile and sexy, low-res pic, I'm not sure things are going to work out between us. There's just no place in this world - virtual or otherwise - for a girl (or possibly a bot) like you and a guy like me. Shh, shh. I know. My heart is breaking as well, but please don't cry or argue. I know in my heart that there's a man (or program) out there for you. There's no reason that the most attractive woman in the Ukraine (allegedly) should spend her life alone. It's not you - really it isn't. It's me. There's no way that I could keep up with the active, fabulous lifestyle of a web-spider riding Spambot Girl. So, please - let's make this a clean break. Please stop sending me your seductive picture. My heart just can't take it anymore. I've got a life I need to get back to, and I don't need your distractions, and there are other inboxes that I'm sure will yield you better results. Truth be told, I will miss you, TatianaG. *sniff, sniff*
Thursday, October 9, 2008
*Sigh* Feminists...
My wife sent me this link yesterday. It's worth the read. It kind of embodies everything that the feminists are crooning about currently. We'll see whether the blogger allows my response to come out of moderation (copied and pasted below). Want to take any bets?
"— if you ask me. "
Who did, for that matter? Your narrow-mindedness astounds me. Feminists don't like Sarah Palin because she is incapable of being the victim. If women empower themselves, the feminists' fight is over. We can't have that, can we now? What meaning would your life have if you couldn't piss and moan about how we men are trying to keep you down?
Like many Conservatives (and Liberals for that matter), I think that you have the right to do whatever you want with your own body. By that rational, I think seat-belt and helmet laws are stupid, and it is asinine that suicide is illegal. I also believe that murder is wrong. If there was a way to level the playing field and have a calm, open discussion on the issues and implications of abortion, I would be all for it. But, when you take the attitude that the opposition is "anti-choice" and put words in other people's mouths concerning your anatomy, you make yourself look like a narrow-minded fool.
I don't go on and on about what you people think I should do with my penis. Come to think of it, I've not heard any self-respecting man piss and moan about anybody telling him what he should or should not do with his penis.
Just for the sake of argument, say Joe Somebody met you in a bar, drinks were had, and you made it home to Joe's house. You got pregnant and made the choice to have the baby - just for the sake of the argument. You contact DHS and have Joe served with papers, because he's the dad and you want child support. What choice does Joe have? He doesn't. This seems like a double standard, doesn't it?
Why is it that in our society, women get to choose whether or not they want to be a mom after they have made poor decisions, but men do not get afforded a similar luxury? To that end, why are you still bitching?
Get over yourself. Nobody is making you do anything.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Darwinism
Alright, peeps. I'm getting really sick of the humanistic atheists. It's time for a quick science lesson. Let's get three little facts straight:
1. When your glass "sweats" the liquid on the outside does not come from the inside. It works the same way as when your car windows fog up.
2. The "lead" in your pencil is not lead at all unless it's a hundred years old. It's graphite, and no amount of pencil stabbing will give someone lead poisoning.
3. Darwinian speciation is unsubstantiated, unscientific, and impossible. One day, the idea will be a relic of the intellectual dark age that we are currently in. It ranks right up there with the flat world theory and spontaneous generation.
That's all for now. Thanks for hearing my rant.
1. When your glass "sweats" the liquid on the outside does not come from the inside. It works the same way as when your car windows fog up.
2. The "lead" in your pencil is not lead at all unless it's a hundred years old. It's graphite, and no amount of pencil stabbing will give someone lead poisoning.
3. Darwinian speciation is unsubstantiated, unscientific, and impossible. One day, the idea will be a relic of the intellectual dark age that we are currently in. It ranks right up there with the flat world theory and spontaneous generation.
That's all for now. Thanks for hearing my rant.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Hippies vs. Metal
My friend Instinct related this story to me:
Why am I reminded of this?
Classic. Beautiful. Enjoy.
We actually had a real drum circle form outside the store yesterday. It started with 2 people and after about two hours there were 10 of them out there in their hippie clothing drumming away. I went over to the manager and let him know what was going on and he looked outside and told me if it started getting out of hand he would ask them to leave but it made one of the girls kind of nervous because she started asking what we would do if they didn’t want to leave.
So I just handed the manager a Slayer CD and said “Put this on. Everyone knows that hippies can’t stand death metal”
Why am I reminded of this?
Classic. Beautiful. Enjoy.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Cooking Fail
First of all let me say that my recreational internet time has been more devoted to firearms than kittens recently. That being said, Thanks to the folks over at daily kitten, I had fish tacos on the brain on my way home last night. I didn't go with the recipe cited in the linked thread, but came up with my own recipe on the fly. I decided to do a piece of salmon fillet and a tuna steak, seared on each side and sliced. I was going to wrap them in tortillas with fresh spinach, tomato slices, avocado slices, and diced kalamata olives. This is not what happened.
We went to the store to buy the necessary ingredients. We bought a gorgeous salmon fillet and a beautiful tuna steak. They had some beautiful romas, and although I wanted to buy a smaller quantity of spinach, I contented myself to buy the full bag. We picked the ripest two avocados that we found in the bin and a bag of flour tortillas.
