j3 SPECTACULAR NEARING MASSIVE MEGA-UPDATE

Power adapter has been ordered after $150 of repairs. Total bill $181.95.

Update to include the following:

TOP 30 HIP HOP ALBUMS OF 2005 (30 because I made everyone wait much longer than usual)
WHAT TO DO WHEN YOUR EYE SWELLS SHUT
BOSCO THE BASSET
CHUCK NORRIS APPRECIATION
JOHNNY DAMON LOATHING
POSSIBLE UNVEILING OF THE NEW j3 SUPER-BOD
IT'S SPRINGTIME IN AMARILLO, WINTER EVERYWHERE ELSE
DOG: BOUNTY HUNTER APPRECIATION

2-3 shipping days on the part from Tulsa. If everything works, I should have the update up by Thursday.

Holla atcha boy.

j3 SPECTACULAR DOWN DUE TO TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

We'll be back on soon. Currently, I'm waiting for some repairs to be done on my computer after sustaining damages due to a fall. Appreciate your patience. Because of this, some promised features might be slightly behind schedule. That's all for now. Love your computer and pay the repairman well if you don't.

Administrator

MORE j3 WITH RAPPERS

This one courtesy of our boys at RND distribution down in H-Town who just signed the Too $hort's (shown) label to a distribution deal. Thanks to Darin, Ramon, Byron so on and so forth for making this wonderful moment in photography history possible. You know, it's hard out here for a pimp. Enjoy.

Oh, and after dinner, a regional magazine photographer (who, shamefully, I can't remember the name of) had set up his screen and lights in the corner of the place we were celebrating at and, well, people other than the honorable Too $hort had made it into the pictures. Including myself. I used this opportunity to, like my shirt, teach the world how to pop its collar.

And now you know. CMT's airing Johnny Cash's entire Live at San Quentin performance. Pretty candid. He yelled out to the cameraman stage right just after the chorus to "Walk the Line", "Aw, don't bend over, man! You picked the wrong place to bend over like that, man!" Funny stuff.

Real World Reunion on MTV in 15 minutes--sure to be fireworks. Never fails. Now THAT'S real television folks.

Happy Wednesday. Cage concert in Dallas on Thursday night. Should be hot.

HERE'S TO MONDAYS

Everyone have a gnarly and gnasty Monday. Hope you all had a great, relaxing holiday with family and friends. It's back to work. Hope yours is better than the Monday the guy on the other side of this camera had after this encounter.

Sincerely,
j3

KANYE KILLS NOKIA LIVE

This past weekend, I had the distinct pleasure of taking in Kanye West's set at Nokia Live in Grand Prarie, TX. My lovely wife and I showed up right before Ye's set began--missing R&B breakout Keyshia Cole and American Idol winner Fantasia (c'mon now, can we PLEASE get more than two female R&B vocalist to open up for a hip hop act?!). Kanye came on with a clap of thunder--jumping right into some of his deep album cuts from Late Registration and College Dropout. His performance and stage presence was sharp and he worked that crowd like a part-time job--running from stage left to stage right like a ping pong ball. My lovely wife bobbed her head and, b'lee this, even "threw her hands in the air" when commanded to like a true sport. I have a few complaints however, those bright, blinding lights that have the effect of staring at the sun through a magnifying glass are not cool. First time I came across these lights was at the Lubbock Kiss/Ted Nugent concert and swore I was going to leave blind. I don't mind dangerous pyrotechnics. I don't mind $7 Shiner Bocks (okay, I do and shame on you, Nokia Live, for charging $7 for any beer much less one made in Texas). I don't mind deafening bass. I don't mind the contact high I got from the goof ball two rows down who couldn't wait to get out of the concert before spliffing up. But please don't use those lights again. Every time they came on, I got teary eyed. I could hardly see the road on the way home on account of the overusage of those damned lights. They're not necessary. The spotlight should be on the artist, not on the audience. If you've stared into these lights, then you know exactly what I mean. Other than that, excellent performance. Kanye is the Elton John of Hip Hop. He's so freaking over the top and his ego can hardly fit on stage, but you gotta hand it to the guy, he makes quality music and is quite the entertainer. The white suit though (as seen above with the beautiful angel wings to accessorize) screams all-too-loudly "Puff Daddy!" And when he does his little scoot across stage you'd swear you were at a Diddy show.

