once, I knew tenses

I'm basically posting right now because I don't want my log on to expire. I don't know if that's something that happens with blogger but if it does I probably don't remember the answer to my security questions. This is what happens with security questions: I am asked a straightforward question, then I think one of two things: 1) I should leave a funny answer because its hilarious and I'll always remember that my fake first pet's name was Sheik Yerbouti or 2) I should leave a fake answer because it would take approximately three seconds for someone on the internet to find out my mother's maiden name or where I was born. Hence Q: What City Were You Born In? A: Samraong, Cambodia. Anyway. If there is a security question to this thing I probably won't remember my answer and I'd be too lazy to do anything more than guess at it until I was locked out and that would be the end of this. Then what would I do for 30 minutes every two months?

I didn't mean to write about that security answer stuff. It just sort of happened. I came here to post this (from xkcd):


If you ignore the part about sticking to a glass or two this comic basically describes my life.

The Final Frontier

I'm not saying everything, but most things, when worded appropriately, can basically be decided by a show of hands from patrons still out and about somewhere near closing time at a bar. I'm not saying those drunk people should decide how to implement the policy their show of hands is creating, just that the less one person thinks about something the more likely they are to get to the popular (and/or right) answer and that process is more likely to work out the larger the number of non-thinking bar patrons there are.

So, to answer the rhetorical question set up in this article's title:

Yes. It is.

I believe I can drunkenly defend this second point (the one about space, not the one about drunken crowds usually coming to the correct conclusion) with one of the single most common questions between strangers, light night, at bars; "So what do you do for a living?"

"Landscaping. Its hard work but at least I'm outdoors."
"Oh, that sounds nice. I'm a fucking astronaut."

Also:

"This one time I snowboarded the perfect run down a double black diamond. And not one of those pussy east cost black diamonds. I'm talking Colorado."
"That must have been awesome. I've got something similar. This one time, when I was orbiting the Earth in my space shuttle at 5 miles a second I came in for a landing and hit a 300ft wide air strip from 200 miles above sea level."

Or:

"I've been trying to learn Spanish through Rosetta Stone!"
"I've been trying to train my body and mind to withstand the rigors of a trip to Mars."

Or one of the many variations on these conversations. My main point is that space is pretty fucking awesome - and I'm not even talking about actual science. We could but that involves a lot more research than finding out how wide a space shuttle landing strip is and my brain is totally off for the weekend, anyway. If we were going to discuss (when I say discuss I usually mean I research for two hours for no particular reason beyond this post) science I'm sure it would just get more awesome.

Look. We need to keep the space program at the very least so my, "I've been drinking with the former commander of the International Space Station" story is still cool. And honestly, even though I'm not one, I don't really want to live in a world where, "I'm an astronaut," doesn't immediately get you laid.

Career Change

Just popping in to let you know (that phrase made more sense when I was still planning on taking a vacation and this post hadn't been sitting half written for seven days) that pending legislation in Florida I may have to change careers. From this article:

Florida officials, including Governor Charlie Crist, propose putting a bounty on the snakes' heads. But hunting elusive and barely visible pythons in the wild is difficult at best - though that hasn't stopped South Florida hunters and hunting clubs from tramping out to state wildlife preserves to whip up enthusiasm for python extermination and then posting trophy photos of themselves with 10- to 15-ft. snakes on the Internet. And any effective bounty program in Florida would require lifting the ban on hunting in the federally managed Everglades, something U.S. officials say they are considering.

If this happens I'm quitting archaeology to pursue my one true love; snake bounty hunting.

Regular old snake hunting is great, don't get me wrong, but when you start throwing in a monetary reward I become an even bigger supporter of snake genocide and would seriously consider getting in on the supply side of it for a change.


I figure to sell my tragedy to triumph story, one about a young boy who thinks snakes are kind of gross but somehow manages to overcome this to become the world's most successful and loved snake murderer, I'm going to need a sassy but loyal mongoose sidekick to teach me the ancient traditions of his clan of anthropomorphic snake hunters. His name won't be Riki Tiki Tavi but it should probably be something exotic sounding. No one takes snake hunting advice from a mongoose named Gary. Also, several of my relatives will have to be eaten by snakes. So, Mom and Dad, when the producers start sniffing around the Fargo estate asking questions about who got eaten when, you might have to lay low. Or maybe I could have been married to a snake only to find out that it was using me to funnel state secrets to the C.C.C.P. Betrayed, I funneled my energy into the only productive thing I could do anymore, knife-murder snakes.

I don't know. I'll have plenty of time to work out the details when I'm canvassing the swamp.

post quota: No.

Just, no.

No.

.1% Inspiration

I feel like I achieved a moral victory today by tailgating someone for almost 10 miles.