Baboon Pirates

Scribbles and Scrawls from an unrepentant swashbuckling primate.

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Location: Texas, United States

Friday, July 25, 2014

Tha Roof! Tha Roof! Tha Roof Is On FIRE!!

We Don't Need No Water, Let The M0therF#%ker Burn
BURN, M0therF#%ker BURN!!"

I had to detour on the drive home yesterday...

Upon arrival in the subdivision, I was blocked by a sea of emergency vehicles and flashing lights, as the local fire crews worked to put out a house fire 2 blocks from my humble home.

Fortunately, no one was injured.  It gutted the house, though.  This morning a huge pile of burned furniture and debris was stacked out on the driveway, and you could see through the burned out garage almost to the other side of the house.

I didn't count the trucks, but a neighbor said there was 5 big rigs, a few smaller vehicles and even a crew from a local incorporated village.  Local gossip says the huge turnout was due to initial reports of an elderly person and/or disabled child trapped in the house, but that turned out to not be the case.

I'll grab a pic or two this evening, if I can do it without being ghoulish. I'm sure they're just about sick of rubberneckers at this point...

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

The Drink Not Taken

What Good's A Pirate Without Any Rum??

I've been excavating my home office this week, trying to gain some headway on the incessant creep of stuff that threatens to turn me from a casual collector of odd items into one of those hoarders you see on the reality TV.

One of the boxes unearthed was the case of Maker's Mark I bought back in February of 2013, when the distillers threatened to cut the proof from 90 to 84.

Out of a dozen bottles, there's still 7 remaining, plus the one I got as an Xmas gift from Festus, and a partial that's been on the nightstand for months & months.

Let's face it...  I just don't drink like I used to.  I can't even remember the last time I've had a beer.

I don't know if it's an unconscious attempt to live healthier, or what.  God knows I don't restrict my diet in other ways...

I dunno.  Maybe the thrill is gone.  I still like the idea of quaffing a few drinks, but the thought of getting intoxicated is just a non-starter.

Damn, I'm getting boring in my old age.

Monday, July 21, 2014

Jack Knows You're High...

"Just Maintain, Man... Maintain!!!"

It appears that Jack In The Box is making a push for the late night stoner munchie dollar...

I honestly didn't think I'd see stoner culture make a push into mainstream advertising for a few more years yet, but they are a West Coast chain, and that part of the world is awash in medical marijohoonie and pseudo-legal dispensaries.

They've got the "Hella Hungry?" late night food ads, aimed at the kiddie krowd.  The collection of Jack's Munchie Meals are aimed smack-dab at the "I'm so high I can't decide on what to eat, so give me one of everything" consumer.

Even their kitchen crew t-shirts & slogans are hinting at pot culture:


"Twist up a number" or "twist up a minnow" are some old terms for rolling a doobie.

Well, more power to 'em.  If you can make a buck off of the weed-addled brains of the local skater/surfer crowd, at least you're keeping them from bothering me at the Whataburger.

Don't know if this campaign translates all that well in Texas, though.  Maybe I'm just getting old...

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

@$$Hole Chair Designer Must Die!!!

Honestly, A Wooden Stump Would Be More Comfortable.

Got a mini-rant here...

This came about after watching almost 40 guys suffer through a two-hour meeting in torture devices approved and supplied by The Man.

I can deal with a plain metal or plastic chair.  Even for hours at a time. 

A chair that actively conspires to injure you, though??

Here are the culprits:




These type of armchairs are all too common in meeting rooms and waiting rooms across the nation.  I have no doubt they were designed by some 28"-waisted genetic freak who also hated fat people.

Seriously, if you've got a waistline over 40", or a size 16 or up in the wimmen's clothes,  this chair is pure torture to even get into, much less sit in for any length of time.

I can't think this was an accident.  By turning those arm rests inwards instead of out speaks to a desire to gouge deep chunks in large thighs, cutting off circulation and promoting blood clots.

I'd love to meet the designer.  I'd have to introduce the sides of his legs to Mr. Machete... 

Monday, July 14, 2014

The Gender-Neutral Microphone

Stories From Swamp City

Some stories you just can't believe, even if you're standing there watching it play out...

Let's rewind a bit.

Last Thursday, I was out on business for The Man, meeting at a regularly scheduled gathering of community volunteers and doing my bit to provide some technical chops should the gathering need my expertise.

Now, this is a group that, while they tend towards activism, it's a low-key sort.  You don't get a lot of fire-breathers and torch & pitchfork types.  There's not a lot of overlap into the more fringe-y political segment of the volunteer crowd.

Every so often, though, a ringer slips through...

During a public comment session, there's a representative from a group that provides aid & counseling to some sort of perpetually imperiled minority group.  I think it was the Left-handed Astigmatic Lesbians of Former Crown Colonies, or something like that.

Since there's more than a few oldsters and those with diminished hearing about, these meetings require speakers to use a microphone, both for clarity and so the recording secretary can get everything into the minutes.