I put the skillet on the stove top to pre-heat it, as the range is a crappy, contractor model that has all of 32-BTU's. While it was heating, I started slicing my avocado. Much to my utter dismay, it was far from ripe. Jenni suggested that I place the rubbery slices in the skillet and maybe the heating would soften them. I had never tried this before. The only time I had cooked avocado previously was when we battered and deep-fried avocado wedges and dipped them in chocolate sauce (and that was freaking amazing). This sounded like a reasonable enough idea to me so I placed them in the skillet, and they quickly became blackened, rubbery, avocado slices.
I frustratedly speared the chunks on my chef knife (which was harder than it sounds) and placed them in the garbage, deciding that their sacrifice would not ruin dinner. I put the two slabs of fish in the skillet with some grapeseed oil. Why grapeseed oil? Grapeseed oil will not burn in a skillet like olive oil will - or so I've been told. Apparently, the 32-BTU's and the thick-bottomed skillet were able to produce enough heat to split atoms as the grapeseed oil immediately started burning and smoked up the entire house. When I got the fish out of the skillet and started slicing them, they were not seared. They were DONE.
I heated the tortillas, but was so flustered over the avocados, grapeseed oil, and fish that I completely forgot to pit and dice my olives. What should have been a very savory dinner turned out to be quite bland and uninteresting. It was pretty, but that doesn't really matter when the food HAS NO FLAVOR.
I still think that my recipe would have been quite delicious if I had followed it, but there wasn't enough left of the original concept once I was through. It was sustenance, and that was all. Next time, I'll prepare all of my veggies (olives included) prior to even heating the skillet. Also, I will use no oil of any kind, and rely on the oils in the fish to lubricate the skillet. It's a non-stick pan, and even if I have to do a little scraping afterward, it will more than justify avoiding the smoke throughout the house. Oh well. I know my next attempt will be better as it could not possibly get much worse.
We went to the store to buy the necessary ingredients. We bought a gorgeous salmon fillet and a beautiful tuna steak. They had some beautiful romas, and although I wanted to buy a smaller quantity of spinach, I contented myself to buy the full bag. We picked the ripest two avocados that we found in the bin and a bag of flour tortillas.
I put the skillet on the stove top to pre-heat it, as the range is a crappy, contractor model that has all of 32-BTU's. While it was heating, I started slicing my avocado. Much to my utter dismay, it was far from ripe. Jenni suggested that I place the rubbery slices in the skillet and maybe the heating would soften them. I had never tried this before. The only time I had cooked avocado previously was when we battered and deep-fried avocado wedges and dipped them in chocolate sauce (and that was freaking amazing). This sounded like a reasonable enough idea to me so I placed them in the skillet, and they quickly became blackened, rubbery, avocado slices.
I frustratedly speared the chunks on my chef knife (which was harder than it sounds) and placed them in the garbage, deciding that their sacrifice would not ruin dinner. I put the two slabs of fish in the skillet with some grapeseed oil. Why grapeseed oil? Grapeseed oil will not burn in a skillet like olive oil will - or so I've been told. Apparently, the 32-BTU's and the thick-bottomed skillet were able to produce enough heat to split atoms as the grapeseed oil immediately started burning and smoked up the entire house. When I got the fish out of the skillet and started slicing them, they were not seared. They were DONE.
I heated the tortillas, but was so flustered over the avocados, grapeseed oil, and fish that I completely forgot to pit and dice my olives. What should have been a very savory dinner turned out to be quite bland and uninteresting. It was pretty, but that doesn't really matter when the food HAS NO FLAVOR.
I still think that my recipe would have been quite delicious if I had followed it, but there wasn't enough left of the original concept once I was through. It was sustenance, and that was all. Next time, I'll prepare all of my veggies (olives included) prior to even heating the skillet. Also, I will use no oil of any kind, and rely on the oils in the fish to lubricate the skillet. It's a non-stick pan, and even if I have to do a little scraping afterward, it will more than justify avoiding the smoke throughout the house. Oh well. I know my next attempt will be better as it could not possibly get much worse.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Sharing Toothbrushes?
There are things that happen to us as children that seem queer at the time. Many of these things that we experience, we write off as lack of experience and move on. I have forgotten more bizarre childhood experiences than I remember because of this. Once in a great while, there will be a circumstance that pulls one of these long-forgotten memories to the surface, and I have the opportunity to review such situations from an adult standpoint.
When I was growing up, my parents worked to keep the romance alive between the two of them. They made it a point to not let anyone or anything come between the two of them. It is fairly common for children to try to pit their parents against each other so they can get away with things. My brother an I were no exception to this. My parents however, would never fall for this ploy, but instead stood as a concrete unit against my shenanigans. They would have a weekly date night to keep the romance alive. Even when we had very little as a family, and could not afford the finer things in life, my parents budgeted to afford certain bare necessities. There was always a roof over my head, clothes on my back, nutritious food to eat, white-label beer for Mom and Dad to drink on occasion, and date night for Mom and Dad. Many times, my brother and I would stay with grandparents while my parents went out. Other times, they would hire a babysitter. Keep in mind that these are early childhood memories, and I can't remember a single name of a babysitter. Only situations.