On the way home, my lovely wife and I had an enchanting conversation about the performance. She stated that she was expecting a lot more. I joked about him letting a thousand doves loose from inside his jacket or, in the spirit of the great Girth Brooks, making it rain or, perhaps, making it rain money. She wanted that Vegas show, like David Blaine, Celine Dion er something with people flying through the air, pianos taking flight and soaring high above the audience. I told her that I couldn't see him doing that, after all, it is hip hop. You're supposed to get up there, flex how nice you are, maybe make a political statement, dance your ass off and then close with the crowd favorite--leave the big stuff to the Blue Man Group.

Of course, if there was any dull moments during the show, you could fill in the excitement by watching the couple to the right of me who, at one moment, had each other in a full body lock bumping and rubbing on each other--the "climax" coming during "Slow Jamz" when the woman wrapped her legs completely around her companion, locked her feet on the back side of his body and began flapping on his front side like a flag in a brisk afternoon breeze. It was straight-up freaky but funny to watch.

Another interesting note, this guy's whistle was the most incredible thing I've ever heard. First time he let that thing out, I frantically covered my ears thinking something was going horribly wrong with the main speakers. It almost made my ears bleed, I tell you. He hit notes I didn't think existed.

Overall, a solid hip hop show, but no magic. Geez, whaddya expect?

R.I.P. PAT MORITA

That's right, another great one gone...Pat Morita aka Mr. Miyagi who was responsible for making karate cool again (again? was it ever before?), passed away of natural causes.

As a kid, I was so inspired by Morita's depiction of Miyagi and how he took Daniel Laruso under his wing that, shortly after seeing Karate Kid for the 12th time, I began teaching myself karate. I trained myself on a tree out in the front yard of our house on 13th street. I punched the trunk of that tree until my knuckles nearly bled--letting out blurts of "hi-yah!" and "eye!" and finishing each sequence with a bow to the mighty tree. I earned my freakin black belt. That's right.

That was until my smart ass brother had to blow my spot.

I was out in my yard training in my traditional gear--a Hobie t-shirt, Bugle Boy denim shorts, Reeboks and my black belt tied around my waste so everyone in the neighborhood knew that I was not to be toyed with. I was a killer. No mercy. No mercy.

Bethany Ann, who lived next door asked, "j3, what are you doing?"

I replied, "I'm training for a tournament." I continued punching and kicking the tree.

My brother walks up, laughs and asks, "Dad's been looking for the belt to his bathrobe, Jeff."

Thanks, Todd. People were finally starting to take me seriously.

Anyhow, Miyagi, on behalf of myself and Ralph Machio (unquestionable the most gangsta last name in Hollywood), "We'll miss you and the bottle trick. Keep it gully."

TROUBLESOME DOORS

(insert caption here)

AND IN "YOU'RE NOT MY REAL BROTHER!" NEWS

KNOXVILLE, Tenn. -- Two escaped prison inmates from Louisiana took advantage of sympathy for Hurricane Katrina victims to pass themselves off to University of Tennessee students as fraternity brothers who had been displaced by the storm, police said. Steven Ridge, 31, and Zachary Arabie, 22, were arrested in Knoxville last week after Ridge tried to buy gas with fake money, authorities said. Ridge and Arabie integrated themselves on the Tennessee campus, attending fraternity parties, dating coeds and renting an off-campus apartment, police said. ''We believe they were in the process of creating new identities to disappear again and possibly do an abduction,'' police Sgt. Sean Hejna said. ''We got these two just in time.'' Ridge, serving a 10-year sentence for forgery and theft, and Arabie, serving 20 years for armed robbery, escaped Sept. 13 from prison in Ferriday, La., after using a Popsicle stick as a key, Hejna said. They stole two cars to get to Knoxville and showed up at the Lambda Chi fraternity house a few days later, police said. Ridge claimed to be a fraternity member displaced by Katrina from a graduate program at Tulane University in New Orleans. He even had a Tulane ID card. ''It's genius, their plan, it was really genius,'' fraternity president Sam Seyler said. ''Who is going to deny the fact that someone is a refugee? We took them at their word.'' Authorities had trouble identifying Ridge because he deliberately injured his fingers, even gnawing the skin off to obscure his fingerprints, Hejna said. A jailer finally recognized him among a roster of escaped inmates. The identification led authorities to the men's apartment, where they found a cash counterfeiting operation as well as fake ID capabilities, police said. ''Were we duped? I guess,'' Seyler said. ''We were trying to be good Southern gentlemen and show some hospitality in a tough time. We thought it was the right thing to do.''
AP




And now, as "frat brothers" at Lambda Duh in Knoxville.









This is truly hilarious.














I guess their criterium for admittance is not quite as strict as I had once thought.































You're not ready.





Here ya are.

