You Tubing under the influence?

Its that kind of shit that ruins lives!

I just fast-forwarded to the guitar solos. It saved some time.

Now I’m off to do something better with my time.

This is why drunks should not be allowed ANYWHERE near the weapons of mass destruction.

HTML has just illustrated the kind of carnage that could be wrought if we fail to impeach dubya before he finds where Pickles has hidden the key to the White house liquor cabinet.

In the 90s, I was mistaken for Winona Ryder on several occasions (as in, people would approach me and start to ask for my autograph). The other day, some dude, who was 40ish and certainly older than I, did the same approach-with-big-smile-of-recognition, and said, “Oh, I’m sorry; I thought you were my aunt.” I must be rotting.

Seriously, KnaveRupe — you don’t think Dubya has already been visiting the White House stash?

I was once told I looked like Jose Canseco, but I popped beers instead of ‘roids when I became legal.

>You Tubing under the influence? Its that kind of shit that ruins lives!

That’s a lesson Sifu Tweety once had to learn the hard way, as you may recall.

No way does dubya have the nuke codes anymore.

They’ve been hooked up to Dick Cheney’s pacemaker in a Spawn-like “I go, we ALL go!” bargain.

You have definitely not lost your sex appeal.

I feel you, man.

I get it.

Twenty five years ago I looked like a badly debauched Tom Selleck. Later in life, after putting on eighty or so pounds, I looked like a badly debauched Saddam Hussein.

Somehow, I always did better with drunk girls…

mikey

If i have my glasses on and haven’t shaved for a while I kinda look like Weird Al. Kinda.
And every now and then some waitress or somesuch will hear my name and go in with the Brad Pitt cracks. I don’t look like him, thankfully. I dunno if bradrocket has ever had that fun, but I actually prefer Rocky Horror quotes.

I’ve told I look like Silent Bob.

I looked like a badly debauched Saddam Hussein
Ha. At least I have always looked properly debauched.

HTML–we feel your pain, man. Hell, after that video onslaught, we feel our own pain.

I look a little bit like Gentle Ben, which goes over really big with the outdoorsy-type girls. Of course, my wife is unamused when she catches me in an old tree stump with a she-bear and an empty half-case of Schaeffer tall-boys.

At least I wear a condom.

I refuse to watch any of those videos. It’s the day of rest, after all.

(That Marion Berry speech needs to be put to music and piped through loudspeakers.)

n the 90s, I was mistaken for Winona Ryder on several occasions (as in, people would approach me and start to ask for my autograph). The other day, some dude, who was 40ish and certainly older than I, did the same approach-with-big-smile-of-recognition, and said, “Oh, I’m sorry; I thought you were my aunt.� I must be rotting.

I saw Winona Ryder a few days ago and I thought she was my aunt.

(My aunt’s a shoplifter.)

Good god, I have a hangover so bad it feels like a mescaline high. You could fry eggs on my eyeballs.

And the taste in my mouth. Gahhh

Anyway, I take pride in my pre-emptive youtube assault of Atrios. Now that I finally have the ability to post vids, I declare the Sadlynaut-Atrios detente dead in the water!!! Hostilities have renewed; I am hair metal vid poster, destroyer of worlds!

— And if those vids aren’t atrocious enough WMDs, I’m happy to say that no option is off the table, including (banned by many international treaties and the decent opinion of mankind) VIDEOS FEATURING THE KEYTAR. Oh, yes, the centrifuges are spinning here in Sadlystan. muahaha.

Oh, has anyone else had problems with Gmail lately? I keep getting ‘error code 007’ when I try to write an email. Anybody know what’s up with that?

Scary youtube?

If this doesn’t scare you,
this will.

And yes, that IS RuPaul.

I once had a drunken cult member at a bar tell me that I looked like an avatar of an Egyptian goddess. Which is funny, because I’m so pale I make paper look tan. This is why I don’t go to bars anymore – I’m afraid of having my daily weirdness quota exceeded.