Babysitters come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. The biggest problem with them - and with anyone for that matter - is that they are imperfect people. This is also the biggest source of entertainment concerning them. There was one babysitter that was as sweet as honey in front of my parents, but as the car would clear the driveway, she magically transformed into the Evil Bitch From Hell. I swear, you could see the black clouds form over her head, and the fire sparking in her eyes. My brother and I were good kids, but high-spirited, as boys should be. When it was just the three of us, she would scream the entire evening. "SHUT THE HELL UP!!!" "GO TO BED NOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWW!!!" in shrill screeching tones that would send cold shivers and goosebumps down the spine of harpies and banshees alike. She would scream about how she was going to tell our parents EXACTLY how BAD we were behaving. But, when Mom and Dad came home, she would coo to them about how well behaved we were, and how she always loved coming, and how she was looking forward to next time, in tones that would lull even the sirens to sleep.
Fast-forward twenty-five years. One morning several days ago, my son was in the bathroom, and I was in the adjoining bedroom. He was brushing his teeth, and I was loading my daily gear into my pockets. I heard a clatter that sounded remarkably like toothbrushes striking the tile behind the toilet - approximately where the plunger resides. I came around the corner to investigate to find him placing my toothbrush back on the medicine cabinet where I keep it. I asked him if he had knocked my toothbrush down on the floor, and he hesitantly admitted to it. I told him that it was not a really big deal, but anytime something like that happened, he needed to report it immediately, that accidents happen, and to please be more careful moving forward. Jenni pulled the heads off of all three toothbrushes and soaked them in rubbing alcohol until the next day. No biggie.
Then, I had the emergence of a very bizarre memory. One babysitter that my parents hired for a while was a very sweet girl. She was fun to be around, she played games with us, she was gentle, and generally seemed to enjoy the babysitting gig. She would come over, and we would play cards or a board game. Then, we would eat dinner, and all three wash dishes. Side note - kids need to learn to do dishes and find that it can be pleasant. After we did dishes, my brother and I would get changed for bed, and brush our teeth. This particular babysitter would come to the bathroom with us and brush her teeth too. Sometimes she would use Mom's toothbrush, and other times she would use Dad's. If she felt like she needed to get her teeth really clean, she would use both.
Did you catch that? At the time, it struck me as odd that she was using my parent's toothbrushes. I couldn't quite put my finger on why. At that age, we don't have enough personal boundaries for me to have been able to identify that it was a massive violation of privacy and personal space for her to be "borrowing" my parent's TOOTHBRUSHES, but at any rate, it didn't seem quite right to me. When I asked her if that was okay, she would sweetly explain that she had forgotten her toothbrush, and that she would clean them after we were in bed. That explanation seemed reasonable enough to me, and that memory was filed away in the dark corner of my brain along with all of the other insignificant childhood memories. --that is until my son knocked my toothbrush into the e coli zone where the toilet plunger lives.
I guess that just goes to show what a remarkable and strange piece of hardware the human brain is. Mom and Dad, if you read this I'm sorry. If it had struck me as significant at the time, I would have told you. I can't even tell you the girl's name. If her germs were going to kill you, I imagine they would have by now, if that makes you feel any better. I wonder what other weird memories I've got rattling around in here...
When I was growing up, my parents worked to keep the romance alive between the two of them. They made it a point to not let anyone or anything come between the two of them. It is fairly common for children to try to pit their parents against each other so they can get away with things. My brother an I were no exception to this. My parents however, would never fall for this ploy, but instead stood as a concrete unit against my shenanigans. They would have a weekly date night to keep the romance alive. Even when we had very little as a family, and could not afford the finer things in life, my parents budgeted to afford certain bare necessities. There was always a roof over my head, clothes on my back, nutritious food to eat, white-label beer for Mom and Dad to drink on occasion, and date night for Mom and Dad. Many times, my brother and I would stay with grandparents while my parents went out. Other times, they would hire a babysitter. Keep in mind that these are early childhood memories, and I can't remember a single name of a babysitter. Only situations.
Babysitters come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. The biggest problem with them - and with anyone for that matter - is that they are imperfect people. This is also the biggest source of entertainment concerning them. There was one babysitter that was as sweet as honey in front of my parents, but as the car would clear the driveway, she magically transformed into the Evil Bitch From Hell. I swear, you could see the black clouds form over her head, and the fire sparking in her eyes. My brother and I were good kids, but high-spirited, as boys should be. When it was just the three of us, she would scream the entire evening. "SHUT THE HELL UP!!!" "GO TO BED NOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWW!!!" in shrill screeching tones that would send cold shivers and goosebumps down the spine of harpies and banshees alike. She would scream about how she was going to tell our parents EXACTLY how BAD we were behaving. But, when Mom and Dad came home, she would coo to them about how well behaved we were, and how she always loved coming, and how she was looking forward to next time, in tones that would lull even the sirens to sleep.