MY LOVELY WIFE AND HER UNWAVERING DETEST FOR ZACK MORRIS

In a recent conversation over dinner, my lovely wife, in what I insist must have been a moment of rare thoughtlessness, mentioned that she thought not only was Zack Morris a horrible actor on Saved by the Bell, but he still is a horrible actor on NYPD Blue. I can hear the gasps through my monitor. But she didn't stop there. She even wished upon him the worst of all possible consequences ever--the tragic Bonaduce ending. She said, "Yeah, Gary Coleman ended up as a parking lot security guard, I would want worse for Zack Morris." She couldn't even call him by his real name, Mark Paul Gossallar. She wanted for poor Mark Paul cocaine binges, prostitutes, an attempted suicide, multiple failed runs at rehab, assault charges, alcoholism, crippling mental illness, abnormal weight gain, a horrible near life-ending car crash and then end it all with a hugely unsuccessful radio talk show in some small market in rural Iowa (wait, isn't all Iowa rural?). It kills me. It really does.

I couldn't explain where this was coming from. All these years I've known this woman, my lovely wife, and would've never seen this coming. She hates Zack Morris.

The thespian who we now know as Mark Paul Gossallar happens to be one of the finest actors ever to grace the small screen both in his previous role of Zack Morris on the incredible Saved by the Bell and as, uh, one of those cops on NYPD Blue. Deny his greatness and deny your own existence.

STOP FRONTIN'.

VOTE! VOTE! VOTE! VOTE!

Beginning November 22nd, it's POWER TO THE PEOPLE!! The PLUG AWARDS give the opportunity for the music listening public to stick it to the Grammys and actually award independent musicians for their artistic accomplishments. By simply visiting www.plugawards.com anyone is given access and can vote immediately. Polls don't open until Tuesday, November 22nd so hang tight, but once open vote away! And once you've voted, make sure you spread the word. Nominees this year include Danger Doom, Spoon, El-P, Bloc Party, Bright Eyes, Edan, Aesop Rock, Sage Francis, Pennywise, Rufio, Boards of Canada, Sufjan Stevens, DJ Shadow, Diplo, Madlib, 9th Wonder and many more!

And the nominating committee includes buyers, writers, critics, actors, VPs and, well, yours truly. Thanks to Gerry at World's Fair for the invitation to participate in one of the coolest things ever. Truly an honor.

November 22nd, people! The bout begins.

R.I.P. EDDIE GUERRERO

The great Eddie Guerrero who represented brown-and-proud countrymen everywhere to the very fullest has passed away at 38 years of age. Quite sad. We will miss him fondly. This one's for the la raza.

I DON'T KNOW MUCH...

But this person needs her nails trimmed.

MY MORNING COFFEE

Good morning, folks. I'm sitting here in front of my first of about five cups of coffee and the opening credits to Land of the Dead--man, it's gonna be a good day.

Haven't had a whole lot of down time lately. In fact, I've had none. So this is more of a catch-up than anything else. I don't know how else to do this, so here we go.

• I'm down to 210 pounds from 240. Have made it to 208, kinda slacked up on the diet a little. Gotta get myself back in check before the holidays because I'm gonna eat me some dressing. B'lee dat. My best advice, stay away from sodas.
  
  
• Whoa, opening sequence of Land of the Dead is rad. Better to watch this before the lovely wife wakes up.
• A-Rod beat out Papi for AL's MVP which is a complete sham. Papi ended 6 games this year with his bat, four of them with homeruns. 19 of his 47 homeruns either tied a game or put the Sox ahead. A-Rod made a few good snags at third and apparently, the sports writers sympathize heavily with the NL way of life and wouldn't possibly let a designated hitter win an MVP. It's alright though, at least when Pay-Rod looks back on his career in pinstripes he can say he won something. Only fitting that it's an award for individual performance and not for his team's accomplishments. Of course, I can't front--he's a wonderful teammate to his buddy Gary (Jeter). Here they are at their pre-game warmups enjoying some much needed cuddle time.
  

Sometimes, the headlines can write themselves.

• Zombies just fall apart under the fire of automatic weapons. Must get second cup of coffee.
• Met Too $hort Thursday night in Houston at an event hosted by the boys at RND. Pictures to be provided later. It was quite an event. Never thought I would eat porkchops across from Mr. Too $hort. Nice guy, great event.
• Poor 50 Cent simply can't act. Get Rich or Die Tryin' brought in only 12 million in it's first weekend--a far cry from 8 Miles' 51 million. I think it goes to show that a white kid from a trailer park making it as a rap superstar is more compelling than a black kid from the ghetto making it as a rap superstar. That or while still the most controversial rap artist in recent history, because Eminem is white and less "street," parents feel more safety in letting their kids go to see his story rather than the strong, black gangsta persona of Fiddy. Hell, the title is Get Rich or Die Tryin'. The movie was entertaining, but that's only because of the violence (and I like me some violence). Won't win any awards. Land of the Dead, on the other hand...Man, some zombie was eating a guy's finger like a Vienna sausage. It's about time for breakfast.
• Walk the Line is simply incredible. Joaquin Phoenix does a stunning job of portraying the late, great Johnny Cash. I'm telling you, goosebumps. See it. See it as soon as you can. It's absolutely brilliant.
  
