squidbag

Bullets and Bombs

The US military, for about a million or so rounds now, has been testing what it calls a "green" bullet.  Before you think fashion designers have taken over the world, the bullet is so called not because of  its fetching verdant coloration, but because it is a tungsten/nylon alloy (When there's a non-metal involved is that even an alloy?  Anyone?) and is supposed to do less harm to the planet than all this lead we've been flinging at each other for fucking centuries.  You could make the argument that the quickest way to stop lead seeping into the dirt and groundwater would be to stop hurling it at the living things which populate it's surface, but there are gun manufacturers who need the cash, and regime change to be wrought, so we'll just glaze over that.  Now, though, military scienticians are discovering that tungsten seeps into the gorund faster than lead, and can even facilitate the spread of lead into the water.  This is how the military tests things.  Go out, try it, if you fuck it all up to be damned, stop - and we'll try something else.  Sounds kind of like Iraqistan, doesn't it?  Ah, the military mind.

In other news, the London bombings of late have led Tommies and Bobbies to gun down a Brazilian man in the street, search one guy because he was fat, and finally led to some arrests, and tangentially, to the seeming shutdown of the IRA.  This is good news.  Probably.  The IRA declared a cease-fire back in '94, and in '97, economic development began to boom surrounding the movements of Sinn Fein's new political mainstreaming, but rarely has a statement issued by the IRA been so unambiguous.  Maybe.  Check this guy out.  If he strikes you as being a legalistic dickhead - well, he kinda has to be, since this is how you deal with a terrorist organization that's been active in your country for decades.  Can you imagine that here in the States?  Before you try, let me pitch some evocative place names at you - Oklahoma City, Ruby Ridge, Waco, Texas.  So - cautious optimism seems to be the order of the day on this one.

Finally, in related news, it seems that the Briton bombers are not devout Muslims looking to fuck shit up, as we white folks are often wont to believe.  They're pissed about the Iraq war, and they wanted to draw attention to that.  Blowback, folks.  How many terrorists has Monkeyface created this week?  You know, you see sites like this one that give up-to-the-moment stats on the war dead - what about a counter that scrolls for every young person who gets motivated to blow up stuff because of our imperialist warmongering and sabre-rattling?  Anybody want to design that for me?

"Imperialist warmongering and sabre-rattling."  Wow.  I promise to get a job soon.

Nine Years Ago...

...from out of the blackness of the rural night, from out of the dimly-lit quiet of flat, agrarian landscape, into the asphalt oasis of a nearly deserted 7-11, came I.  Drunk, of course, or I wouldn't have ended up on a deserted stretch of highway 60 in Florida at three AM looking for Sprite, which never fails to calm my drunk-sick stomach.  I had left the convention in a huff after drinking for thirteen hours straight due to various people I went with acting like pricks, but that's a whole different story.  I squealed the tires of the small golden Geo (quite a feat with a four-cylinder and ABS) into a parking space, kind of, and stumble-climbed out into a hail of moths.  There must have been two thousand moths congregating at that convenience store, and they were swooping back and fro, landing on and crashing into absolutely everything.  I've never seen anything like it, before or since, and I'm more than 50% sure it was real.  Bleeding from the corner of my mouth, pale and sweaty, clammy from the brief vomiting spell into the pint glass from the English pub, with a big, black smear of dirt across my shirt and a name tag from the convention hanging upside-down from my upper left chest region, I slammed the door about three times as hard as would have normally been necessary, careful to first lock it, then reaching back in through the open window to retrieve my keys, which were still in the ignition.  This had the effect of silencing the huge techno music I had been listening to, and also drawing moths.  No one would ever have guessed that I had been drinking, not this careful, deliberate soul.  I staggered into the store, going straight for the Coke cases, and was dimly aware of a few moths flying off of me as I did so, flitting around the store, bumping into the fluorescents.  The Coke display case was unwilling to open, and I had to bang on it a few times with my fist to get it to let me in.  I could see the cashier staring at my back in the reflection on the case, probably wondering whether or not she could get the cops there in time, or should she just shoot me in the back now and skip police involvement?  I turned around then, Sprite clutched in my fist as if uncertain: should I savor its caffeine-free wonderland of lemon-lime excitement?  Or should I bludgeon her to death with it?  I slogged to the counter and dropped my beverage on it, (initially thinking the countertop was several inches higher than it actually turned out to be) quietly thanking American industry for plastic bottles, which cannot be shattered by drunken people.  She rang it up, never dropping her gaze from my eyes, which hurt.  Yes.  She gave me a total, and then asked,

"Mister, are you all right?"