Fast-forward twenty-five years. One morning several days ago, my son was in the bathroom, and I was in the adjoining bedroom. He was brushing his teeth, and I was loading my daily gear into my pockets. I heard a clatter that sounded remarkably like toothbrushes striking the tile behind the toilet - approximately where the plunger resides. I came around the corner to investigate to find him placing my toothbrush back on the medicine cabinet where I keep it. I asked him if he had knocked my toothbrush down on the floor, and he hesitantly admitted to it. I told him that it was not a really big deal, but anytime something like that happened, he needed to report it immediately, that accidents happen, and to please be more careful moving forward. Jenni pulled the heads off of all three toothbrushes and soaked them in rubbing alcohol until the next day. No biggie.
Then, I had the emergence of a very bizarre memory. One babysitter that my parents hired for a while was a very sweet girl. She was fun to be around, she played games with us, she was gentle, and generally seemed to enjoy the babysitting gig. She would come over, and we would play cards or a board game. Then, we would eat dinner, and all three wash dishes. Side note - kids need to learn to do dishes and find that it can be pleasant. After we did dishes, my brother and I would get changed for bed, and brush our teeth. This particular babysitter would come to the bathroom with us and brush her teeth too. Sometimes she would use Mom's toothbrush, and other times she would use Dad's. If she felt like she needed to get her teeth really clean, she would use both.
Did you catch that? At the time, it struck me as odd that she was using my parent's toothbrushes. I couldn't quite put my finger on why. At that age, we don't have enough personal boundaries for me to have been able to identify that it was a massive violation of privacy and personal space for her to be "borrowing" my parent's TOOTHBRUSHES, but at any rate, it didn't seem quite right to me. When I asked her if that was okay, she would sweetly explain that she had forgotten her toothbrush, and that she would clean them after we were in bed. That explanation seemed reasonable enough to me, and that memory was filed away in the dark corner of my brain along with all of the other insignificant childhood memories. --that is until my son knocked my toothbrush into the e coli zone where the toilet plunger lives.
I guess that just goes to show what a remarkable and strange piece of hardware the human brain is. Mom and Dad, if you read this I'm sorry. If it had struck me as significant at the time, I would have told you. I can't even tell you the girl's name. If her germs were going to kill you, I imagine they would have by now, if that makes you feel any better. I wonder what other weird memories I've got rattling around in here...
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
This Just in - Stingray Boots Cause Rain
As Rachel Lucas is currently doing, I have gone round and round with atheists at one time or another. I largely refuse to get involved in these discussions anymore, because it's pointless and worthless. I would like to highlight one point that I've come to time and time again.
I have stated on multiple occasions that I don't believe in coincidence. This is a blanket statement. It's like "I've never met a man I didn't like" or "There are no atheists in foxholes." Sure, there are occasions in which things just happen at the same time, seemingly without correlation, but the vast majority of perceived correlations are correlations indeed. I believe in cause and effect, action and consequence. I believe in the Laws of Thermodynamics.
I observe the world around me and how it works. I observe sociology, climatology, chemistry, biology, and other otherwise formal studies. I like seeing how things work. I like how a horridly loud exhaust on a car will make some people smile and others get angry, whereas a quiet vehicle goes unnoticed by the masses. I enjoy learning about creatures and plants that I didn't previously know existed. I love that scientists decoded the Platypus' genome to determine whether it is truly more of a mammal, reptile, or bird; only to discover that it is kind of a bird-reptile-mammal. Frankly, I don't know whether that supports the belief in evolution, or in creation. I know for sure that the results of the genome project are humorous regardless of personal beliefs. I like to observe things that cannot be readily explained by any type of science that I understand. Not being a scientist of any kind, I do run across these things from time to time.
I have a pair of stingray hide cowboy boots that were made in Texas. They are wild-looking. The first time I saw stingrays in the western store, I couldn't imagine wearing a pair! I stumbled across a pair that were on clearance because the size was mis-marked, and I could not resist giving them a chance. I've found that I wear them a whole lot more often that I initially thought I would. They are sparkly and black, and look wonderful with a suit when I go to a Christmas party. They look equally good with a pair of jeans. It seems like there is a correlation between me wearing my stingray boots and rainy weather.
I don't literally believe that there is a correlation, as I believe that it is my perception that it rains when I wear these boots. I wore them yesterday, and there was flooding in much of the Okc metro area. This has become something of a little joke to me, but it doesn't rain every time I wear that pair of boots, nor do I wear the boots every time it rains. If it were otherwise, I might believe that there was something to it. If it rained every time I wore the boots, and it did not rain unless I wore them, I would have cause and need to formulate a hypothesis. The hypothesis might be that my boots cause it to rain, or it might be that the incoming rain causes me to wear the boots.