  

Finished our hardwood floors in the living room and dining room. They look awesome. I'll post a pic or two soon. My lovely wife's dream of living in a Pottery Barn catalog is quickly coming true.

How in the hell do zombies ever catch someone? You'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind with no legs to get caught by these things. TURN AROUND! That's how. It seems to be a combination of bad hearing and very slow reactions. Third cup of coffee comin'.

THE PEOPLE'S VOTES COUNT. Go vote for your favorite independent music acts of 2005 at www.plugawards.com where yours truly was honored to be on the nominating committee (http://www.plugawards.com/authors/ABList.php). Spread the word. The Plug Awards--Independent Music's Definitive Awards.

My wife got us a new fish. One of those awesomely aggressive betas who freak out and blow out their gills when they see their reflection in a mirror. His name is Trot--named after the star Sox rightfielder.

I wish I could be a zombie in a film. I'd be a killer zombie. I'd have sideburns. And maybe missing my lower mandible. Isn't that your jaw bone? Yeah, that's it. I'd be missing my lower jaw bone and my tongue would be hanging out of my head. And I'd be sporting a Sox hat in every scene.

I continue to work on my year-end BEST HIP HOP RECORDS OF 2005 list. It'll be published on or slightly before 12/31/2005.

I'm not sure why, but I find it's important to listen and watch the pre-flight demonstration by the flight attendants. I find myself, every time without fail, stopping what I'm doing and attentively watch as they point out the exits on the airplane and then how to use the oxygen masks in the case there is an "unexpected loss of pressure in the cabin." I suppose it's because if no one watches, they're basically only there to serve peanuts and drinks until there's an emergency which I think really discounts the importance of these people. So I sit there with my headphone's around my neck, smiling complacently, with attentive eyes--nodding in approval after every demonstration. Sometimes, if I'm a really good mood, I thank them after the pre-flight show is over. While I only say, "Thank you," I'm really saying, "Thank you for reminding me that air travel can be dangerous and that bad things can happen. Thank you for instructing me and preparing me, equipping me for the unexpected. And I really appreciate the zeal and excitement you bring to your job. Thank you. You inspire me."

Fourth cup of coffee is about to go down the hatch and then I'm putting in a few hours at work. Yep, on a Saturday. But as far as I'm behind on my blog, I'm three times as behind up at work. Everyone have a good Saturday.

SAGE FRANCIS IN DALLAS CANCELLED

So let's just throw up some old show photos like I took them at the show in Dallas and act like he put on a killa set. No blogspot bomb threat here, Sage. Just need to tell you that six guys were about to haul their tails a total of 2700 miles round trip to see you in the Getdown, but alas, your show was cancelled for unspecified reasons. You could've at least sent a brotha an email. I suppose I might need to reconsider my nomination of Sage for Live Act of the Year in the Plug Awards. Anyhow, here's the pics from Friday night's show...a day early.


"I know I look good. Stop sweatin' me."

Strange Famous in full effect.

You know the mullet.

Word 'em up.

Bro bro's back in the 'handle this weekend. Should be a fine time. Go Tech. Kick some Aggie arse.

HOME OWNERSHIP 101: KITCHEN SINK CLOGS

Okay, so tonight I noticed there was standing water in the sink with nothing visibly preventing the water from flowing down properly. Where do you start? Well, conventional wisdom would suggest ordering up a bottle of Drano Max Gel. Well, being the conventional fella, I had my lovely wife swipe a bottle from the store. Upon getting back, I poured the entire bottle in the sink as it instructs on the back. Let it sit for 15 minutes and I return to the sink. No action. Still standing water. I scratch my head for a moment and then dash out to the garage where I keep my junior high school-strength plunger given to me by the Myles family at my tool shower prior to my wedding. I begin plunging like no tomorrow. Push, pull, push, pull, push, pull. The sink fills up with a mess of floating objects. I almost dry heave it's so disgusting. Still, no movement. No water going down. Then, I lift my foot to notice I'm standing in a puddle of stanking water. Walk over to the dishwater to notice the dishwasher is completely full of water and it's just dripping off the bottom lip.