To which I responded, "Lady, I got the poison."

I dropped two dollars on the counter and left without waiting for change, flailing moths from my body, tires and radio screaming off into the night, idly wondering what she would think of me and this incident, as she realized I had given her almost a full dollar more than necessary.  Would she wait for the police cars to fly by, or just watch the horizon for a mushroom cloud?  These thoughts drifted through my head, meaningless, as I flung the cracked and half-full-of-vomit pint glass from the English pub out the driver's side window into the median strip of highway 60.  I then remembered to turn on my headlights.

Her name was Martha, and I hope she's out there, somewhere.

Tub Jenkins Beer

TUB JENKINS BEER™#1

TUB:  Is beer your absolute favorite thing in the world?  It is mine.  A good beer is like nirvana, a good spiritual cleansing, an enema, and the second coming all rolled into one.  That's why at Tub Jenkins brewery, we take special care to make sure that our beer has the rich, full flavor you've come to expect in your beer.  A good beer has a thick, rich and healthy flavor, like a steak.  So, I walk around personally and drop a piece of uncooked steak into every vat before we begin our brewing for the year.  It gives our beer a full meaty flavor that, frankly, excites me into a sexual frenzy.  Often, I come.  Oh sure, it doesn't exactly comply with the rules laid down by the federal department of health, but what do a bunch of bureaucrats know about beer anyway?
ED:  Drink Tub Jenkins.  It's like a steak.

TUB JENKINS BEER™#2

TUB:  It's summer again, and summer makes me think of cookouts.  Cookouts make me think of hot dogs, and that one sexy cousin who's just too hot to be believed, the one you wanted to...oh yeah, and beer.  We at Tub Jenkins believe that some things just go together, and Tub Jenkins beer goes with hot dogs.  Perfectly.  Try it, you'll see.
ED:  (swirls hot dog in beer, takes bite) Mmmm...
TUB:  See?  Now, you might wonder why Tub Jenkins and hot dogs are so compatible. Coincidence?  Bullshit.  See, every bottle of Tub Jenkins has a lot in common with a hot dog.  Like ingredients, for instance.  Grains, meats, fillers, and rat parts...yes, the USDA lets all of us food providers get away with a certain number of rat parts every year...and we're at our limit!  We've pushed our limit with those government guys to bring you the finest beer possible!  Yep, I wouldn't be surprised if there's a rat part in this bottle right here!  Maybe it's a head!
ED:  Drink Tub Jenkins.  Maybe you'll get head.

TUB JENKINS BEER™#3

TUB:  Have you ever had sex with a beautiful hooker on a roller coaster while tripping on     mushrooms?  Isn't it a lot like beer?  I mean, really.  Tub Jenkins new Cherry Blasto Lambic is out for the holidays, and it's totally like that.  The finest wheats and grains that go into a bottle of Tub Jenkins is the roller coaster, and the fresh ripened cherries...they're the hooker.  But the special ingredient that makes this a 'Blasto' from Tub Jenkins...they're the mushrooms.  Seriously.  Psilocybin ale.  So enjoy Tub Jenkins new Cherry Blasto Lambic during the holidays, and see your family in a whole new way.
ED:  Drink Tub Jenkins.  It's trippy as shit, dude.

TUB JENKINS BEER™#4

TUB:  Have you ever killed a man over beer?  Maybe I have.  Maybe even more than one. The news lately is accusing me of a lot of shady business, including murder, arson, insurance fraud, and having connections to organized crime.  I don't think I know about any of that - all I wanted was to bring America the finest beer.  I wanted to enrich the American experience, quench thirst, and take a stand for freedom!  I love the flag and Lady Liberty, and I won't see her, or the name of Tub Jenkins, dragged through the mud!  So drink Tub Jenkins!  Ever bottle of Tub Jenkins you lift is a vote for freedom!  Capitalism!  Freedom and good beer!
ED:  Drink Tub Jenkins.  'Cause you feel that.

News On The Stagger

In the news today is this story about David Brian Madison, of Billings, Montana, who busted up a bunch of fiberglass sheep sculptures because "Sheep are evil and destroying this country."  Well, yeah.  Fuckin' A, Dave.  I agree with you.  You just gotta keep it together a little better to stay out of prison.  If you'd have been on the streets of Billings the day this happened, you'd have heard the audible rubber band *snap* when David lost it.  People snap all the time, folks - at least he didn't kill anything real.  Advice to David for future sheep-destroying endeavors - nighttime.

