Maddox the crabass dumbass...ass

Just got through reading a few pages from the web site of some guy who tells everyone he gets 150,000 hits a day. And he does it with such charm and warmth I'm surprised he hasn't won the peace prize by now.

He is way too preoccupied with body parts for my liking and I think reading any book-length work of his would be, well, to use one of his favorite words: boring.

Trust it to this neanderthal in an intellectual's clothing to miss the whole point with illegal immigration. He just can't take time to go deeper than his smartass sound bites to look at what's happening.

Yes, illegal immigrants have jobs that pay nothing. Yes, he's right that few Americans would take a job that pays nothing. But here's a thought: if we didn't allow illegal immigrants in, then...hmmm, Walmart would have to pay more money to do those jobs. And then when they pass legislation that will make some of these immigrants legal, wow, they might get better pay for the same jobs. Could this be? No, no, that would be thinking too much. Better go back to the boob jokes and insulting the entire planet.

Now this would take away some of the eighty gazillion dollars of profit that Walmart makes every year, so if Maddox is a republican wannabe, maybe he won't like that. But I don't think he is. He very carefully avoids belonging to any groups or organization because he dedicates a lot of time to insulting every possible demographic and he would have to insult himself then and that would force him to send himself hate mail. Of course he'd have to respond to that by comparing himself with another body part, which would really tick him off and he'd have to threaten himself and call himself more body parts, and pretty soon the poor guy would be kicking his own ass.

The point is not to keep them out, dumbass, its to have a level playing field for everyone. And you may be stupendously incredible at doing your job, but if they could get a pile of gravel to sit in your chair and pay it a dollar less than you, then you'd be out on your ass no matter how good you are.

Its all about the profit, Maddickhead.

See I can do it too. My son could fling the body part insults around when he was five. Doesn't take much thinking, which is why you excel at it.


But I bet the gravel could do it better than you.

Eating the Trash

I saw a KFC commercial the other day. They are selling a new product on their menu. Its a bowl with, first, a layer of mashed potatoes, then a layer of corn, a layer of bite-size fried chicken, covered with gravy and sprinkled with cheese.

Isn't this just trash? If you were to see KFC's trash bin at the end of the day isn't this new product what you would be looking at? Isn't it?

Someone please tell me that fast food places aren't trying to unload their trash on us. Are we prepared to eat the garbage cast out by McDonalds? The refuse from Long John Silvers? Or *gad!* the vile pilings discarded by any number of your generic, all-purpose dine-in joints like Applebee's, Chili's, TGIF, Ruby Tuesday, or --Holy Heart Attack!-- Denny's. I'm talking about the places where your bowl could be filled with rib bones, fish scales, biscuits melted to a slagged heap by now-cold gravy, mushroom burgers that smell so bad the other trash is trying to back away from them, supreme nachos that have coagulated together into a greenish, yellowish, reddish, brownish paste that has grown fur, and any number of less edible scraps like forks, plate shards, broken glass, used napkins, cigar ash, false eyelashes, and a chipped tooth.

Now I'm all for trying new things, expanding my horizons, taking bold leaps into bottomless pits where death is a certainty, but I'm not eating trash! I'll eat extra-value super-sized giganto meals that will have my stomach heading to the bathroom without me at two in the morning. I'll swash down enough soda pop to melt a hole in the U.S.S. John F. Kennedy aircraft carrier. I'll even devour so many jalapeno / twinkie sandwiches that they'll have to have my body condemned, ignited with napalm, detonated by robots, drenched in lime, buried in soft peat two miles below the surface of the earth, and the surrounding 100-square mile area cordoned off like Chernobyl until the next ice age.

But I won't eat trash.


Now if you wrapped it up in a nice corn tortilla and threw in some chips, I'd probably never notice.

Knotheads

In a recent issue of a woodworking magazine I will no longer be subscribing to, they have hit upon a staggering bit of genius. Its a new column on accidents that happen to woodworkers, cabinetmakers, and the like.

This particular article's author talked about how he had not worn protective goggles, only regular glasses, while working with a router. A router can spin bits up to 30,000 rpm. More or less.

The poor sod had not properly tightened it or it was faulty or something cosmic was out of place, and the bit popped loose, lodging between his right eye and left nose. Or right nose. Whichever it was, it was the wrong nose.

He had then absentmindedly picked at it, thinking it was a splinter he could just pull out. A splinter. After spinning at 30,000 rpm for at least a minute or two, cutting through some kind of wood-like substance besides his forehead, surely it would feel like a puzzlingly hot splinter. Wouldn't one have thought it would still spin a few thousand more rpm in his skull before coming to a stop? Splinters don't do that, do they?

Nevertheless, this Einstein of the wood shop pulled at the thing and discovered, besides the hole that may already have been in his head, the nasty, large bit of expensive metal was in fact nothing like a splinter. And it hurt a lot more.

But that isn't my point. More remarkable than the defective Frankenstein of the power tools set, is the stupifying choice of the magazine to make this a regular part of each issue. What could possibly have led to this decision:

Two executives of an appallingly well-made wood magazine are standing outside a conference room, trying to figure out how to open the door. They make idle conversation while poking at the knob with their blackberrys and flashing their ID cards menacingly.

Tweedledee: "Subscriptions went up again last month."
Tweedledum: "What? How? Did that stupid Norm Abram feature cause it? I tell ya, that guy is ruining things for everyone."
Tweedledee: "Well, no one really knows. We keep losing all the smart bean-counting guys to router bit shrapnel. We're having to bring in a bunch of geriatric woodworking clubbers to get the issues finished."
Tweedledum: "Then what is it?"
Tweedledee: "Well, Joe down in Marketing suspects its that--get this--more people are paying to get subscriptions. Of course he was also the fathead who wanted us to change the magazine name from Knothead. What a dumbass. He can't tell a corner chisel from a cornice moulding."
Tweedledum: "Hmm. That's just awful. How can we turn this around? The shareholders will start expecting us to do something useful like, say, quit wasting our time with articles about heirloom quality furniture and just put out something about plywood crap sold at Walmart."
Tweedledee: "We definitely are at a dangerous crossroad."
Tweedledum: "I've got it! We'll add a story every issue about some horrible bloody and possibly permanently incapacitating accident. That should scare off half our readers!"
Tweedledee: "Brilliant! No wonder you're CEO."
Tweedledum: "I am? I thought you were. Hey! Let's get Joe in Marketing to run his hand through a bandsaw."
Tweedledee: "Boy, that's gonna look great in color. Maybe a two-page foldout."
Tweedledum: "We could auction his fingers off on Ebay."
Tweedledee: "Did you know you have a router bit stuck in your forehead?"
Tweedledum: "Yes, but I think I'm going to leave it. Its a good look for me."
Tweedledee: "I think its made you smarter."
Tweedledum: "Oh, I think so too."