Brian is not the Messiah

Someone, not a robot, seems to believe I have a significant dearth of crucifixions on this site. He (or she) seems to have ignored the point of this blog. Every post, every paragraph, every sentence, and yes, every word documents one or another kind of crucifixion that makes up my daily life.

But I concede - one might mistake the soon to be copyrighted tagline, Where every day is a crucifixion, as a promise for daily carnage. I can't keep up with that kind of demand on my schedule - I'm too busy living a life full of woe. So, instead, I offer you this cop-out. I try to avoid video links in my posts - they are too easy. Too much like cheating - but this seems so perfect for the occasion.

What a wonderful movie.

A lot of memories are stirred up when I think of this movie.

Best Tweet of 2010

Boehner's "joke" was this:

Remember when Ronald Reagan was president? We had Bob Hope. We had Johnny Cash. Think about where we are today. We have got President Obama. But we have no hope and we have no cash.

I don't know about you, but not only was this stupid, it was also in bad taste. Now, before you all start saying, "But dude, almost everything you write is in bad taste!"

Well, my friend, my writing may suffer from "bad taste," but at least I'm funny.

Right? I'm funny? Please tell me I'm funny.

Speaking of Etiquette and Respect

I'm quite embarrassed about my employer. A state agency, no less, that seems either unwilling to take any action without getting explicit instructions from the politicos in Austin, or unconcerned about displaying contempt for a United States Senator.

This is a photo I took this morning of the flags flying in front of the administration building here. Note the date -- Senator Ted Kennedy died yesterday morning.

I called the appropriate parties yesterday morning pointing out that the flag should be lowered in remembrance of Senator Kennedy. I was told our Police Department was waiting to hear back from Austin about what to do.

What to do? Do you really need to be told what to do?

Yesterday afternoon, as it seemed obvious that our employer was dragging its heels about lowering the flag, one of my co-workers (originally from Michigan or Ohio) asked me why they hadn't lowered the flag. "Is it because this is Texas?" she wondered.

I had to say yes, probably.

As of 10:30 this morning the flags were still fully raised (not at half-staff). They were only lowered some time before 11:15. I'm convinced that they would still be at fully raised if I hadn't been spotted taking these pictures.

A Great Job to Have

According to the radio this morning, the recently deceased writer, Dominck Dunne was, "the guy that reviews celebrity murders on the Criminal Investigations cable channel."

His shows must have been great.

I have to give Ryan Jenkins some credit for going to the trouble of removing the teeth and fingers of his ex-wife, model Jasmine Fiore before dismembering her body. But he lacked panache, as well as foresight. Anyone can stuff a body in a suitcase and toss it in a dumpster. No, if he meant to impress, he would have opted for using this antique butterfly steamer trunk (available at Neiman Marcus), or something equally stylish.

At the least, he could have picked a dumpster in a better neighborhood. A killer with style would have chosen to use the disposal container of a fine restaurant or maybe a trendy nightclub; not a seedy grocery store.

So, for style, I have to give Ryan Jenkins a D. For execution, Mr. Jenkins receives an F. Of course, almost all suicides automatically earn major negative marks, but even without this decision (Canada? He ran away to Canada?), I'm certain he still would have earned an F. His actions were those of an inexperienced and incompetent killer. To go to all the trouble of hacking up his ex-wife's body, only to leave the breast implants untouched is a truly amateur move. Everyone knows those things have serial numbers that are better than teeth for identifying a corpse.

We all miss the excitement of a master like O.J. Now I can hardly wait to witness the courtroom drama that is sure to be an everyday part of the Michael Jackson murder.

I know, I am a sick pup.

A great light dimmed

For all those whose cares have been our concern, the work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives, and the dream shall never die.

-- Senator Edward M. Kennedy
1932 - 2009

LER ALERT!!! SPOILER ALERT!!! SPOILER ALERT!!! SPOILER ALERT!!! SPOILER ALERT!!! SPOILER ALER

Just a little warning there, so I don't spoil the ending for those of you who like surprises or are in denial. But if you're still reading, brace yourself for this shocking revelation: when you die, you're dead. And that's it. When you settle down for that final big dirt nap, that's the end of the story. You're not going to be greeted by a choir of heavenly angels or a troop of hellish ghouls. In fact, you're not going to be greeted at all, because you are dead.

As much as I would like to think I'll be greeted by 69 vestal virgins on the other side (by the way, does anyone know what the hell a vestal is?), I have to be honest with myself. The only things that will be interested in me once I reach a non-breathing state are worms, bugs, and possibly very small rodents. That is, if medical science doesn't get their hands on me first.

Well, in truth I don't believe that. I will live on, or at least parts of me will, as long as I die in such a way that my organs are relatively healthy. Yes, I carry an organ donor card. I have to admit, though, that the first couple of weeks after signing it I jumped every time the doorbell rang. I kept having images of Monty Python's Meaning of Life flashing through my head.

We're here for your kidney, mate.

That Python guy sure is a funny dude.

But back to the subject at hand, the great hereafter. I'm sure it's not shocking that someone who describes himself as pro-pandemic (see Word Choice) is also anti-god. (I do hedge my bets, though.)

I am convinced there is no afterlife, no old man with a grey beard hanging down to his most holy knees watching me every minute of every day making sure to take notes of every terrible sin I may commit, like coveting my neighbor's ass. God forbid I should have immoral or unpure thoughts -- how much ink can the guy have, anyhow? Regardless, I don't believe any of that crap. I was raised catholic, for god's sake.

And here's the cover-my-ass (sort of) part:

If on the off-chance that I'm wrong (it's happened), and there actually is a god waiting for me on the other side, (although I know there isn't), then I doubt he (or she) cares a whit about where I am on Sundays, or how often I've used his (non-existent) name in vain. So do you get that? I don't believe there is a god, but if there is a god, I don't believe he cares if I believe in him/her.

So there.

Right about now my friend Ann Margaret* would be ducking for cover, certain the next lightning bolt would steer unerringly towards that exact middle point between my eyes.
But no, there is no god.

But the guy with the black cloak, big pointy scythe, does the reaping thing and speaks in all CAPS, in Him, I do believe.