I know that people are sensitive to forces on a subconscious level that they don't necessarily perceive in their conscious minds. For instance, my subconscious mind may perceive a barometric pressure and humidity level that is indicitave of incoming rain. It may be that the first couple of times I wore the boots it was rainy weather. Therefore, my subconscious mind draws a correlation between the perception of incoming rain and the normality of wearing those particular boots in wet weather. Or, it could be that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
My point is that because a man's DNA is however many percent similar to that of an ape does in no way indicate that men were once apes. It does indicate that we came from the same source however. I don't see how it could be possible that we came from any source without an intelligent designer. Perhaps Carl Sagan is a lot smarter than me, or perhaps he's a self-loving, God-hating humanist that will grasp at straws to justify his sin, and lean upon his intelligence and persuasiveness as a crutch to comfort him in his spiritual rebellion. I don't know, and I'm certainly not here to judge.
But the evolutionist's point is that they are being called out by nay-sayers to explain things.
Look at my post on The Male "Species" if you need to better understand what makes a species. In order for a new species to occur according to Darwinian theory under sexual reproduction, at least two viable examples must exist, and be genetically diverse enough from their predecessors that they cannot produce fertile offspring with the same kind as their predecessors, and yet can produce fertile offspring with each other. This new type of creature must be able to multiply and survive. I don't buy it. With asexual reproduction, it's a different story as whatever offspring splits off could survive and split off with whatever mutation that made it what it is. But in the previous example, what are the sheer chances that this would happen enough times to create every species known to man?
I have seen it argued with parallel universes, that with infinite possible parallels, there arguably must be at least one in which anything and everything is possible, no matter what the odds, by the very definition of the odds. Ok. So, what is the evidence that there are parallel universes? Well, we are here, aren't we? By that rational, if it rained each and every time I wore my stingray boots without fail, and there was never even a drop of rain when I was not wearing them, it is still coincidence by the rational that we just happen to be in the right parallel universe where it has worked out that way.
Origin of life? It just happened. The artistic, precision engineering of a complex life form that the collective intelligence of man has not been able to match in the culmination of the history of man? It just happened. There were amino acids that turned into viruses that turned into the first cells. The cells turned into other stuff, then came sexual reproduction, fish, lizards, monkeys, and finally you and I.
Sorry, I don't buy it. I'll give the origin of life a head start. Let's take my stingray boots, composed of many complex proteins. Let's put my boots in the "ideal" conditions, separated from life, and see what happens. Let's take some bets on how long those amino acids in the hides, glues, and lemon pegs finally combine and come to life. The Second Law of Thermodynamics proves that order eventually settles to chaos. History will show us that the rapid extinction of species that are not being replaced by new species at a similar rate proves the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Do species eventually become better and stronger as their lines move forward and their genotypes are trimmed and edited by their phenotypes? No. They become inbred. Look at the California condor. Look at the panda. Look at man. Ouch, I went there!
But I digress. The reason Theological Creationists get bent out of shape on the whole evolutionary eduction argument is that it is not scientific. The theory of evolution is no more scientific than spontaneous generation or alchemy. Granted, when spontaneous generation, or abiogenesis was a commonly accepted fact (as evolution currently is), little was known about science by today's standards. And in their defense, those involved in alchemy included some brilliant minds such as a little-known man by the name of Benjamin Franklin or another obscure character known as Sir Isaac Newton.
I'm not at all saying that evolutionists are not intelligent. I am saying that they are zealots of their own religion, trying to force it on others. Here's what bothers me about that: If you think I'm dumb because I believe in God, the worst that can happen to me is that I'll be ignorant. The worst that can happen to you if I'm right is that you will go to hell. Yes, I'm going to share my views. Yes, I'm going to share my beliefs. I don't want anyone to suffer because of my lack of trying. Am I going to force it down your throat? No. All I ask is similar courtesy. Let's keep ALL religion out of the classroom - the theistic kind AND the atheistic.
I have stated on multiple occasions that I don't believe in coincidence. This is a blanket statement. It's like "I've never met a man I didn't like" or "There are no atheists in foxholes." Sure, there are occasions in which things just happen at the same time, seemingly without correlation, but the vast majority of perceived correlations are correlations indeed. I believe in cause and effect, action and consequence. I believe in the Laws of Thermodynamics.
I observe the world around me and how it works. I observe sociology, climatology, chemistry, biology, and other otherwise formal studies. I like seeing how things work. I like how a horridly loud exhaust on a car will make some people smile and others get angry, whereas a quiet vehicle goes unnoticed by the masses. I enjoy learning about creatures and plants that I didn't previously know existed. I love that scientists decoded the Platypus' genome to determine whether it is truly more of a mammal, reptile, or bird; only to discover that it is kind of a bird-reptile-mammal. Frankly, I don't know whether that supports the belief in evolution, or in creation. I know for sure that the results of the genome project are humorous regardless of personal beliefs. I like to observe things that cannot be readily explained by any type of science that I understand. Not being a scientist of any kind, I do run across these things from time to time.
I have a pair of stingray hide cowboy boots that were made in Texas. They are wild-looking. The first time I saw stingrays in the western store, I couldn't imagine wearing a pair! I stumbled across a pair that were on clearance because the size was mis-marked, and I could not resist giving them a chance. I've found that I wear them a whole lot more often that I initially thought I would. They are sparkly and black, and look wonderful with a suit when I go to a Christmas party. They look equally good with a pair of jeans. It seems like there is a correlation between me wearing my stingray boots and rainy weather.
