sleeping dogs

The lesson is: if you can't get him for murder, and you can't get him for road rage, then get him for stealing cable! I'm not a white male, so maybe I don't get it. But my take on the guy is similar to my take on Bill Clinton. Just give up. Leave him alone. You can't win. Maybe he's scum, maybe he's not. But if you haven't gotten him by now, then just move on, because he's obviously a lot better at some things than you are. Not to mention, don't these law enforcement officers have an anthrax killer and a few resident terrorists they need to be looking for about now?

When I got nothin in me, I tell you so. So there--got nothing. Ever since getting back from vacation the whole family lot has been plagued by some wicked intestinal thing and utter sleepiness. What's up with that? Bad bait on the fishing excursion? Anthrax-laced water? I don't know. And as December begins to wind down, and with it the whole catastrophe of a year, I'm reminded of my favorite web spoof of the 2001. I'm sure you've heard it, but if not, get your drink on and your snack on and have a laugh with me. Later.

Eric Norlin is gettin his rageboy on over on uncharted shores, where he thumbs his nose at ClickZ with his keyboard-worn finger: "Note to ClickZ: I want my shit back." Smack 'em Eric! (I always figured by that macho photo on ClickZ that you had it in ya.)

the other you

rotting there
in the hot sun
and dripping wet air
the person
once you
spoils
from the inside out.

the plan
too hard to understand
undone years before
the man.

Acrid
to smell and touch
no one to revive
you
no movement
no breath
until

suddenly
vision oozes
from veins
thought spasms,
fingers and toes uncurl
as limbs jerk
and go rigid.

good ideas
often
die hard.