In this item, the AP reports that 90% of teens now have Internet access, and use the Internet on a regular basis.  Al Gore, in a Tennesse institution for the inconsequential,  could not be reached for comment.  In a related story, teen blindness and hirsute palms are on an increase, and while there is seen to be some connection, doctors are unsure at this time as to what that could be.

Finally, I hope Jerry Bruckheimer is paying attention to the recent NASA mission.  Between the chunks flying off, the spectre of danger from the last mission, and them exploring the possibilty that the astronauts may have to hole up in the station - shit, I'm writing this movie right now.  I mean, they've grounded the shuttle program while these poor fuckers are in space.  "We have to fix this."  No shit, Sherlock.  You know, I thought rocket scientists were supposed to be clever sonsabitches.  Maybe they just shouldn't let 'em talk to the media.

Oh, and CAFTA passed with a 2 vote margin.  15 Dems went the wrong way.  Because, you know, of the President's political capital.  I got a whole Rove entry comin' up - don't worry your pretty heads.

Glengarry Alien Ross

I really don't care if anyone else understands this:

COMPANY MAN  First prize is a Cadillac.  Second prize - a set of steak knives.  Third prize is you're eaten by an Alien.
ROSS Aw, this is bullshit, comin' in here, telling a working man-
COMPANY MAN  Hey pal, you don't like it?  LEAVE.  You have to have durasteel chromium balls to sell real estate in space.  You can't compete?  Fuck you.  PUT THAT SIMULATED COFFEE DRINK DOWN.

JOHN HURT  My chest - ack - I really need to get that check back - urk - my wife...
AL PACINO  (muffled) You want your check back, no problem, get let me get this thing off my face, and we'll go below decks, that nice Chinese place - (dies suddenly)

DALLAS  You sold deck seven to Julius and Ethel Nyborg?
THE MACHINE  Oh man, let me tell you.  I was sitting there in that kitchen, eating the crumb cake facsimile that Mother makes for us?  And the Nyborgs were ready to sign.  I mean, I could fucking feel the vibrations in the pen, man, and-AACCAAARAAGHHH!!" (Is eaten by an Alien)
YAPHET KOTTO  The Machine was just eaten by an Alien.
ROSS  Fuck the Machine!  Fuck all of you, fuck you - AAAARTRAGAHHH!!!" (Is also eaten by an Alien)

- A special tap of my chest out to Jon Broad. -

Bear In The Big Blue House

Before I poured all of my creative writing energy into this thing, this blog, this ender of jobs and alienator of friends,  I used to keep a diary, which I called my "id," since diaries are pink and have locks on them, and journals are kept by only accountants and the suicidal.  The same shit I now shovel to the public, I used to keep only to myself, and I have decided that I will begin re-printing some of it here, whoring it up when necessary.  This one's about children's programming, and is from Summer of 2003.

Bear in the Big Blue House.  Bear has been the replacement show for Max, once the appeal of the Baby Einstein series began to wane.  We rented some videos and DVDs from the library, and then Jesse got him some more of the videos for his birthday.  I watch a lot of Bear in the Big Blue House, (sometimes even when Max isn't around) and I like it enough that I put the opening and closing songs on one of the CDs I took to work.  Max really likes it, he stands in front of the TV while it's on.  It's a good, sweet show about these animals that live in a big blue house, with a big orange bear named appropriately enough, "Bear."  Bear is friends with a bear cub girl named Ojo, a house mouse named Tutter, a ring-tailed lemur named Treelo, and two otters, Pip and Pop.  Oh, and Luna, the moon, is a big character on the show - she shows up at the end of each one to chat with Bear about his day and sing the goodbye song.  One other of Bear's friends is Shadow, a shadow.  They are 21st century Muppets, basically, in that they are Henson Studios products, and they have a bit more of a refined look to them than either Sesame Street or the Muppet Show.  There are some peripheral characters, like Tutter's grandmother, Ursa, the bear from Spain, with whom Bear is involved in a long distance relationship, and a turtle named something biblical, and an old pig who makes corny jokes named Doc Hog.  Oh yeah, and a rabbit that Ojo makes friends with, and a skunk. 