I scratch my head some more. Now, I'm in it shoulder deep. And it's about 10pm. No one to call. What do you do now? I snag a mop, a bucket and a pan and begin transferring the water off the floor, from in the sink and in the dishwasher into the bucket. I figured it would just help in assessing the situation. Of course, once I'm to the assessment step, I didn't know what I was going to do. I certainly couldn't let my wife think I didn't have a clue. I struggle with my gameplan while my lovely wife asks "What are you gonna do?" Uh, think quick, think quick. "Well, we could get the snake and rattle it down in there and see if we can dislodge ("dislodge" is a great word for showing your plumbing skillz) whatever's in the sink." Good answer. Hang in there. I finish mopping up the floor and now it's time to act. What do I do? I head to the living room for my "Home Improvement for Dummies" book. Find out, my wife's already got it and she's reading for a remedy.

A few minutes later, she says, "There's a few things we can do." Now, she's driving the car and all I can do is sit back and look helpful. We grab the bucket, position it under the little pipe that curls under the sink (no laughing, that's the only way I could describe the damned thing). My lovely wife begins unscrewing the pipe. She removes it and hands it to me. Yahtzee!

I stick my finger into this orange mushy mass and then it dawns on me, not only did we discover the cause of the problem, but we also discovered something that DRANO CANNOT CONQUER. The night before, I cooked up about three pounds of taco meat and drained the meat before storing it in the fridge by pouring it into a collendar (sp?) and letting the access run down the sink. Seems I should've helped it down with a little hot water, but I didn't do that. So the grease settles in the pipe and hardens over night. (Nicole Richie is straight anorexic, sorry, she was just on VH1--daddy needs to set her straight) And with all of my plunging, I basically rolled the mass into a crazy grease twinkie. It was so disgusting.

A few lessons to learn here, before your wife is about to take the morning off to invite a plumber named Carl to suck $200 out of your backpocket, consult a "for Dummies" book. They actually work.

Secondly, Drano will not remove taco grease.

Thirdly, what's can clog the sink would do the same to your intestines. Better in the sink than in your body, just know how to get it gone.

Lastly, find an appropriate place to drain your meat. Perhaps a toilet. Sorry, I couldn't help myself.

Celtics win their season opener against the Knicks in overtime. 1-0 on the way to a World Championship.

TODD'S PUMPKIN TRIBUTE TO HOMESTARRUNNER.COM

Strongbad is the truth. Here's my brother's jack-o-lantern. For those who need a reference, please visit www.homestarrunner.com for all the hilarity than one can stand.

Or, for a sample, http://www.homestarrunner.com/cantsayjob.html where Coach Z has a tough time saying the word "job".

Good stuff.

Aight, have a good evening. Sage Francis show in Dallas on Friday, word 'em up.

HALLODOOM

Tell me this ain't the illinest Jack-O-Lantern ever. That's right, it's the villain himself: MF Doom. Brought to you by Invisiblist at www.okayplayer.com. Straight killin' it in this pumpkin carvin' game. B'lee dat.

Also, my brother, in a fitting tribute to Strongbad from www.homestarrunner.com carved quite an amazing masterpiece. Todd, your piece still remains the single greatest pumpkin carving in the history of the large orange vegetable. However, I didn't get to save the image when you sent it over to me on IM so, Todd, holla atcha boy. Let me have your image so I can throw it up like Kate Moss and donuts.

Speaking of dietary habits (and not of purging specifically) and scary images. Check out Big j3. This was around my max weight of 240. And, no, that's not all muscle. This was when I proudly completed the installation of an antique door leading out into our (Jackson's) backyard. And, now, 28 pounds later, I'm about 10 pounds away from my goal.



Once I hit my goal, we'll do a little before and after comparison. Insults and rude comments directed to Big j3 are welcomed and encouraged. Directing the same to Small j3 will be met with swift and severe beatings. And you can run, but I can catch you--now.

WHY I [REALLY] WANT A HUSBAND

***written in response the quite popular Judy Syfers piece, "Why I Want a Wife," written during the high swing of the women's lib period. please click link for original article.

http://www.cwluherstory.com/CWLUArchive/wantawife.html

And now I present, j3's 2005 version:

WHY I [REALLY] WANT A HUSBAND

I belong to the classification of people known as husbands. I am A Husband. And, not altogether incidently, I am a father. Not too long ago, I can’t remember how long because the long days have since started running together, a female friend of mine appeared on the scene fresh from a recent divorce and, hesitantly, was ready to marry again. She had one child, who is, of course, with her ex-husband. As I thought about her one night while I was fixing the kitchen sink (even though I really know nothing about kitchen sinks or plumbing altogether, I’m just expected to), it suddenly occurred to me that I, too, would like a husband. Why do I want a husband for my own?

