22 December 2005

Outlawed Kilts

Those of you that know me, know that I have a very strong sense of my Scottish heritage. Today, I found a news article here that tells a tale of a young man that was blocked from going to a High School dance because he was wearing a kilt. The following is a e-mail I sent to the principle of that High School. His e-mail address is rmcclard@jackson.k12.mo.us if you want to let Mr. McClard know what you think of his actions. There is also an on line petition if you wish to register your displeasure with his action. When they knock at my front door, they can pry my kilt out of my cold dead hands.

Dear Mr. McClard,

When I read the news article regarding your decision to block Nathan Warmack from attending a school dance in a kilt, I was shocked. I have a healthy respect for policies and procedures in any organization. I understand the school district has a dress code that you are honor bound to uphold. However, this is not a matter of fashion. This is a matter of cultural heritage. A heritage that, you Mr. McClard, should be aware of. Your family name comes from the Clan McLeod, from the Isle of Lewis. Your family motto is Hold Fast. I find that ironic in this situation. You sir, have forgotten the face of your fathers. I myself am American by birth, but hold to my Scottish heritage. My line comes from Clan Kinnaird in Perthshire and my heritage is something I hold very dear to me.
To insinuate that the wearing of a kilt makes one look clownish further shames your ancestors. At Bannockburn, Culloden Moor, on Normandy Beach, the blood of Scotsmen has flowed into those kilts in the name of freedom. This same unique concept of freedom and individual rights that Robert the Bruce outlined in the Declaration of Aborath, under which influenced our own Declaration of Independence. The same kilt that watches over servicemen, firefighters, and police officers as they are laid to rest while bagpipes play Amazing Grace. Clownish indeed.
I am sure that you would have been equally as insensitive to other cultural dress, since you have no regard for your own heritage. IÂ’m sure a student in an Oyokoman kente cloth, or a Samoan Saipo would have been treated with equal distain. Tragic. In a society that is now dedicated to cultural diversity and the open exchange of ideas, your actions are puzzling. Should your High School have a Heritage Day, would you block students wearing any of these cultural signifiers from attending class?
I close with the request that at very least you make a written public apology to Nathan Warmack and to all Scottish-Americans. Mr. McClard, it is the right an honorable thing to do in light of the situation.

Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam Spam

I am indebted to all those spammers out there that enrich my life with offers for Viagra, Johnson enlargements, and stock options for gold mines in Zimbabwe. As homage to all those farmers of e-mail addresses, hucksters of miracle products, and services the government doesn’t want you to know about; I’ve composed a list of some of my favorite spam subject lines designed to get around my e-mail blockers.

A rain on December shipping
Abrupt; its magnesium chess
Arrgh! Horseflesh of sterno and gauze
Caviar cock
Charisma it’s a crater
Cheerful, lignum and bureaucracy
Disperse a Brent!
Go eat a dwarf
Have cough no excesses
He watches the peninsula
Lustful died an indulgent
On begin he conundrum vaginal
Or teach my putty roundelay
Psychopath the Margery and age
Rowdy in bronze industry
Scratchy may yuck may bordello
Squeak it's a bottle loam mixture council
Storms reawaken you
Swastika, see Armenian threesome

17 December 2005

Canned Memories

     So the thought of Tales Never Told has given me yet another inspiration.  Since the Everyday Conspiracies post went over like a lead balloon for a monthly topic… Let’s try again shall we?  Your part of the barging is coming up with a title of a tale.  I in turn will take some of the tale titles and create a real life event to fit the title.  No past events will count, only a future event that I will weave into my life to fit the title.  If I lived in New York or LA, I think this would be called performance art.  Since I’m from the South, we’ll just call it a hootenanny.
     There has to be rules.  If Candy Land has rules, so can my blog and the things that go on here.  They are simple and to the point.  I get to choose which titles and how I live them out.  Easy enough.  Since I’m the one doing the deeds, it’s my game.    
    Here’s a good example of how this might work.  Some wise acre might chime in with “Donkey stinky doodles aren’t for breakfast anymore”.  The obvious solution to this is to decline on sanitary grounds.  However, maybe I go to a petting zoo with a Baby Ruth in my pocket and pull a Caddyshack.  (If you don’t get the reference, you may never ever return to this site again.  The Internet is a wonderful thing and I have written HTML code that will figure out if you got that and if not, boot you from the site the next time you try to return.) Title given, story created and executed, exploit written about on the blog and high jinks ensue.  Think hard folks, and give me something to work with.
    
