Is that your baby?

No one wants to admit that they may have an ugly baby. Why would they? To do so would be an open admission that their genes are shit or their partner is some kind of latent mutant, covertly spreading their vile DNA using you as an accomplice.

Either way, you end looking bad. Bad genes or mutant wife? Which one is it? It's gotta be one of the other.

But sometimes people try and work around having an ugly baby, and Halloween is the perfect time of year to try and pull this off.

364 days out of the year, there's no way to draw attention away from your ugly baby. You can put an ugly little girl in a cute little dress or an ugly baby boy in an adorable baseball jersey featuring the Cookie Monster at home plate, but all people are gonna see are nice clothes going to waste on a lumpy turd that can gurgle, wave it's misbegotten hands about and spoil a perfectly good diaper.

But at Halloween? Why, that's the night that ugly babies get a free pass. On Halloween, people's hearts soften to the plight of the ugly baby. Maybe because they're accustomed to seeing ghouls, zombies and hobgoblins, or maybe it's because the ugly baby compliments the unholy day so well.

Halloween is the one day a year that the parents of ugly babies can breathe a sigh of relief, sit back and pretend that their child isn't a morlock that would be better served by being raised by mole people in the sewers beneath the cities of man. They can take their misfits and parade them around the normal looking children without fear of persecution or ridicule (because that's what they deserve). Halloween is the one day that ugly babies, and even ugly children, can walk in the light with pride...

Unless they're ugly AND retarded. Then keep them locked in the basement where they belong.

Truly, this is the son of God

I'm a fan of Jesus.

I like what he preached, like his lessons on life, and like how he did business. And while I'm not one hundred percent convinced that he was actually God in human form, there’s no denying that he was a great human being (one of the best), and one that should be followed. As far as historical figures go, he's at the top of the list of the ones that I respect...

Which is why I'm dressing up as the Lord for Halloween.

It's not the first time I've gone as Jesus for Halloween, but when you have hair that's getting as long as mine is, it's pretty fun to be able to dress as the Messiah.

However, some people don't take too kindly to people dressing up as their God. For some reason, they get agitated and feel like they should pick a fight with whoever the jerk dressed like Jesus is. Last time I dressed as Jesus, it was only because of my dear friend Logan Thomas and his massive build that kept a small group of frat boys from taking out their drunken, right wing, Christian Coalition aggression out on me. When you have a guy that looks like he could give Superman a run for his money at your side, you can get away with practically anything.

But this time, I hope things are different. I hope some drunk redneck comes up to me while I’m out at a party and starts to lay into my face with his fist. I'm not a fan of pain, far from it actually. I find that it hurts very much. That said, though, I just think it would be funny for other people to see some asshole beating up the son of God, making his face a bloody mess and rendering him unconscious. And believe me when I say, I would refuse to throw any punches of my own in self defense. Why? WWJD of course. Turn the other cheek. People see a scene like this, why, that's something they'll take with them their entire lives. Until the day they die, they’ll remember the time that Carl beat the shit out of Jesus Christ.

And like the real Jesus, I’ll leave one Hell of a legacy.

Update on the fair!

UPDATE: Remember the piece I wrote about the fair, and Mrs. Oxy? It seems that the next day at the fair, they had a problem with her shorting people on change.

Go frickin' figure.

Word is she's now looking for a new job. I hope to God the carnies didn't drop her off near my neighborhood.

Oddness.

Quick post, but I think this is possibly the weirdest picture I've ever taken. It was at the Portal Turpentine Festival last year.
I don't even remember the context.

Hyuuuurk...

I like the fair. I like the exhibits, I like the art shows, I like some of the bands, I like the nice Kiwanis guys here in Statesboro.

The rides aren't so bad, either. Some of them, anyway.

The traffic and the crowds can suck it, though. I had no idea there were so many young rednecklings zipping about.

The guys between 14 and 18 are the worst, but I won't get into that.

The fair's also a great place to spot fashion trends. Last year I learned that John Deere apparel was getting big with the black kids. Now it seems the Eazy E look is coming back.

A couple of guys had masks on - one had a hockey mask, another one had the guy from Scream. I wasn't impressed, but they were taller than me, so I didn't make fun of them too loudly. I commend them on their brave fashion choices, however.

I should've brought my camera. But then I couldn't have gotten on the rides, since I don't exactly trust carnies with expensive electronic equipment.