I would like to wake up late every day of the week and lounge around all day while my husband makes the hour and a half commute through torrential traffic to his terrible job where the work sucks but not so bad that he can’t lie to me about it when I ask the proverbial question every evening when he gets home: “Hi, honey, how was your day?” And while he’s tolerating all the pains of drudging job bringing home the fat bacon (that I’ll get to later), I’ll be at home thinking about what sort of silly daytime television program I would like to consume my required “hours at home.” I want a husband to mow the lawn, to fix the mower, to fill it with gas when it’s low, to edge the yard, to scoop the piles upon piles of dog crap and to do all without arguing no matter how inclement the weather is. In fact, my husband will also be required to do anything that requires being outside. And that means anything. Pruning trees, trimming the hedge, putting up Christmas lights, taking them down, repairing the skylights, inspecting leaks in the roof or damaged shingles no matter what danger it puts him in, taking out the trash, feeding the dogs, watering the dogs and, again, picking up the dogs’ crap, killing anything that does not belong in our backyard but might still be living in it, replacing any damaged portions of the fence, raking leaves and pine needles, resetting the mailbox in case it gets vandalized by some of our friendly neighborhood hoodlums, painting the trim or, well, the entire house if it needs it (I’d help out with picking the colors), braving the harsh winter weather to shovel snow, chunk ice off the driveway and make sure that the sidewalk up to the house is free of any dangers when I invite my friends over for our Friday night social. That’s it! Any work that require me going outside the front or the backdoor or out of the garage unless in my automobile, would need to be done by him in a complete and speedy manner. And, all of this, on one or both of his days off when he expects to kick up his feet and entertain himself. No talking back, whining or complaining. He should come with no emotions attached, a pea-sized brain, a short spine and no soul unless I decide to give him one. He has no opinions or feelings. He will express passion in nothing unless it’s me, giving me money or doing the yard work. It’s his job, really. I read it somewhere.

I want a husband that will yield to my wishes of being more independent. A husband that knows when NOT to hold the door open for me so that I can feel like a more capable person. Yes, a person! That’s what I am. He is not better than me. We are equal and he will tolerate these rants and rages whenever I decide to lay them on him. He will buy me a big ass sports utility vehicle. Yes, an impractical and wasteful automobile that guzzles gas and takes up way more room than is even necessary in the urban environment in which we will live. He will not say anything or even hint a breath when as my passenger in the sports-utility vehicle (that is, notably, not used for anything dealing with either “sports” or “utility”) I cut off another driver, don’t quite fit my big ass sports-utility vehicle in the parking place, use the fire lane as the I’m-waiting-on-someone-inside lane and/or any other violation of conventional driving practices commonly expected of law-abiding citizens. When something goes wrong with the sports-utility vehicle, he will not interrogate me, probe me for the cause, he will begin inspecting the vehicle immediately to find the problem and, if detected, he will fix it. If he can not fix it, he will send it someone who can fix it in a timely manner. The cost I’m not worried about because it’ll be his pocket supporting the bill. He will describe to them in full what he has found and then I will make lightly snide (more jokingly) remarks about how he is less of a person because he couldn’t fix it himself. He will take it. No questions or exceptions.

In fact, he will swallow any criticisms I decide to deal out about his choice of personal style, his hair, his poor since of humor (never mind mine), his terrible choice of media consumption (whether it be music, movies or television shows—God knows the stump can’t read), his friends, his family, everything that he believes in basically. Anything he endorses is open to my wrath and I will deal it out, not necessarily because I like to watch him hurt, but because I like to feel that sort of control. I get off on it. He will not cry from the badgering, he will just smile and nod in approval of my malicious ventures.

He will eat anything I make, smile and nod approvingly every night, never fail. He will smile and hum along to my bad music and he will snuggle with me as we watch sappy love stories on television. He will denounce any movies that have gunfire in them even though the Academy has garnered them in awards. If it doesn’t have the same regurgitated and tragically typical plot as all love stories do, it’s meaningless entertainment for simple-minded individuals. He will subscribe to this notion and will carry it out as I drag him around the video store—he will look happy yet submissive. That is what our marriage will be: one half happiness, one half submission. Actually, we might need to weigh the percentages more to the submission side. Ah, indecisiveness! He will not sigh or show hesitation when I’m having a hard time making up my mind. He will not make any suggestions or recommendations unless I queue him.