And Mencken, it looks like gmail is revoking your license to instill.

Or, perhaps, your license to destill.

God, I don’t want to go to work tomorrow.

an avatar of an Egyptian goddess
He may have meant Sekhmet, Our Lady of Slaughter, drinker of blood… Obviously a compliment.
Don’t stop going to bars; just switch to less sanguinary cocktails.

He may have meant Sekhmet, Our Lady of Slaughter, drinker of blood…

OMG, I knew that dood. He was a sergeant in the green beanies, a real lifetaker. He’d go over the fence long and deep and bring back scalps and ears. I never liked getting too close to him, he seemed to be everything people shouldn’t be. But he found a way to live outside the rules, and hunt people for fun, and not have to be answerable for the violations he committed.

Our lady of slaughter, indeed.

Eater of snakes, taker of lives, arbiter of existence. Unable to live in real life.

I’m dirty ’cause I admire him, even as I hate him…

mikey

Much like John Kruk…

mikey

In the Egyptian myth, Sekhmet was tamed by tricking her into drinking beer instead. Modern beer seems to have the opposite effect. Maybe the pomegranate juice was the crucial ingredient.

#

Jillian said,

April 30, 2007 at 3:29

Or, perhaps, your license to destill.

God, I don’t want to go to work tomorrow.

I don’t want to go to work tomorrow, either. And for the record, I went to work 1) today, and 2) yesterday, and all last week.

Leading to this conclusion: If it was fun, they wouldn’t call it work.

ITTDGY, work is that which one is obliged to do, while fun is the same thing when one is not obliged to do it.

Or something like that. I can’t be arsed to look myself up right now. There’s beer waiting.

I get told I look like someone else all the time, just no one famous. In fact, in the SF Bay Area, I had an actual doppelganger. In two different places people swore they just talked to me the previous week, one in a place I had never been before.

Now, when asked if someone knows me from somewhere or if I’m related to someone they know because I look so familiar, I just say, “I have one of those faces.”

Thanks for introducing me to Cross Canadian Ragweed. It’s a country style I can live with, like Rockabilly.

And I would totally do you.

Sexy Older Woman & Julie O. — [blush] thank you

He may have meant Sekhmet, Our Lady of Slaughter, drinker of blood… Obviously a compliment.

My particular deity, Our Lady of Consequences! Sekhmet is the force that says if you wander out into the Egyptian desert without water, you will die, and it doesn’t matter whether you’re the Worst President Evah or a tiny tot who couldn’t be expected to know any better or a falling-down (well, staggering-off) drunk or engaged in a Mystic Crystal-Bunny Chemically-Enhanced Vision Quest: Make the wrong choices and die. Is it her fault most humans can’t figure out that equation no matter how often they repeat the course?

They call her pitiless, which of course is true, but she never gets any credit for her sense of humor.

She seems to have been the patron deity of Queen Hatshepsut, for instance — a lady who knew a few things about choices and consequences. Some of the finest contemporary representations of Sekhmet were commissioned by Hatshepsut, and preserved for our present age when her dim-witted successor Thutmose IV petulantly buried them where they couldn’t serve as a continual reminder that he wasn’t half the man his stepmother/aunt/regent had been while the little schmuck bankrupted a rich and powerful kingdom playing general. If one accepts the possibility of reincarnation, there are certain parallels with a little schmuck currently attempting to bankrupt another rich and powerful kingdom in an attempt to bolster his codpiece.

I once had a guy pick me up hitchhiking. He started talking about our aunts and cousins. About 5 minutes later when I said something, he looked at me and said “Damn, I thought you were my cousin Mark”.
That happened more than once. I actually went looking for this dude.
This was in a very small town in the South.

I have often been told I look like someone’s mailman. Or, apparently, many people’s mailman. The dude must have died from overwork. Since people no longer have personal mailmen, I don’t know what I look like. Sad, really.