Ojo's a child, and acts like one, Treelo is there for kinetic comedy relief, and Tutter is kind of the annoying, Joe Pesci-like sidekick.  Pip and Pop are really my favorites, as everyone around me at this point knows.  Aside from Bear and Luna, the otters tend to be the only ones on the show with a fully developed sense of humor.  I like Pip and Pop, based on the strength of their idiosyncrasies and their interaction with some of the other characters.  Take into account during these examples that the otters frequently speak in unison, as they take pride in their agreement, one with another.  They are also identical in appearance, so when I signify that one or the other of them is speaking, that choice is purely arbitrary.  I suppose that you could establish which is which by assuming that Pip is always on the right and Pop on the left, but then that establishes a sort of hierarchy I don't think the otters themselves would appreciate.

PIP & POP:  No mail for us?
BEAR: No, not today.
PIP:  Oh, woe is me.
POP:  Woe is me, too.
PIP & POP:  Woe is us!!

BEAR:  It’s a clam.
PIP & POP:  A “Get Well Soon” clam!!
PIP:  Soon you’ll be feeling much better!
POP:  Works for otters!
PIP & POP:  Just like the clam says!!

BEAR:  You otters always love to have fun in the bathroom.
PIP:  Fun is our middle name!
POP:  No, Fun is your middle name.  Mine is Angelica.

Of course, it's hard to watch a kid's show all the time, no matter how good and fun it is, without going off on a tangent or two that you find entertaining.  The most recent of these to run through my head is the immortal "variations on a theme" joke, regarding the show's title and cast.  Like these (which owe some credit here and there to stolen jokes, EP, Evan Demon, C & Jesse):

Bear and the Big Jew House  A solidly more Semitic take on a children's program, with Oyjo, Bear, and Tutter the Rabbi.  We would learn how Bear makes his special honey raisin bagels, and Tutter would take children on a tour, showing them the proper way to slaughter certain animals so they're Kosher, and most importantly, the world of Kosher cheese.  Pip and Pop will perform a bris.  "Welcome to the Jew House/ Shalom from the small mouse / things to do, dreidels for you / Shalom from the big Bear..."

Bear in the Blue Big House  The denizens of the Blue Big House are down for their crimes against the other folks in Woodland Valley, and the charged atmosphere within makes for a gripping drama about what happens when Muppets go bad.  Pip and Pop, the wardens, take us on a tour where Ojo's in for strangling someone and smashing their face, and has the responsibility of Greek choir, tying the elements of the show together from her wheelchair.  Tutter's got some fraud coming down on him and Treelo's up on drug charges.  Bear himself is more of a white collar offender, but in the animal kingdom, there are no collars, and everyone's the same in the Blue Big House, no matter who they were on the outside.  Highlights involve shivs.

Cher in the Big Blue House  Plastic surgery icon, washed-out singer, and gay idol Cher takes over the show as her house is infested with small, talking animals.  (Either her marriage to Sonny or her drug trips with Gregg Allman should have prepared her for this experience.)  The show is music based, with about two songs per, and the rest of it could take on the tone of the old variety show she used to do in the seventies, with bad comedy and mindless talk.  Kids like that sometimes.  Twenty-odd minutes of hair flipping and licking one's lips is no weirder than the sniffing thing Bear does every show now, so the kids should be used to it.

Bear in the Blue Big House of 1000 Corpses  Living Dead Bear...In the second in our series of musical guest stars who will be visiting Bear & his friends, Rob Zombie will take over the show for a while.  Panic will ensue when Tutter suddenly looks like one of those weird Rat Fink drawings, and the otters begin to glow in the dark.  Treelo will take up the bass, and Bear and Zombie will front Death Valley’s (after the Valley changes its name) newest skull-rock combo.  Bear's sniffing will become an issue after he drunkenly hoovers up the otters' gak.  Zombie and Shadow will have an affair, producing a number of Shadow Zombies, which of course will be the subjects of Rob’s next indie film.

Bear in the Haunted House  When Muppet animals move to a Blue house built on the old Woodland Indian Burial Mound, paranormal antics ensue.  Bear and crew will deal with a host of things, like how to turn flying furniture into a game, how to find Tutter when the poltergeists have buried him in the backyard again, and what otters will play in when all of the water in the house has turned to blood.  The attic will become a place of terrifying hanging things, and only Shadow will feel at home in this house of shades and phantoms.  Unquiet spirits educate children about the afterlife in a way Veggie Tales just can't keep up with.  The season culminates with Treelo's possession by disaffected entities of crippling dread and malice, but no one notices.