    

13 December 2005

Tales Never Told; Part 1

Note to self… Do not tell these stories to your son until he turns 18; or until the statue of limitations runs out.

10 things I’ve done in a Krystal drive-thru
A closed bar and a bottle of Scotch
A diabetic cop walks into a club on Beale Street
A man, a teddy bear and a dialogue.
All strippers take Monday night off.
And the judge said, “You have been fined $62.50”
Big Spiked Hammer and other song requests
Come on, she drives a bus…
Contributions to the National Foundation for the Deaf
Did I just get shushed?
Drunks and junkies love to hang out in bathrooms
Fung Shue is the art of the sleeping bear.
Hello, is anyone in there?
Hey Operator, can you help me find out where the hell I’m at?
Hey there Fat Bastard
Hi, I’m Bob Wolfy.
Honking etiquette 101
How much is that doggie in the doorway?
I’d like to ask you a few questions for my thesis
It’s mid-July, do you know where your neighbor is?
Janet Reno goes hot tubbin’
MISSING: One Hut
Never take a picture of a diva eating a sandwich on her tour bus
Not all cap drivers are named Abdullah
Sears delivers a surprise
Shamoo likes to shoplift
So that’s how they make pressed ham
Stop, drop and roll, Knoxville style.
Taco Bell bag blues
Tales of a green couch
The hoods of police cars are sturdier than they look
Where does split pea soup come from?
White shirts are not designed to be inserted in one’s bum.
Why did it rain on the Governor’s parking space last night?
Why is your beer glass warm?
You have a stain on the back of your pants.

12 December 2005

A Mighty Hero Falls

The word processing has fallen silent here at Fort Donelson in recent weeks. The rush of Thanksgiving, a birthday, and trying to play the shell game of keeping everyone happy had kept my random thoughts stifled. Not to mention the depression. Oh my droogies, I'm not talking about the post turkey day Tryptophan induced malaise that sets in waiting for Christmas. I’m talking about the kind of things fallen hero stories are made of. Sit right back and you’ll hear a tale of a fateful quest…

On 24 Nov 05 at 11:45 CST it happened while I was at work. I was doing all the things a man must do when he leads others into the war on the battlefield known as the retail sales floor. Inspiring the loyal troops, kicking the duffs of those less loyal to the cause, and praying all the while I would lose none under my command. In my morning briefing, I had ordered that no prisoners be taken that day. The daily mission dictated that we travel light, and we had no room for excess baggage. 

I made one fatal mistake that cool November morning. An overview of the battle and a few minutes of respite was all I wanted when I went into the Command Post. That’s all. My doctrine dictates that I should stay in the trenches with the troops. Shoulder to shoulder with those dog faced retail warriors I should have stood. But I needed time to regroup, time to establish a plan for the afternoon push. I should never have left the men.

That’s when it happened. The lure of copping a squat in a warm office felled me. My bottom had no sooner touched naugahyde than wafting over the PA system was my mortal enemy. Yes it was Burl Ives. Curse his eyes and his Holly Jolly Christmas. I had paused in the action enough that my conscious mind was able to latch on to Burl’s one “contribution” to Western Civilization.

Now some call this getting hit with the Golden BB. You know the one that has your name on it. The old timers say you never see it coming. I sure didn’t. Struck down in the prime of the Holiday Season, I could do no more. He had beaten me for another year.
Since then, the sky has turned a little grayer. There is no spring in my step. What little hair I have seems to be thinning more. I have to listen very hard to hear birds chirping. Needless to say, I’ve taken it hard. 

Oh I have had my moment of clarity. I’ve slowly crawled out of the tub of Egg Nog Ice Cream. It hit me when I tried to keep a pint in my pants pocket. You know for the tough times throughout the day. In my sugar induced madness I had forgotten that I had no way to keep it frozen. By the time I had come to my senses, I looked like I had lost control of all my bodily functions. That will wake any man up.

So here I sit try to get better. They said at my meetings that doing something you use to do would help get me through the tough times. So I sit and write and dream. Next year you’re all mine old man. You’re all mine.