Edged in Blue

Sometimes crime pays, though not in financial windfall.  Over the Fourth of July weekend, a would-be car thief attempted to steal a van and discovered a bomb inside.  The thief moved the van to a less crowded area, then called a cop he knew from previous run-ins.  Police opted not to file charges as the thief likely saved lives.

Ice Road Truckers is back on the air.  This year, they’re driving out onto the ocean.  No rest stops.  Faster speed limits.  Bigger loads.

I don’t want to hear anyone bitch about their morning commute.

John Scalzi, blogger, science fiction author, tester of compact fluorescent lighting, and baconizer of cats, has coined a new term called “nerdgassing.”

Example One: “In the third show of the second season of Star Trek: The Next Generation, Data clearly says that the Glorithian flagship was constructed in orbit around that planet Norgar, but then in the fifteenth show of the sixth season, it’s said it was constructed in the Buterian space docks! How do you explain that, hmmm?”*

Example Two: “Ringworld is unstable! Ringworld is unstable!”

Secondary definition: What happens after too many Cheetos and Mountain Dew.

Having walked among the costumed Trekkies (the ones who consider Shatner’s SNL skit blasphemy) and indulged for a time in the sin of fanfic, I wholeheartedly and enthusiastically give my approval to this term.

Private to one dude in particular:  Time to move out of your mother’s basement, dude. You’re older than I am, and I remember Nixon.  You know who you are.  Qapla:!

Remember the Plymouth/Dodge Neon, the little cab-forward car that was Chrysler’s answer to the Ford Escort?

Remember how that car was ridiculed as a toy and “gay” and no one in their right mind in the era of the mighty SUV would be caught dead in one?

Well, Superior Automotive had one on their lot this weekend, a 2005 with spoiler and a sunroof. 6 people asked for it. All 6 said, “I have to have it! It gets 26 miles to the gallon.”

All 6 were disappointed. It now sits in my driveway, awaiting the tags off the Wintermobile.

To all those saddled with SUV’s you can’t trade in now and have to pump $200 worth of gas to run every week…

Yesterday marks the 42nd anniversary of my escape from the womb.  Does this mean I was Stewie Griffin?  Oh, hardly.  I literally came out ass first, so I’m more like Bart Simpson (except I can’t ride a skateboard.)

So how am I celebrating ticking off one more year before I start getting junk mail from the AARP?  For starters, I spent the morning running around dealing with various state agencies, ending up with the Attorney General’s Office for some mortgage paperwork.  Those of you not following Hillary’s slow fade might have heard this was probably the worst possible week to go there.  Ironically, the AG’s employees sound rather happy.  (”Hey, gang!  Governor Strickland has just suspended mandatory thong Fridays!”  “Great!  I was sick of losing my lunch over Hal in his Speedo.”)  I hear Attorney General Dann got a call from Elliot Spitzer, saying, “Dude, really.  Just walk away.  It ain’t worth it.”  (And then Spitzer’s supervisor at Wal-Mart fired him for making personal calls on company time.)

The upside is I only worked half a day yesterday, after which…

I spent a lovely evening at an English place in Norwood called The Pub with my new family.  For one day, I was excused from getting my ass handed to me on the Wii in Brawl and allowed to drink as much as I wanted (which is not nearly as much as I used to.  Bouchercon is gonna kill me.)

As some of you know, I’ve been having a very strange year, but a very good one personally.  Now if I can just get things going professionally again, life will be really sweet.

Roaches. Nasty little buggers. At my last apartment, they had me eating out for a week while I killed them off with bowls of boric acid-laced sugar. (”Look at that. They love it! Just like it says in the encyclopedia!*”)  We got rid of them.

Along with about two weeks’ worth of groceries.

In Texas, however, the roaches have gone to work on the farm. Yes, if you want to get rid of the pests destroying your cotton, soy beans, and tomatoes, send in the roaches. Apparently, the gross little critters do more than let you know you have an unhygenic neighbor somewhere nearby.

Roaches: They’re what saved breakfast.

*Apologies to Dave Chapelle

Today is February 29, and it’s a special February 29 for me.  Why?

Do the planets align allowing me to shed my mortal form and ascend the throne of heaven to rule the world?  (OK, guys, don’t let George Bush read past that last sentence.  I want the little bastard to squirm a bit.  Because I would be an absolute terror on the throne of heaven.)

Do the stars align with the right planets allowing me to take Jessica Alba, Queen Latifah, and Lisa Lampanelli as my co-brides?  (Note:  Nita would still remain First among Schmoopies in this arrangement.)

Hell, did I get a publishing deal even Sarah Weinman didn’t know about yet?

No.  None of these.  (Kinda bummed about the whole Throne of Heaven thing, ‘cuz I wanted to cast Dick Cheney into the fiery Pit of Doom.)

Instead, due to a quirk in BigHugeCo’s payday schedule, this is the only time in my life where I will be paid a salary three times in February.

That’s pretty cool.

Plots With Guns rises again.

Thank you, Neil Smith.

Thank you.

[OK, enough with this Wagner crap, that antisemitic prick. Someone put on Warren Zevon's "Lawyers, Guns, and Money" and get me a bottle of Jameson.  Time for some PWG!]

Oh, yeah.  Daddy’s gonna have a merry Christmas this year.