I don't literally believe that there is a correlation, as I believe that it is my perception that it rains when I wear these boots. I wore them yesterday, and there was flooding in much of the Okc metro area. This has become something of a little joke to me, but it doesn't rain every time I wear that pair of boots, nor do I wear the boots every time it rains. If it were otherwise, I might believe that there was something to it. If it rained every time I wore the boots, and it did not rain unless I wore them, I would have cause and need to formulate a hypothesis. The hypothesis might be that my boots cause it to rain, or it might be that the incoming rain causes me to wear the boots.
I know that people are sensitive to forces on a subconscious level that they don't necessarily perceive in their conscious minds. For instance, my subconscious mind may perceive a barometric pressure and humidity level that is indicitave of incoming rain. It may be that the first couple of times I wore the boots it was rainy weather. Therefore, my subconscious mind draws a correlation between the perception of incoming rain and the normality of wearing those particular boots in wet weather. Or, it could be that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
My point is that because a man's DNA is however many percent similar to that of an ape does in no way indicate that men were once apes. It does indicate that we came from the same source however. I don't see how it could be possible that we came from any source without an intelligent designer. Perhaps Carl Sagan is a lot smarter than me, or perhaps he's a self-loving, God-hating humanist that will grasp at straws to justify his sin, and lean upon his intelligence and persuasiveness as a crutch to comfort him in his spiritual rebellion. I don't know, and I'm certainly not here to judge.
But the evolutionist's point is that they are being called out by nay-sayers to explain things.
If the teaching of weaknesses is mandated, a textbook might be forced to say that evolution has an “inability to explain the Cambrian Explosion,” according to the group Texans for Better Science Education, which questions evolution.I understand the question on the Cambrian Explosion, but I'm more concerned about evolution's inability to explain the origin of species, or even more importantly, the origin of life.
Look at my post on The Male "Species" if you need to better understand what makes a species. In order for a new species to occur according to Darwinian theory under sexual reproduction, at least two viable examples must exist, and be genetically diverse enough from their predecessors that they cannot produce fertile offspring with the same kind as their predecessors, and yet can produce fertile offspring with each other. This new type of creature must be able to multiply and survive. I don't buy it. With asexual reproduction, it's a different story as whatever offspring splits off could survive and split off with whatever mutation that made it what it is. But in the previous example, what are the sheer chances that this would happen enough times to create every species known to man?
I have seen it argued with parallel universes, that with infinite possible parallels, there arguably must be at least one in which anything and everything is possible, no matter what the odds, by the very definition of the odds. Ok. So, what is the evidence that there are parallel universes? Well, we are here, aren't we? By that rational, if it rained each and every time I wore my stingray boots without fail, and there was never even a drop of rain when I was not wearing them, it is still coincidence by the rational that we just happen to be in the right parallel universe where it has worked out that way.
Origin of life? It just happened. The artistic, precision engineering of a complex life form that the collective intelligence of man has not been able to match in the culmination of the history of man? It just happened. There were amino acids that turned into viruses that turned into the first cells. The cells turned into other stuff, then came sexual reproduction, fish, lizards, monkeys, and finally you and I.
Sorry, I don't buy it. I'll give the origin of life a head start. Let's take my stingray boots, composed of many complex proteins. Let's put my boots in the "ideal" conditions, separated from life, and see what happens. Let's take some bets on how long those amino acids in the hides, glues, and lemon pegs finally combine and come to life. The Second Law of Thermodynamics proves that order eventually settles to chaos. History will show us that the rapid extinction of species that are not being replaced by new species at a similar rate proves the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Do species eventually become better and stronger as their lines move forward and their genotypes are trimmed and edited by their phenotypes? No. They become inbred. Look at the California condor. Look at the panda. Look at man. Ouch, I went there!
But I digress. The reason Theological Creationists get bent out of shape on the whole evolutionary eduction argument is that it is not scientific. The theory of evolution is no more scientific than spontaneous generation or alchemy. Granted, when spontaneous generation, or abiogenesis was a commonly accepted fact (as evolution currently is), little was known about science by today's standards. And in their defense, those involved in alchemy included some brilliant minds such as a little-known man by the name of Benjamin Franklin or another obscure character known as Sir Isaac Newton.
I'm not at all saying that evolutionists are not intelligent. I am saying that they are zealots of their own religion, trying to force it on others. Here's what bothers me about that: If you think I'm dumb because I believe in God, the worst that can happen to me is that I'll be ignorant. The worst that can happen to you if I'm right is that you will go to hell. Yes, I'm going to share my views. Yes, I'm going to share my beliefs. I don't want anyone to suffer because of my lack of trying. Am I going to force it down your throat? No. All I ask is similar courtesy. Let's keep ALL religion out of the classroom - the theistic kind AND the atheistic.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
New Drink...