Well, take a guess what happens when a standard Shure microphone gets handed to a hardcore lesbian...
 
You can tell she hates holding it.  She's got that two fingertips & thumb pinch on it, minimizing contact like it's covered in oppressive patriarchal goo. 
 
There's some trouble getting her understood.  It's a big room, and she's holding the mike at arm's length and it's not picking up her voice. 
 
Finally, the guy on the sound board keys in and says "Ma'am, you need to hold the mike closer, please."
 
Her reply?  "I'm just not comfortable holding this...this... THING that close to my lips!" 
 
I shit you not, friends & neighbors...
 
We try to swap out for the #2 mike.  No go.  It's apparently an uncircumcised version of the same phallic symbol.

She's joined by one of her womynist co-empowerers, and there's some agitated back & forth about which one's going to grab the bull by the horns, so to speak, and get their message to the masses.

Eventually the sound guy comes to the rescue with a radio mike.  It's apparently a gender-neutral non hetero-normative bit of amplification gear.  At any rate, the business end is closer in size to a clitoris than a dickhead.

I'll have to keep my eyes peeled for one of these antiques.  If you squint hard enough, it kind of looks like a vajayjay...


 

Wednesday, July 09, 2014

Startin' To Suck Here, Boss...

Shade?  Who's Got Some Shade??

Jeebus, but it's hot.

It's not even the dog days of summer yet.  And truthfully, it ain't all that hot.

Well, it's not as hot as it can get, which means there's probably a long slow torch blast that'll last through late September.

Guess I'm just getting old, and can't deal with the heat like I used to.

Hard to believe I'd spend 97% of my teenage summers outdoors, usually sleeping in tents with a piddly-ass box fan barely moving the air.

We've actually had a good bit of rain and cloud cover, which helps, but Man, those late afternoon hikes across the pavement to get to the oven hot truck get longer every day.

*Sigh*    Time to go sacrifice a small ruminant to the Gods of Central Air...

Thursday, July 03, 2014

Bedtime For Gonzo

When The Going Gets Surreal, The Iguanas Juggle Radishes...

I'm somewhat loathe to discuss the output of my brain during REM state.  For one, I'm at an unfair disadvantage in the vivid dreams department, popping my daily dose of Vitamin Prozac just before retiring to bed.

Whatever chemical gateways are swung wide by the fluoxetine have nothing but my sleeping brain to deal with, so I suspect that it uses the opportunity to go purely apeshit and light up as many neurons as possible.

The results can be... well, I'll let you judge for yourself.

The latest in bad craziness:

I'm being led at high speed along the edge of a parking lot.  People are handing me gear like helmet, comm gear and gloves as we trot towards a trio of oddly shaped vehicles on the edge of the tarmac.

It's nighttime, and a light mist is falling.  There's a slight water slick on the ground, and you can see the moisture beading up on the grass at the edge of the paving.

The parking lot itself is ginormous.  We're talking Disney World huge.  Acres upon acres of shiny blacktop, punctuated here and there by low curbs and striping.

The lot has dozens of extremely tall light towers, each with a ring of quartz vapor lamps.  They're so tall that the light is diffused, but you can see clearly for a couple of hundred yards, even through the mist.  The individual lights are reflected in the sheen of moisture on the blacktop.

It looks like... a starfield...

Arriving at the vehicles, they appear to be made out of white ABS plastic.  Kinda like the material you use for porta-cans, strong enough to get the job done, but still a bit flimsy.  They consist of a large central sphere with an octagonal windshield, flanked by two huge panels on either side, about the same height as the sphere.

Shitfire... These are like low-rent TIE fighters from Star Wars!  The side panels are smaller and square, and each one has a big chunky wheel like a chair caster on each lower corner.

The front of the sphere lifts up, and there's a plain plastic seat, and a smaller jump seat off to the left.
I'm stuffed in the main seat, and find myself trying to hook up the comm gear.  You've got to lower the front lid, and unscrew two large nuts off of a pair of brass bolts on the inside of the shell.   Once the nuts are removed, I shove two brass connectors onto the bolts, the wires of which lead back to a headset.  Screwing the nuts on turns on the two-way radio.

Here's the fun bit...   Next thing I know, I'm scooting in formation with the other two TIE go-karts across the parking lot.  Since the wheels are set up in a perfect square, they're not tracking like a car or truck.  There's a marked tendency to sideslip, which isn't helped by the wet pavement.

Each time we take a corner, we slip and skip and the wheels make that unmistakeable TIE fighter roar.  I'm kinda digging it!

There seems to be some sort of urgency to our patrolling about, but I never see another vehicle to chase, and if the TIE is armed, I'm not aware of it.

Eventually it turns into just another driving dream, where I get to relive the past crap cars I used to own.  I like the recurring one where I drive the VW GTI through the front compartment of the Dodge Dart...

Anyway, jut a bit of brain oddity to kick off the weekend.  Y'all play nice, now!