Sunday, July 17, 2005


I learned a new word today. It is "wacktard." The Urban Dictionary defines it as:
Wacktard: Somone who is wack, and a retard (not literally). They are stupid and weird, and do odd things at random intervals. Or, someone whom you ever need to insult for any reason at all, they automatically become a wacktard.
1. Say someone calls you a dillhole.
You must call them a wacktard.
You win.
2. friend: "Man, that guy was so stupid to jump off that roof into his pool.'
you: "Yeah, he's a fuckin' wacktard."

What a great, stupid, descriptive word. By the way, I think the author, by dint of the second definition and its mangled English, is a wacktard.

I also learned that Aqua Teen Hunger Force is available for free on demand on my cable. Are you kidding me? This very night Shake informed Carl that "you don't want to sleep with that rug [toupee] on. You'll end up swallowing it . . . and you don't want to pass that." True. True.

Frylock, Master Shake, and Meatwad go for a spin

Saturday, July 09, 2005


I just bought a book by Heinrich Böll in translation. I was showing it to L, and she said she did not want to read it. I made a snarky comment about how he *is* an important author, so maybe she could bother herself to read him. L’s reply was that there were lots of important writers I did not read. For instance, could I name a book by Brontë? I promptly said “Wuthering Heights.” Score one for the good guys. Turns out that was Emily Brontë, and L meant Charlotte Brontë.

So, I decide to take a shot at it. I spin the mental Rolodex and remember that I have always been struck by the name of one of the characters in a Brontë book. So, I proudly say “Garfield.” L’s eyes get big, and she says “What?” I am still playing it cool, so I say “Wasn’t there a character named Garfield?”

L bursts out laughing and says that the character in Wuthering Heights is Heathcliffe, not Garfield, and that I had the wrong cartoon cat. End of cool.

Thursday, July 07, 2005


I went down to the little store in the basement of my building this afternoon to buy some juice. The man who runs the place is a very nice, painfully proper South Asian gentleman. He's really nice, but I get the sense that he calls his wife Mrs. Storeowner, as opposed to by her first name. As I went to the rear of the store to get my juice (kiwi tangerine, because I've never had it before) I hear the clock radio he plays while he works. It is very quiet. However, I hear floating from behind the counter "you gotta fight, for your right . . . to paaaarty."

Maybe he's not so proper after all.

Monday, July 04, 2005


L and I had a nice holiday weekend. We bought a grill and grilled out Sunday and Monday. Very traditional of us, I think. However, the interesting thing was tonight's fireworks show(s). See, we live in a pretty dense neighborhood. There is a gap of about three feet between each residential structure, and most of them are two family structures, with a few bigger buildings, and a few single-family homes. Lots of people in close quarters.

Naturally in that environment, there are at least two people per block who have fireworks displays starting (though not ending) in their back yards or alleys that rival the fireworks shows medium-sized cities put on. I mean, serious fireworks. I mean, one-and-a-half hour performances. I mean, hard-core-two-trips-to-Indiana-to-fill-the-trunk-good-God-don't-let-us-get-rear-ended performances. In the space of a city block. Two of them.

It is sort of fun to watch the first hour, but then the fumes start to get to you, and you start wondering how many Old Styles the clowns shooting these things off have had. Then you start to realize that they are taking zero responsibility for whatever they burn down. Then it gets old.

All of which adds up to happy birthday, United States.