Recipe:
2) Large martini glasses
1) Large rose in full blossom
1) cc-agave nectar (check Target or natural food stores)
High-quality whiskey, gin, or vodka
De-petal rose. Rinse petals and put two aside, the rest in a shaker. Measure into shaker one and a half martini glasses full of bourbon or other type of whiskey. Don't go with the extremely smoky, peaty, or woody stuff. Delicate flavors work best here. If it comes in a plastic bottle, don't do it. Fill shaker 1/2-full of ice cubes. Pour in no more than 1-cc of raw agave nectar. Raw honey would make the appropriate flavor, but does not dissolve as nicely in cold liquid. It should pull the bitter out of the taste, but should not make this a sweet drink. Cap shaker and shake. Once rose petals are well macerated, and the liquor is ice cold, pour into martini glasses. Garnish each glass with one of the remaining petals.
This is like drinking liquid Victoria's Secret. It is so worth the experience. If you don't have the guts to do it in public, do it in private and don't tell anybody. OMG!!! Good stuff!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
The Male "Species"
I get so tired of hearing or seeing people make reference to "the male species" like here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and well, you get the point. This is a fairly common (I do mean common - as in low-of-brow) malapropism. I don't know whether these people are using this term to be cute, as in my title on this entry, or if they are speaking straight out of ignorant dumbassity, but let's set this straight.
Let's look at Miriam Webster's definition of the word "species":
What this means in shorthand is that a species is defined as a type of creature that can mate with another of its kind and have fertile offspring. Just to illustrate, a mule is not a species, since it is the offspring of a horse and a donkey. Thus, rather than a species, a mule is a hybrid. Don't start telling me about some dude that's pregnant in Hawaii. This is not a biological man. This is a transsexual. He/she/it was on Oprah, and you know what else is on Oprah? I won't go there. This individual has no pronoun that applies since this individual is a mutilated woman, and not a biological man.
And then, you have hermaphrodites. The banana slug, for example, is a hermaphrodite. (I know some of my links are in poor taste, I just can't help myself.) More to the point, each fully-formed banana slug produces eggs and sperm, and has a penis. When two banana slugs mate, they violently stab each other with their penises to the beat of Marvin Gaye (or Isaac Hayes if they are scientologists). The point is that they have no gender definition between them, as fully-formed humans do.
I have never heard of two biological males that can have any sort of offspring together, much less a fertile offspring. This means that males do not by definition specicate from females. The proper terminology is "male sex" or "male gender." Maybe some people get too hot whenever they use the term "sex" and aren't smart enough to know a big word like "gender." If that were true though, where did they learn the word "species"? Oh, wait! They didn't! That's why I'm writing this - for the education of it!
I think a lot of this stems from radical feminists. You know the types. I'm talking about the ones who call themselves "womyn". Just so you know, "womyn" is not a word, it's a joke. The book of Genesis defines the word "woman" as "out of man." Now that being said, a woman has a right to be a radical feminist. I have the right to think that they are stupid. I don't think women in general are stupid in the least, but radical feminists? You betcha. I will offer the latter a couple of alternative ideas to make the word "woman" just a little more palatable.
If we consider the "out of man" definition, you can take this one of two ways. If you believe in a theological, "then the LORD said..." creation, woman (Eve) was literally created from tissue taken out of man (Adam). This is not a popular view among atheists or some other types of people. You may chose to believe that "man" refers to "mankind" in which case, "out of man" is quite flattering. In this definition, women are set apart from mankind as something special. I choose to look at the word "woman" from both viewpoints, as I do believe in a theological creation, and yet I think that women are pretty freaking amazing creatures! I love them, think that all men should love them, and it's really sad the number of men that do not give them the respect that they deserve.
Let's not get into the whole chicken-and-egg discussion on this deal. As we all know, since men - who grow up from boys - are born of women, the argument could easily go that way. But as we have ultimately learned, it does in fact take two of a species to tango, and that's exactly what makes man (as in mankind) a species. I have a dream that all men (as in mankind) will one day speak and write like adults with a full command of their first language. In my dream, men (as in the species) will not have to make up childish names for themselves and each other or use words incorrectly, for they will have risen from the ignorance that currently enslaves them.
...just my $.02...
Let's look at Miriam Webster's definition of the word "species":
d (1): a category of biological classification ranking immediately below the genus or subgenus, comprising related organisms or populations potentially capable of interbreeding, and being designated by a binomial that consists of the name of a genus followed by a Latin or latinized uncapitalized noun or adjective agreeing grammatically with the genus name
What this means in shorthand is that a species is defined as a type of creature that can mate with another of its kind and have fertile offspring. Just to illustrate, a mule is not a species, since it is the offspring of a horse and a donkey. Thus, rather than a species, a mule is a hybrid. Don't start telling me about some dude that's pregnant in Hawaii. This is not a biological man. This is a transsexual. He/she/it was on Oprah, and you know what else is on Oprah? I won't go there. This individual has no pronoun that applies since this individual is a mutilated woman, and not a biological man.
And then, you have hermaphrodites. The banana slug, for example, is a hermaphrodite. (I know some of my links are in poor taste, I just can't help myself.) More to the point, each fully-formed banana slug produces eggs and sperm, and has a penis. When two banana slugs mate, they violently stab each other with their penises to the beat of Marvin Gaye (or Isaac Hayes if they are scientologists). The point is that they have no gender definition between them, as fully-formed humans do.
