BETTER HIM THAN ME

Once again, I'm reminded of just how big of a winner I picked in the wifey SuperLotto. For those of you "not so lucky", or those (like me) who just want to see how the other half lives, I give you a web site dedicated to the exploration of inter-gender petty disputes:

THINGS MY GIRLFRIEND AND I HAVE ARGUED ABOUT

a sample:

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Margret doesn't like to watch films on the TV. No, hold on - let me make sure you've got the inflection here: Margret doesn't like to watch films on the TV. She says she does, but years of bitter experience have proven that what she actually wants is to sit by me while I narrate the entire bleeding film to her. 'Who's she?', 'Why did he get shot?', 'I thought that one was on their side?', 'Is that a bomb' - 'JUST WATCH IT! IN THE NAME OF GOD, JUST WATCH IT!' The hellish mirror-image of this is when she furnishes me, deaf to my pleading, with her commentary. Chair-clawing suspense being assaulted mercilessly from behind by such interjections as, 'Hey! Look! They're the cushions we've got.', 'Isn't she the one who does that tampon advert?' and, on one famous occasion, 'Oh, I've seen this - he gets killed at the end.'
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Go, and enjoy either the cushy joy of snooty blessing-counting, or the cold comfort of "at least I'm not the only one." Whichever camp you fall into, you'll have a damn good time.

(Hat tip to Boots & Sabers for the pointer)

AND YOUR POINT IS...?

One of the very few things I learned in high school was the bare-bones mechanical technique for writing a persuasive essay. The basic method is to concede that your opponent has some valid points, then refute them to at least some degree. Finally, you conclude with your strongest argument.

Boots and Sabers has an excellent post, wherein an opponent of a proposed Wisconsin concealed carry law does a 4.0 job of conceding the pro-CC argument, but then proceeds to confusedly wet his pants and wander off to play in traffic (rhetorically speaking).

Before I read this fuzz-brained editorial, I thought there might be an actual argument against concealed carry of which I was not aware. But since this bit of ignorant drool was considered publishable by an ostensibly serious, large-circulation, for-profit newspaper, I'm beginning to think maybe I was wrong.

Which makes me very happy, in an annoyingly smug sort of way.

JUST FOR FUN 5

Group D's responses are up, and the Group E question has been posted:

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Everyone knows my solution to random ninja attacks. In 200 words or less, describe your own solution. Remember, while people hate getting randomly attacked by ninjas, they also hate high taxes, so try and keep your solutions cheap.

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The only thing more powerful than a ninja’s stealth attack is a Frenchman’s annoying cowardice. Since the French lost all their land to Uganda during the bombing of Paris, we might as well bring them here to protect us from Ninjas. I envision the following scenario:

Ninja: Soon I will randomly attack an innocent American…

Frenchman: Bonjour, monsieur Ninja.

Ninja: Gah! Don’t sneak up on me like that!

Frenchman: Pardon moi, but I sense that you are superior to me. Please accept my surrender.

Ninja: Uh, look buddy, I’m kinda busy randomly targeting Americans right now. Can you come back a little later, maybe?

Frenchman: Non! I am cowardly and must surrender immediately!

Ninja: No, seriously, I’ve got this evil plan to carry out, and… *sniff*… DAMN! Is that smell coming from you?

Frenchman: Oui! It is part of our national odor! I am most proud of it! But I would be even more proud to be your prisoner.

Ninja: No! Go away!

Frenchman: But I give up!

Ninja: Leave me alone!

Frenchman: At least call me a coward.

Ninja: SHUT!… UP!

Frenchman: I look most handsome in prisoner’s garb.

Ninja: AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH**GAAK** (impales self on sword in despair).

HIS LAST SAD MOMENTS

There was an old Twilight Zone episode where an old man got 4 wishes. His third was for political power. He wanted to rule a foreign country without having to worry about ever being voted out of office. He wound up as Hitler, in April of '45, in a bunker.

His face was covered in sick, doomed sweat, and he trembled in terror at the prospect of his imminent demise. Whenever I think of Hilter, I like to think of that look of terminal fractured despair. It makes me feel better.

Someday soon, American forces are going to catch up with Saddam, and, as with his sons, they'll probably kill him way too fast, leaving me feeling less than satisfied. However, Bigwig over at Silfray Hraka has an imaginative post giving a snapshot of what might run through that bastard's mind in the few short hours between his discovery and his death. It's a dark, psychological scenario, laced with the sensations of cobwebs and rotting meat, providing a schadenfreude-laced thrill of knowing how an evil man will suffer, no matter how quickly the end arrives.

If you want Saddam to die slowly, but fear the disappointment that he won't, this piece is the next best thing.

(hat tip to the Emperor for finding this for me)

TODAY’S GRAFFITI CURRENCY



...smoked two joints, and wrote this little song.