Komrade Bear in the Red House  Kids need to learn about communism from something besides the pledge drive of their local PBS affiliate, and what better way for them to get a heaping helping of Marxism that from the folks in Woodland Square?  Lessons in the collective good reign supreme, and there will be no privacy in the red house ever again.  When Pip and Pop control the means of production, will Treelo's needs be met?  And just who is the proletariat of Woodland Valley?  Will the animals be able to adjust to this new system of forced economic leveling, or will totalitarianism occur?  Of course, the body of Jim Henson, encased in glass, will be filed past on each episode.

Bear in the Jig Blue House  Now, hear me out.  Bear, in blackface, will meet you at the door, and welcome you up to the “big house.”  Pip and Pop, now referred to as Pick and Ninny, will entertain you with their antics, as Ojo cooks up a big stack of flapjacks while clad in her kerchief.  This may sound racist, but it’s not.  We get Spike Lee in to direct, and he can put a whole new and important spin on this, you know, just like he did for Bamboozled.  I mean, who’s not convinced that anything with Spike, a Wayans brother, Michael Rappaport and a bunch of Negro dolls isn’t brilliant shit?  Besides me, I mean.  I hated that fucking movie.

Blair in Number 10, Big Blue House  Everyone's favorite British Prime Minister since "Iron Balls" Thatcher will come and teach important lessons to the animals in the Big Blue House, including sharing, with the Falkland Islands as an example, brushing one's teeth (using an American mouth as the model of course), and getting along with people, with videos of Parliament being shown to the animals.  Kids will love it, since if the way Tony's been taking his cues of late from George W. Bush, he'll fit right in with the other puppets on the show.  Unfortunately, his second episode will find him curiously mauled, with thousands of tiny bite marks, dragged out to the Otter Pond, and left for dead.  Ray, the sun, will then rise and set over the Prime Minister's mangled corpse.

Who Wants to Fight a Million Bears in the Big Blue House?  Reality TV and game shows come together in synergy (TV execs like that) in the Big Blue House, as this challenge supreme rears its Muppet head.  Each week, a child will be pushed into the Big Blue House, the doors closed and locked behind him or her, and forced to fight a million Bears.  If you thought one Bear was great, wait for this - a million times the fun!  How'd you like to be sniffed to death?  It can happen, in the Big Blue House!  Pip and Pop will call the contest from a booth high above the Big Blue House, while Ojo and Tutter will referee.  All games translated into Spanish by Treelo. (GOOOOOAALLLL!)  It may be more fun than some kids can handle, but fighting a million Bears in the Big Blue House is a dream not to be ignored.

Queer as the Big Blue House  A different breed of "Bear" will be hosting this fascinating exploration into the world of gay animal subculture.  Moved from Woodland Valley to Toronto, the Big Blue House is home now to a wide gamut of animals with 'alternative' sexual proclivities.  Bear himself will take kids cruising the bar scene, and illustrating the difficulty gay bears have in today's forest.  Pip and Pop, managers of a sex boutique, will explain to kids the mysteries behind dildos, strap-ons, and other important pieces of sexual equipment, before satisfying Doc Hogg's "twins" fantasy.  The revelation that Tutter is a woman mouse trapped in a man mouse's body will rock the third season of the show, and open up possibilities for a future lesbian relationship between the post-op Tutter and the newly blossoming Ojo, who's relationship with Shadow comes to a bitter end when they realize they can't touch each other.  Treelo's sexual orientation has yet to be determined, but I'm gonna guess bananasexual.

Everybody loves to Fuck and Kill Raymond in the Big Blue House  Funnyman Ray Romano's antics and family foibles come to an ignominious end when he is first repeatedly sexually brutalized, then cooked and eaten by the denizens of the Big Blue House.  Hijinks all around.  Some even with Bette Midler.  High point of the show will come when, with a mouthful of fresh Italian rib meat, Pip and Pop exclaim in unison, "We both love Raymond!  BUUURRP!"

Neapolitanisms

Neapolitan ice cream is a style invented in the States, supposedly to mimic the layered flavors of Spumoni, which is actually consumed in Naples, Italy.  In the US, however, 'spumoni' would sound like something you clean off your shoes, so Neapolitan is as good a name as any, and evocative, like Frankfurters from Frankfurt, Germany, and Freedom Fries from crazy people here at home.  Neil Armstrong at some Neapolitan ice cream on the moon, and it happens to be one of my favorite ice cream concotions, just after Rocky Road and peach.