He will go to bed at the same time I do and there is only one acceptable response to the words, “I love you, sweetie. Good night.” The response will not be delivered in a mumble but in a hearty and fully audible voice of conviction. He will cuddle with me all night long and when he leaves to go to the restroom in the middle of the night, he will, of course, put the lid down even though, as a capable person, I could do it myself, but I like watching him work arduously at developing trivial habits that favor me.

When the dogs bark in the middle of the night, he will move quickly and quietly to inspect what it is. He will be my protector in the night whether he likes it or not. He will also rid the house of all rodents or pests by all means necessary. He will expose himself to various carried diseases, bacteria and germs without fear. He will annihilate any move organism I ask him to including but not limited to: snakes, raccoons, mice, rats, roaches, spiders, lizards, tarantulas, skunks, beetles, centipedes, millipedes, scorpions, wasps, bees, mosquitoes, rabid dogs, frogs and the friendly neighborhood hoodlum. He will not shudder, scream or yelp. He will kill quickly and methodically.

He will follow me to the grocery store (emphasis on “follow”) and will watch me spend every last penny of his earnings on only name brand, top-shelf groceries that will be thrown away half-eaten and fully-molded two months later. At the clothing store, he will stand close nearby and do nothing but nod, smile and say, “It looks wonderful with your eyes,” or, “Man, you smell so good I could eat you up right here,” with a convincing fervor. All other opinions must be kept to himself.

When I throw a party for my friends, he will spend most of his evening in the back bedroom until I need him to take out the trash so that it does not stink up the kitchen. He will be quiet and orderly. If he gets out of line, I will be permitted to use him as the butt of a few jokes. If present, he will laugh at these jokes. Also, in his moments away from the back bedroom, he will be nothing but pleasant and complimentary to my guests. He will only speak when spoken to. He will speak in short sentences and not attempt to humor or entertain the guest. He will not upstage me. And, as noted above, he has no opinion.

To continue from above, he will be expected to know how all devices in the home function: electronic, gas powered, solar powered or otherwise. When they malfunction he will be expected to bring them back to a functioning state. He will be able to do any necessary wiring, rigging and fixing to make these devices work. This includes everything in the house that is a living organism. Everything else in the house that needs fixing must be left to me because I fear his emotionless disposition on life would make him inadequate in aiding sometimes emotion situations.

My husband will enjoy sex with me, but not too much. He will not laugh, kid, tickle. He will have sex with me in the same way he kills pests—quickly and methodically. Wait, not quickly.

I will belittle his personal problems by bringing up my needs and he will understand this without explanation. He has no problems that are worth mentioning and, furthermore, discussing in detail. However, he will have to lend to my concerns. My issues are top-priority, no matter how insignificant they might seem to his small mind.

My God, who wouldn’t want a husband?

IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME...MY APOLOGIES...

Man, time's really passed since I last posted. And this is more of a post to cover my tail from someone saying, "You never post anything anymore."

When we last saw j3, he was about to take off for Red River, New Mexico for a lovely weekend off with his lovely wife and....wait, wait, wait...no, I got bit by a dog. BUT, I did go to Red River for a weekend and it was a delight. I have a few pictures that I'll share at a later time (2006).

Sawx got beat by the other Sox. I can't remember the color of the Sox because, well, it only took the minimum 3 games. That's right, a sweep. So my beloved Red Sox, in the heroic title defense of baseball's world champions, quite frankly, tucked their tail and played dead. It's alright though. I lost my Jebediah beard which was getting long and itchy. Now I'm cleanly shaven and thinning.

I hit a plateau in my diet. I'm about 212-215. I celebrated by having a six-pack of Oreos. They were good. Oh wait, you're not supposed to celebrate a plateau in your diet. Goal still stands at 200-205 and hover around there until I die of natural causes at 88 years old.

Back to sports news, those Houston Astros just might have something going. They're now 6 outs away from going to their first World Series. In fact, I'll have to check the Sports Almanac, but I think this is the first appearance for a Texas baseball team in the World Series. Man, if we could get the Cowboys to "cowboy up" and win a championship and get the Spurs to lock down another championship, Texas will once again prove it's dominance over the Union.

Saddam's trial began. Why don't I care? Not sure. You'd think this would be the "Trial of the Century," but it just seems weird filing "charges" against a tyrant. It's like, "So, Lucifer, you've been a bad boy." I heard that whatever they decided to charge him with was chosen because, "it would be the easiest to convict him of." Don't accuse me of Saddampathy, but that hardly seems fair. Geez, I might get the Spectacular shut down for such a comment. Back to that stupid dog that bit me on the ankle.