Tonight was "wrist stamp night," or more accurately, "indelible flourescent paint on the back of your hand night." I approached the ticket booth quickly.

Inside was a skanky looking older blonde woman, her eyes heavy lidded. She pointed her head at me, without actually opening her eyes.

Okay, they fluttered a little bit.

"I need two hand stamps," I said.

Nothing.

Dead silence.

Silence that stretched.

It got uncomfortable.

Finally, she half-opened her eyes. "I'm waitin' for you to say something. Whaddaya want?"

Oh, shit. She was slurring, and speaking more slowly than John Wayne after a five-week bender with Lee Marvin.

"I want two handstamps." I said it a little harsh. I wasn't in the mood to deal with whatever her particular dysfunction (two links!) was, seeing as I had just fought through traffic and parking, and was surrounded by lots of people.

I don't like being surrounded by lots of people.

I handed her two twenties, and she veeeerrrrrryyyy slowwwwllllyyy put them in the cash box that was six inches away from her hands.

It took her roughly 30 seconds.

She wasn't reaching for my change, either.

At this point, the midget sitting in the other ticket window looks over at me, disappointment in his eyes.

"What do you want?" he mouthed.

"Two handstamps," I said. I honestly thought that Ms. Oxycontin had passed out. Her eyes were closed again, and she had stopped moving, her hands in the cash box.

She snapped to unlife, her eyes half-opening again. "I heard you when you said it the first time," she said.

Midget sighed and returned his attention to his window after telling Ms. Oxy to hand me my change.

She did, and handed me one ticket for a handstamp with a speed normally reserved for three-toed sloths, Christmas and load times for Windows 98.

This was not right. I needed two tickets, and she seemed to have retreated back within the ever-smooth folds of her wee carnie brain.

"I need two of these," I said.

Midget sighed a little louder. Ms. Oxy opened up, ripped a ticket and handed to me. As I reached to get it, her eyes opened all the way.

She looked at me with a burning stare. Our eyes locked.

"You know, I really hate this job," she said.

"I understand completely," I replied, walking off.

Immediately after, I noted that I had to tell some of the nice Kiwanis guys about this. After all, if she hates her job so damned much, I'm sure she won't mind losing it.

Anyway, I figured that'd be about it for my fair blogging experience. 'Twas not to be.

I was convinced to go on more rides than I normally do. Bumper cars, fine. Tilt-a-Whirl, fine.

Heck, I even planned to go on the bobsled ride, but the lines were frickin' ridiculous.

Rides that sling me in the air? No way. Rides that send me upside down? No fucking way.

Going to the fair last year and watching carnies set up eqiupment hasn't helped my anxiety. Here's a picture:



What it comes down to is that, at least as far as my personal safety is concerned, I'm a total pussy.

Anyway, I was convinced to try the swings. I lived.

So far, so good. Feeling brave, I hit "The Orbiter," basically a scrambler that kicks you up in the air (but not upside down).

I started feeling a little queasy the first go-round. Then, the prerecorded voice-over blasting over the speakers on the ride said "Do you want to go again?"

"YEEEEESSSS!" screamed the two girls sitting with Crystal and I in the ride, oblivious to the fact that it was the exact same "Do you want to go again?" we'd heard twice already while in the line.

Slappy the Carnie operating the ride didn't even have a microphone.

The ride sped up again, slinging us around for another couple of minutes. That's when I noticed the guy one set of seats over.

He was a big ol' corn-fed redneck boy, John Deere cap and all. He wasn't looking too good. In fact, he yelled out "Nooooo!" in answer to the phantom's question, and looked pleadingly at the ride's operator.

The operator gave a devilish grin, and kept us going.

The ride slowed down again, and again came the voice-over. "One more time?"

At that point, the queasy redneck proceeded to wave his hands at the ride's operator. I saw him making the tell-tale "hyuuurk" noises, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

I thought he was going to pop. To his credit, he held it in. But, while the ride was starting to speed up again, he pushed up the metal bar holding him into the ride.

Oooooh, man. If the operator was a real bastard, this was going to get interesting.

He wasn't. It didn't. The ride slowed to a stop, and Queasy was the first person off, hanging his head over the railing.

"Awwww," Crystal said. "I guess we aren't going again."

"There's a bright side," I told her.

"What?"

"At least we know I'm not the biggest pussy at the fair."