I have never heard of two biological males that can have any sort of offspring together, much less a fertile offspring. This means that males do not by definition specicate from females. The proper terminology is "male sex" or "male gender." Maybe some people get too hot whenever they use the term "sex" and aren't smart enough to know a big word like "gender." If that were true though, where did they learn the word "species"? Oh, wait! They didn't! That's why I'm writing this - for the education of it!
I think a lot of this stems from radical feminists. You know the types. I'm talking about the ones who call themselves "womyn". Just so you know, "womyn" is not a word, it's a joke. The book of Genesis defines the word "woman" as "out of man." Now that being said, a woman has a right to be a radical feminist. I have the right to think that they are stupid. I don't think women in general are stupid in the least, but radical feminists? You betcha. I will offer the latter a couple of alternative ideas to make the word "woman" just a little more palatable.
If we consider the "out of man" definition, you can take this one of two ways. If you believe in a theological, "then the LORD said..." creation, woman (Eve) was literally created from tissue taken out of man (Adam). This is not a popular view among atheists or some other types of people. You may chose to believe that "man" refers to "mankind" in which case, "out of man" is quite flattering. In this definition, women are set apart from mankind as something special. I choose to look at the word "woman" from both viewpoints, as I do believe in a theological creation, and yet I think that women are pretty freaking amazing creatures! I love them, think that all men should love them, and it's really sad the number of men that do not give them the respect that they deserve.
Let's not get into the whole chicken-and-egg discussion on this deal. As we all know, since men - who grow up from boys - are born of women, the argument could easily go that way. But as we have ultimately learned, it does in fact take two of a species to tango, and that's exactly what makes man (as in mankind) a species. I have a dream that all men (as in mankind) will one day speak and write like adults with a full command of their first language. In my dream, men (as in the species) will not have to make up childish names for themselves and each other or use words incorrectly, for they will have risen from the ignorance that currently enslaves them.
...just my $.02...
Monday, April 28, 2008
Say "yes" to "Truck Nuts"
Apparently, the State of Florida is trying very hard to ban these delightful little toys. This is WRONG, and we all need to take a stand against it. Let's ban together to make sure that no government entity takes away the basic human right to affix plastic testicles to one's vehicle.
This is a very important coping mechanism for insecure men. Everyone knows that all people have insecurities to some degree, and many men are insecure about the size and functionality of their genitals. This is why so many men can be seen driving Hummers and Ford Excavations, despite sky-rocketing gas prices. Those that are particularly insecure about their bits and pieces have a basic emotional need for this ingenious device which shows that their masculinity resides in their big, powerful, throbbing, truck.
I am no stranger to this feeling myself. It embarrasses me to admit that I am really, really insecure about the size of my genitals. This is why I feel so compelled to wear shoes that make my feet look smaller, and feel compelled to carry the smallest possible devices I can get, like cell-phones, pens, flashlights, etc. It is for this very reason that I like to drive sub-compact cars. Currently, I am driving a Nissan Sentra. This car is a little on the large size for my tastes. When I was driving my early '80's Civic, I felt like it made my junk look so small, and made me feel like a more reasonable man. Driving this Sentra, I often feel the irrational fear that it makes my stuff look too big. Often, I find myself in my insecurities asking my wife, "Do these pants make my package look big?" or "You don't think of me as some kind of three-legged freak, do you?" She has always reassured me that it's not too big, and sometimes even tells me that it's as small as an average guy's stuff. Thank goodness for that woman! Without her, I would feel like some kind of freakish gorilla with a huge mass, weighing me down everywhere I go. Thanks to her encouragement, I no longer feel like everyone is staring at my crotch.
But, I digress. Our society has proved to us that any gains, even in civil rights, are a two-edged sword. When the pendulum swings, it's momentum will invariably take some unintended casualties. In the case of our current society, the victims have been men. Granted, some are far more insecure than others, but we are the beaten and bruised now. I don't hear Florida handing out coupons for these guys to go to a psychologist to sort out their feelings of inadequacy. No! They are simply fined for displaying the only coping mechanism that they know that they have at their disposal. If anyone told me that I had to get rid of my 3.5-inch Bullet Space Pen in lieu of a big, long, round roller ball, I would feel like crawling under a rock. Similarly, these gentlemen are being displaced by cruel, insensitive legislation. I can only imagine how their teeny-tiny, limp, flaccid, bruised and beaten egos must feel right now, having their only source of security taken away from them.
I know that there are others out there that feel the way I do. If you are a man who is insecure about his masculinity, one way or the other, or if you are a woman who is close to a man who has these feelings, I want to hear from you. Please comment on this blog entry. If you feel like you need to remain anonymous to protect your identity, nobody will judge you. I am here for you. There are millions of us that are here for you. Together, and only together, we can make a difference, and make sure that men can one day be secure with exactly what God gave us. Someday, we will stand up tall and proud and say, "This is my junk. It works well, and I'm proud of it." It will take all of us, and today is the day to make our stand.
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