Of late, I have noticed that many do not share my enthusiasm for this triple-flavored treat.  My lovely wife, for instance, seems to regard Neapolitan as chocolate with bullshit on either side.  Recently, when we put some in someone else's freezer for a week as we fled from a hurricane, we got it back without any strawberry.  I asked a friend about it today, and he admits that he eats the chocolate first, then the strawberry, then kind of finds he could give a fuck about vanilla.  I for one find joy in the mixing of flavors, and am disturbed by this selective attitude about Neapolitan.  You fuckers should learn the joy of the spoon, the light and crisp feeling of taste combinations, the wonder of the true Neapolitan experience!  Now get in there and get you some of that!  Yeah, right!  Fuckin' A!

You can tell I don't have a day job yet, can't you?

Yard Sale in Hell

Saturday the 23rd of July in Pensacola.  The heat is between 95 and 100 degrees.  The humidity is between 54 and 77% all day long.  At dusk, the Weather Channel is telling you that if you go outside, it feels like 101 degrees out.  I'm reasonably certain, that by picking this weekend for a Yard Sale - a rainless one just before Max and Christie begin to get back into the swing of school - I have been the victim of a cruel prank played by nature.  Something along the lines of: "You want no rain?  Fine.  Here's flesh melting heat, instead."

Today we were treated to a buffet of raw humanity, sweating, jabbering, kvetching, haggling and bitching about the heat.  We got the guy who handed out Chick Tracts, the woman who beat her granddaughter with a ruler over a fucking quarter, the shirtless monosyllabic yutz, the incredibly huge people, and everyone in between.  And the best part is - we're doing it all over again tomorrow!  Yeah!  Today, we thinned out our stuff considerably, and made about $180.  We're hoping tomorrow to clear out a little more, get the early birds (fuckers watched us set up at seven AM) and catch those people who are bringing others back.  After that, it all goes away somehow.  Donations, consignment, trash - some of you may get mysterious boxes in the mail.  I thought about shipping shit to random people whose addresses I find online...

Anyway - the contest results are coming (more photos please, everyone but Anne and Owen) and I thought you all should know what happened if they find me dead tomorrow in my driveway, partially melted, with a quarter stuck to what's left of my hand.

Contests!

To celebrate this, my 301st post, I think it's time for some reader participation.  I have three different contests I'd like people to participate in, and now that I have limited readership, I think the time is ripe.  Over to the side, there, you will notice my photo album "Black and White Equals Art."  You will notice this now.  I would like people to submit their B/W photos, (or ones that I can make B/W) and I will put the best ones up, credit them, and write pretentious museum-style captions for them.

Secondly, there is the "Best Name in World History Contest."  I'm going to nominate Estes Kefauver, but I know somebody can do better than that.  Your name submission must come with verifiable Internet proof of your person's existence.  Failure to follow these rules will result in me engaging you in a game of "I Bet I Can Chop Your Right Hand Off" where I get to go first.

Finally, there is the "Administration Adjective" contest!  You might describe an administration as "confused" (Reagan), or "ensemened" (Clinton) or "jackbooted" (Monkeyface) - but then again, you might have better ideas.  You almost certainly do, and I'd like to hear them.  Please submit your entires for these second two contests via the comments fields, and email your pics to the email link.  Thanks for playing, and remember - if you choose not to play, you can't even rise to the level of 'loser.'

Riot Control in 5 Seconds

Shit.

"Scientists" have come up with a new riot control gun which emits microwaves.  This can cause contact lenses to adhere to eyes, heat up keys, changes and glasses, and causes "intolerable pain" after five seconds of exposure.  I wonder what scientists came up with this - I can only believe in the easily-duped megabrains from 'Real Genius' for a little while longer.  ("Kent - Jesus wants you to stop playing with  yourself and bake people like TV dinners.")  The headline on this CNet story should have read, "Riot Control Gun Worries Scientists, all Reasonable People."  They're thinking of getting this thing street ready in time for Iraq's InsurgentFest '06, and according to the story, jarheads and cops want them portable.  Somewhere, I like to think there's a group of CrimethInc, Black Block or campus radicals figuring out how to make microwave-bouncing armor.  Me?  I'd like to point this thing at Dick Cheney for a couple of seconds on "high."

But that's just me.