Word

Hi, my name is Chris Brennaman. If you're like me, you want to find that higher calling. You want to work for something greater than yourself and have that feeling of a job well done.

There's good news. I'm now taking applications for the Cult of Brennaman, and I would love to hear from each and everyone of you. I can give you that sense of purpose that's been missing in your life. Why? Because I'm the messiah, that's why.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Chris Brennaman, I've heard this tired song before." True enough, there have been false prophets proclaiming themselves to be a conduit to God, and no one wants another one. That's why in Chris Brennaman's cult, you have the Chris Brennaman seal of approval that I am indeed the real deal. God speaks to me, and I speak to you. It's that simple!

Sign up in the next 30 minutes, and you'll immediatly be given a title like "Grand Warlock" or "Speaker of the Word." Send a check for $100, and you'll get your choice of red, blue or green robes, while everyone else will be wearing the standard white. You'll be the envy of your fellow apostles!

Don't hesitate. Join me today and together we will march forward into the promised land, bringing the wrath of God down on all those who would stand against us. I look forward to working with each and everyone one of you, and know that you feel the same way.

Bye-Bye now,

Chris Brennaman

Meanwhile, on Earth-2

I am Uatu, the Watcher! While it is my lot to watch this Earth from my lonely citadel on the moon, it is well within my power to peak into the multiverse at events that could have been. Look with me now, as we see just what may have transpired in the lives of everyone you know and love!


Jake Hallman: The youngest ever Chairman of the Republican National Committee, Jake Hallman pushes for every right wing issue that comes to his attention. For him, the liberal conspiracy is not only real, but is ever present and threatens the moral fiber of the nation. Devoutly religious, he is a former Baptist minister. Hallman believes that the teaching of evolution is a threat to Christianity, that homosexuality is a perverse sin and that women have no place beyond the home. He is considered to be a front runner for Republican nomination for president in 2012.

Tiffany Brennaman: Two years into her academic career at Macon College, during one of her rifle classes, Tiffany Domingos found that she was quite the marksman. So did the CIA. Recruited to be a spy, Tiffany spends her time cheating death on a daily basis. To her peers, she is patriot. To those in the know, she is an international terrorist, selling arms and information to the highest bidder. She makes a fool of the CIA on a daily basis, yet no one is the wiser.

Crystal Delaurentis: Raised in an Amish community in Pennsylvania, Crystal is married to her childhood beau Ezekiel. Every morning, she rises at dawn to set about doing her chores. She is the proud mother of five sons and three daughters.

Derek Stoddard: In a single wide trailer in Statesboro Georgia, Derek passes the time by watching his four illegitimate sons play in the front yard. Married and divorced three times now, Derek has a Zen-like peace with his lot in life. Nothing bothers him. He didn’t fret when the bank took his truck. He didn’t lose sleep when he got laid off from the mill. He didn’t flinch when he was diagnosed with syphilis. Ever since he gave up drinking, life has been good for him.

Logan Thomas: Four years ago, Logan Thomas disappeared into the wilds of Montana, never to be heard from again. Rumors say he has taken to the mountains, living a rugged life that would kill most people. But those are just rumors.

David Brennaman: By the time he was in the eighth grade, David knew that he was meant for something bigger than himself. Shortly after college, he entered into the seminary. As a Catholic priest, David served God as faithfully as any servant ever has. When scandal broke out in the church, though, David was quick to condemn these actions openly. Chastised by the bishop, David was defrocked. He now witnesses on street corners and holds mass every night in the cemetery to a congregation of bums and hobos.

Chris Brennaman: Died in utero.

Superman

For most people Superman is and will always be Christopher Reeve. That's the way it is for me at least. There was just something about the way he wore the "S" that made him the man of steel.

But...

Superman was around a LONG time before Reeve put on the cape and boots, and I have to admit, he ain't as noble as Richard Donner made him out to be.

Sunday evening, I bought, for $10, Showcase Presents: Superman, a collection of some of the best Superman comics from the late 1950s and early 1960s in all their glory.

In those days, Superman was still as heroic as they came. He saved Lois from giant robots, and aliens. He made sure Jimmy Olson didn't screw up too much, and he was very adept at saving the world. In fact, such a good hero was he, that in one issue, men from the 50th century come back just to tell him how cool he was.

However, Superman back in the day had the disposition of a vindictive 12-year-old.