He ain't around no more. Gone. Haven't seen him since. And I'm glad.

Wanna kill a few brain cells? Try staining your floor. Holy cow, man. I think I reduced my brain capacity by 30% last night staining our dining room floor. We decided to take on the project because, well, it's asthetically more appealing and improves the property drastically for resale. Also, I was tired of looking at the puppy pee stains that, no matter how much ammonia and scrubbing, never seemed to go away. But, let me tell you, if you're thinking of taking on your floors, respect the drum sander. If not, that ferocious metal monster will eat you alive. Oh, and always make sure your sander has an "off" switch that actually works or it will not only eat you alive, but it'll eat your pet too.

Astros are three outs away with a four-run lead. Pretty comfortable circumstances. Man, they're wrecking Busch stadium after the Cardinals lose tonight. Kinda sad. Wrecking ball will swing on a losing note. Oh well. Sorry Dad, Grandad, Todd. I can't pull for the Cards after they tried to take the Sawx's World Championship away from them. Of course, they didn't try too hard. I mean, we did sweep them. I guess once the Red Sox won their first World Championship in 86 years at Busch Stadium, someone said, "You know, I never liked this piece of crap stadium anyway. Let's build a new one." And everyone agreed. Emphatically.

Oh, in other sports news (this is where everyone thinks that all I so is watch sports), the Texas Tech Red Raiders football team (my alma mater) have charged all the way to #8 in the nation which is simply incredible. Their offense is one of the most powerful in the states and they take it into Austin against the #2 team in the nation, the Longhorns. No matter what happens, really, I'll be happy, but I'm cheering for a win. #8 in the nation, are you kidding me?

Astros just took it. Congrats to the Astros. God knows Biggio and Bags definitely deserve it. Dude, they were playing when I was but a tike collecting baseball cards. I don't think there's one black guy on that team. Just noticed that. Not that it matters. Just a bunch of cornfed whiteboys.

Now, we need Astro to beat the snot outta the other Sox. I wanna see Clemens mow 'em down. Maybe just chunk a fastball at Ozzie in the dugout "mistakenly."

That's it for now. I gotta get out of these fumes or I'm not going to be able to make it outta bed in the morning.

Try looking at this album cover without smiling.

THE DOG THAT BIT ME AND THE CAGE HE'S SPENDING THE NIGHT IN...

So, I'm walking back to work after lunch today and I approach a barking dog. Obviously, he was quite agitated as I minded my own and continued walking--without even breaking speed. As I paced along a couple of houses, the dog stayed on my heels and then, without any advance warning, he struck. Like a bear trap he clamped down on my left ankle. Ripping open my sock and tearing a small hole in my khakis. I almost stopped to assess the damage, possibly to kick this mutt's nose into the back of his head, but I did neither. I kept marching along without pause, whencing in pain as my ankle throbbed. I kept moving mainly because there was a woman on the other side of the block who, I think, saw the whole thing go down and I didn't want to pop the dog in the face and then have her blab off to the owner and get some pet owner angry at me. I walk that same route everyday. Geez, now I know what mailmen go through. Anyhow, so I arrive at work and dial up Amarillo Animal Control and report this dog's punkass to the authorities. I also finally checked on my ankle--no bleeding, no broken skin. Thankfully.

I called up my lovely wife and explained to her what had happened. Obviously concerned, she offered me a ride home. I reluctantly agreed. Why reluctantly, you ask? Because I wanted to head back for round two. See how tough this big boy is fighting a guy actually FACING him. Cheapshottin' sonuvabitch.

Anyhow, hopefully the owners of this dog are enjoying a lonely evening in Amarillo while their dog spends a little hard time behind bars. By the looks of this chump, he's already spent some time in there. Dude had prison shoulders. But let it be known, had we met in the dark with no witnesses, I'd whallop on that punk. I'm not totally against putting a dog down. Honestly, if it's that aggressive to snap at a passerby doing NOTHING to agitate him, he might not be beyond correction, but had he pulled the same stunt on the nose of a five year-old child, it would've been an angry father with a baseball bat playing Johnny Law.

Quick plug for a documentary titled MURDERBALL. If you haven't heard anything about it, do a little reading here at http://www.murderballmovie.com/ It's insanely good and so very well done. Just finished watching it with my brother-in-law. And no, it's not a Steven Segal movie.

Have a good Friday everyone. Go Sawx. The big comeback begins tomorrow at 3pm EST.

Lock your dogs up. I'm carrying a tazer gun now.