Don't believe me? Ask Toto.

Toto was a chimpanzee. Not just any chimpanzee, no Toto could do all kinds of great things like count and manage money. Superman first met Toto at a charity event.

The event was set up like a talent show, with Superman on stage wowing the crowd with the way he could make diamonds out of coal just by squeezing them. The crowd is pretty wowed, but still, this is Superman. They kind of expect this kind of shit from him.

But a chimpanzee that can do mathematics? That's a show. Toto gets on stage and quickly becomes the star of the event. Superman gets a little jealous.

Well, maybe more than a little jealous. In fact, he recommends to the owner of Toto that he let the Army shoot the little ape into space. In front of an army general.

Of course, the general thinks this is a grand idea, and sure enough, THE VERY NEXT MORNING, Toto is strapped into a rocket. But there's hope for Toto. As the countdown comes to zero, the mission control gang realizes that there's been a malfunction. The rocket will not take off. Toto is spared being rocketed into space.

Until Superman shows up and basically says "bullshit" and manually hurls to rocket into outer space, malfunctioning engines be damned.

The story goes on a little ways from there. Toto comes back all irradiated, and now a giant. Which works out for Superman, because now he can actually lay hands on the chimp and not catch Hell for it.

There are more stories like this, and even one where Superman is the butt of a practical joke performed by none other than Batman. Superman doesn't really take it well, and ends up actually pulling off his own practical joke, one where he convinces Batman that they're both going to die (part of Superman’s joke was causing a cave-in at the Fortress of Solitude that “traps” him and Batman in a confined space with large chunk of, unbeknownst to Batman, fake kryptonite). Batman makes right with God, resigns himself to his fate and tells Superman what an honor it was knowing him and fighting crime beside him. Superman can't take it anymore, has a good laugh and makes fun of Batman for actually believing him.

Think about that. Superman gives Batman shit for trusting him. Superman. If there is one person on the planet you should be able to trust, Superman should be number one on that list. That's like your parents telling you that you're adopted, only to berate you after you've had a good cry for not being able to take a joke.

There are all kinds of other stuff like this, but you don't need to spend $10 to see it. Look for yourself at superdickery.com.

Well damn: Part II

Well, we just got back from lunch and the city is crazy looking. Nothing too bad but there's A LOT of water, and a good many roads are closed (they ran out of "Road Closed" signs). Schools were let out and most people are being smart and staying off the roads...

But not me and my minions. I gathered a small group who were planning on eating food that was going to be brought into the office. I told them that their lunch plans had changed, that we were going to hit the road and see what had become of Brunswick.

That, and I wanted Arby’s for lunch and didn’t want to risk my car in the deep waters covering Glynn County’s roads.

Things looks odd on the way to Arby’s. Parking lots were filled like small lakes, with sitting in water up past the doors. Strange things floated among the water. Beer boxes, plastic bags, and even plastic lawn furniture were gingerly making their way down these new water ways.

Arby’s was in rough shape, I might add. Seems that a lot of the water gathering in the parking lot had made it’s way into the restaurant. When we got there, it had receded, but the carpets sloshed as we stepped onto it and there was a smell wet dog, not the odor of choice for an eatery.

The sun has come out, though there are conflicting reports as to how long it’s t last. Glynn County EMA says it’s hear to stay, that the worst is over. But the National Weather Service says that we got this morning was just one wave in what is to be a long succession of them.

I’ll be glad when it’s over, but part of me wants a little bit more. The building here at working isn’t faring well at all. The leaks are worse than they were this morning and there are now no more working bathrooms. If it all comes crashing down, I may just get a day off.

Well, damn...

Brunswick is flooding

And yet, here I am, still sitting in the newsroom.

Everything is going crazy here. On the police scanner there’re plans being made to go into certain neighborhoods if things get any worse rescue people. Schools are about to make parents come get their kids. The police have requested boats from the DNR. High tide is set to hit at about 11:30, and access to St. Simons Island may be cut off, and more water may pour from the marshes and into the city.

The parking lot here at work has flooded, except for one tiny strip on the far end of the building.

Water is getting into the building. The women’s rest room is out of commission for the foreseeable future and newspapers have been placed on the floor all over the building to try and absorb the water.

Ceiling tiles are turning brown from holding so much water. We expect them to start bursting before noon. Beneath my desk, water is welling up.

Roads all over town are closing and most of us don’t know if we’ll be able to get home. We may well be spending the night in the newsroom.

Sigh.

This morning, before all this started, I had to make a choice. Use less milk with my cereal to conserve enough to use for Saturday morning, or use what I normally use and hit the grocery store after work before going home.

Guess which one I ended up doing.

Updates to come.

SON OF A...

This whole Googlebombing thing is getting out of hand.

For instance, I was quite happy when a Google blogsearch pointed to this very blog as its number one result..

However, thanks to the efforts of Derek, it now points to his blog.

Way to go.

Hmmmm... Ah, hell, here goes nothin'.

The googlebomb ninja who will one day get his.

Take THAT!

Edit: Dangit, that was supposed to point to Derek's blog.

The original...

I've got a weekly column in Connect Statesboro (no link yet, the Web guys are working on the site). Last week, I was sure I had a winner - I think I've mentioned Steve Davenport before.

Steve bothered me a good bit a while back, wanting the Herald to buy a copy of his CD for a review. After checking out his on-line sample songs and putting up with multiple phone calls, I finally ended up telling him that I wouldn't have a review on our entertainment page since there was nothing positive I could say about it.

I thought the matter was settled. Lo and behold, a CD comes in the mail last week addressed to "Carla Connect." Strictly speaking, Carla, our advice columnist, doesn't really exist.

So we opened it. It was Steve's CD, with a hand-scrawled note on really nice cotton paper telling Carla that the CD was available on CDBaby.com.

Not a bad site. It's where Vanilla Ice hawks his new disc.

After listening to the disc, I hit upon a column idea, and found out a bit more about Steve when some of us in the office gave it a listen.

Steve used to work at the Herald, as it turns out. He's living out in Oklahoma now, but some of his former coworkers (he was before my time) recalled him as being a bit odd.

Quite odd, as a matter of fact. The word "unstable" was used.

Eddie, God bless 'im, listened to the CD and gave me some sage advice in an e-mail. Hope you don't mind me quoting you, dude:

This is my personal opinion and advice: Do NOT write a column about this guy's CD. Don't even ever mention him anywhere in any publication. Not because the CD is so far beyond horrible that it's not even a real CD, but after listening to it, I honestly believe the guy may be dangerous.

I'm not trying to be funny; I'm dead serious. We know the guy has mental issues, but he's also obviously VERY delusional, and that makes for a bad combination. This guy is DISTURBED!

I know you're an intelligent young man, but I'm an intelligent OLD man, and I've seen a hell of a lot more than you, and I think this guy is on a downward spiral in a very bad direction.

Just my opinion.

Now I'm gonna go listen to six hours of Britney Spears just to cleanse my palate.

When Eddie talks, I listen (hey, he's one of those wise men we all have in our lives). I retooled my column, taking out everything but an oblique reference to Steve.

But heck, Chris has been writing a lot, and I know that all of you are clamoring for the unedited Jake.

Here's the original version of the column.

Technology is wonderful. Just a few years ago, the notion of putting out your own CD and having it distributed to the world at large seemed ludicrous. On top of the sheer logistics of letting the world at large know that you had an album out, there was the cost of studios, reproducing CDs and hiring a public relations firm.

The world of music is much more democratic now. Thanks to advances in digital recording technology, anyone can market an album.

And I mean anyone. Take Steve Davenport, for example.

Steve's a former Statesboro resident, now in Oklahoma, who's been after me for a while to do a review of his CD "Electric Rodeo."

I told him I wouldn't, simply because there's not much positive I could say about the record. Hence, no review.

The CD's bad. Really bad. "Oh my Lord" bad. Though I don't doubt that Steve was painfully earnest in putting it together, the "painfully" part far outshines all else.

That's kind of the point, though. The music is awful, and Steve's songwriting skills leave a lot to be desired. There's not a record company, independent or otherwise, that would touch him with a 10 foot pole.

But he's got an album out, slickly packaged. And those CDs invariably can be purchased on-line.

That's where the revolution is coming from, but also the problems. CD replication services like Disc Makers will take anybody's home-produced material and put it on professional-looking discs with custom-designed sleeves and inserts. Even if the music inside is, well, crap, it will be very beautiful crap.

That kind of thing kind fool you, like the time I bought that Christina Aguilera CD.

On the distribution end, online services like CDbaby.com will sell artists' CDs over the Web, take a relatively miniscule cut of the money (especially compared to the usurious rates charged by record companies), and handle all of the paperwork.

Ten years ago, you'd either have to pay out of the keister to go to a recording studio for your album, or spend a load of cash to have a decently-equipped home studio. Now, for a couple grand you can have a computer, software, and all the accessories you need to make home recordings that don't sound a bit like they were made on the cheap.

CD replication services have been around for a long time, but the problem always was how to sell them if you don't have any kind of distribution channels. There were always live gigs, cause if you were independent that was the most likely way people would get to hear your stuff.

Now anybody can slap up a Web site that'll let the entire world hear their tunes. In fact, that was how I had advance warning of one of the CDs we received recently at Connect. Promotion is as simple as spending a few hours at a computer hyping your music on message boards.

The problem becomes how to separate the wheat from the chaff. With so much music out there, it's possible to find some real diamonds in the rough, but there's tons more dirt to sort through. Steve's on CDBaby, but so is Vanilla Ice's new disc.

My advice? Listen to word of mouth, but also click randomly every once in a while and don't get discouraged. There's good stuff out there, from people who are doing it for the love of playing - not because they have to pay back a $5 million advance from a record company.

If you hear something you like, drop us a line! We'd love to find out what you want to hear and read about.

Live long in infamy!

Everyone fantasizes about saving the world. Doesn’t matter who you are, male or female, black or white at some point, be it actively while slaving away in front of the computer at work or right before you drift off to sleep.

Everyone wants to save the world.

People want that Superman moment. That moment right before everything goes to Hell, and you know it’s all down to you.

Then you do it. The moment arrived, and you stepped up. Humanity marches into the future because of you.

But I have a different fantasy.

I want to be the guy who spoils everything. Oh, not that I’m wishing extinction on the human race. Far from it. After all, if humanity completely died out, who would talk about that guy Chris Brennaman who ruined things for everyone way back when?

And I’m not talking about having the opportunity to save the world and boffing it. No, I want my direct actions to cause a cataclysmic event. Nothing like a super villain, but like, when it’s over, I’m left saying “well it seemed like a good idea...”

Science experiment gone wrong. Social programs collapsing in on themselves. Something big that would have been a good thing had it worked out.

My birth would be used to mark a new calendar, so great would my catastrophe be. Before Brennaman, and After Brennaman. That is how much damage I want to inadvertently do the world.

Everyone wants to save the world. I wouldn’t mind ending it. Just for a little while at least.

The long road back to Brunswick

The trip to Valdosta is over and no one is dead. At least from my party.

It was a long trip in a tiny car with two people who don't seem to have any real interest in extended conversation and one person who talks so much that there were three distinct moments where I thought about plunging my pen into my ears just to get some sweet release and maybe some silence. I don't mind talking. In fact, I do quite a bit of it myself with some degree of success. But there comes a point where a person's brain has to be telling them that what is coming out of their mouth isn't witty, funny, clever or profound. Ever. Thank God that on most trips my brain shuts down fifteen minutes in and I sleep most of the way.

Two hours to Valdosta. Three hours at convention. One hour at lunch. Two and a half hours on the road back due to bad weather.

The Icon... on the road

At 6 a.m., before any of you are up I'm sure (if there are "any of you") I will be four people deep in a two door coup on my way to Valdosta via the backroads of south Georgia.

I won't be at work, true enough, but I'll be headed for a newspaper writing conference, and I am dreading every moment of it.

Back in the day, I would have loved this sort of thing. Going to a conference meant cutting information sessions to get drunk or hit strip clubs or wander the city in a rented limo and watching people trying to get laid.

This time, though, things are different. I'm not traveling with friends and I think attending a session drunk is a big no-no when in the professional world.

So if anyone is reading this, say a little prayer, sacrifice whatever you want to your god of choice and pray that I don't murder anyone.

Pray very, very hard.

Fall of the Icon

Jesus Christ, when did autumn get here?

Seriously, like, just yesterday it felt like high noon on Arrakis, now we have leaves changing colors. Not that I mind, but a little warning would be nice. You hear me mother nature? Yeah, I'm talking to you, you old ninny. It's called manners, okay? Learn'em. Love'em. Use'em.

Speaking of manners, doesn't Harriet Miers' face look like a sun beaten turd that's learned to smile? Or is that just me?

It is just me?

Okay.