A mini-blog and the indefatigable top ten list

First of all: I have been tagged by the wonderful ChickyBabe. Thus, following this little entry, you will get my top ten turn-ons and turn-offs. I'll stick to the PG rated stuff, because my wife reads this and she would never stop slapping me for some of the things I would list.

This mini-blog is about cookies. I made cookies from scratch tonight, and it made me realize something: I'm a pretty terrible cook when it comes to some things. I put the dry ingredients in a big bowl and the wet ingredients in a smaller bowl, and it was a whole juggling event to mix the dry into the wet. So there's that. Regardless, the cookies came out well- I didn't realize how much sugar was in those things! So, no eating too many of them, or I will have to do 100 push-ups with a small walrus on my back to burn the calories. Alternatively, a hippo will do.

So, here's my top ten lists: enjoy, and don't take them too seriously.

Mahd's 10 Family Friendly Turn-Ons

10. Outgoing Personality- I don't ask for much, just some eye contact and an opinion every so often. You're alive, don't act as though you're sorry for it.

9. The Eyes, Oh God the Eyes- If you're going to give me eye contact, it's nice if you aren't squinting at me.

8. Be a dork- I am a nerd. I revel in and enjoy this fact. If you are not, in fact, a nerd then that's still ok. Just be aware that I like a lot of the same stuff that your 12-year-old cousin does.

7. The Brain- I don't expect you to share my interest in pre-Civil War Southern Society. I would be a little worried if you did. Just have something interesting to say, even if it's about hair and styling products. I can go along with you on that

6. The Mountains- I love them. I need one of those long horn things that the Ricola guys blow, and also to live in the mountains. I will be the horn-blowing guy warning all travellers to the Swiss Alps that minor throat irritation can be easily cured with a pectin drop, and you will be my wife. Accept it, and let's move on.

5. Pirates!- Pretty self explanatory. Just the sight of the Jolly Roger gives me a tingle in my groin. And now I've said too much.

4. Backrubs- I like to give them, and I like to receive them. If my research is to be believed, they also lead to sex with the porn star whose TV I came over to repair. And by "research", I mean I watched some porn.

3. Enjoying a silent moment together- Sometimes, words are not necessary to explain the beauty of the moment that you share with someone. And sometimes, you just want them to close their goddamned mouth for a moment.

2. Sense of Humor- I'm not asking you to laugh at every thing I say; I just want you to admit that I am the funniest person who ever has lived or ever will. I think that's reasonable.

1. The Waking- I love opening my eyes and seeing the face of the person who I'm in desperate, mad love with sleeping peacefully, and knowing that every morning that I wake, she will be there. Also, knowing that I can play with her boobs for a few seconds before she'll wake up and start hitting me.

Mahd's 10 Family Friendly Turn-Offs

10. Hair where there should be none- I get it: you're a natural girl. Well, lady, you've naturally got a moustache thicker than my Uncle Luigi. Get the tweezers, please. And please, get the nose hair, too. It's long enough to braid.

9. "Friends"- No, not the TV show. I'm talking about anyone else you know. Now that you've met me, it's time to cut them off: I will provide you with everything you need as I keep you locked in our room and stroke your pretty, pretty hair.

8. Superiority Complex- Although I enjoy you telling me how much better you are than other people, I do have to say that you're coming off a little conceited. So maybe stop throwing trash at that homeless person.

7. Your kooky agenda- You say that Bush in being controlled by aliens? That men all need breasts so they can feel the pain women go through? That we should cut down all the trees to show those Commies? That we should murder people who cut down any trees? Let me just say I wholeheartedly agree with you, and I now have a restraining order against you.

6. That coat hanging on the door that looks like a murderer in the darkened room- I could have sworn it looked just like some crazy dude with a hatchet.

5. Con-men- Your sweaty demeanor certainly makes me want to buy a car/house/burial plot from you. And that bright red suit is only helping your case.

4. That joke you've said for the last 1o years- Yeah, that was good the first time. I regret laughing at it, though, because it encouraged you.

3. Helping the poor and helpless- Just kidding; I'm not a horrible monster!

2. Drug use- It's not "expanding your mind." You're not "experimenting". You are trying to justify stupid behavior that you should have grown out of a long time ago. What did the 80's teach us if not that, while anti-drug ads are dumb, addicts are pathetic.

1. Lie to me without skill- If you're going to put yourself on the line with a lie, please make it a believeable one. And don't exaggerate too much- that will just blow you out of the water.

That's it for me. I will tag Incoherent Proposal, just because.

A tale of two t-shirts

Men, by our nature, tend away from the sentimental, at least publicly. Most movies or shows that are self-described "romantic comedies" direct the former towards the fairer sex and the latter towards us, the slightly-less-hairy-than-gorillas-but-still-pretty-hairy people. We have only recently been exposed to the fact that we too can groom ourselves beyond shampoo and soap.

It is my asserted, though, that every man has a hidden place, deep within his soul that holds the candle of love. That candle is lit in remembrance of the Favorite T-Shirt. Every man has one- it's a piece of clothing that transcends mere mortal comprehension. It's the same shirt you wore on that beach in Mexico as when you scored 3 straight shots in that pick-up basketball game, or when you made out with that chick whose name you didn't know and never will. It's magic- nothing bad can ever happen to you in that shirt. In fact, you may just want to be buried in it. Even threadbare, ill-fitting and faded, there's no other garment that completes you like that shirt.

I have had many Favorite T-Shirts in my life. When one is unwearable, you move on with great regret and sadness to the next. Many have faded into the mists of time, the details forgotten but the love still apparent and true. Then there was my Volcom shirt (my eyes are misting right now).

It was summer of 1998, and I was teaching at a summer camp. Actually, it was computer camp, which is like summer camp, but for dorks or children whose parents foisted them upon us in the vain attempt to push their children into a future job. The camp is not important- it was during that summer in Miami that I bought myself my grey Volcom shirt.

It was a light grey, the color of early morning fog just before it dissipates in the sunlight. It featured a stylized "Volcom" in a darker grey on the front, and a smart-looking "Volcom" on the underside of the sleeve as well, so that upside-down people could easily determine who made my shirt.

In 1998, Volcom was nigh unknown on the West Coast. So when, a year after I was wearing my shirt they began shipping different shirts to my area, I felt good knowing that it was no doubt caused due to my shirt-wearing.

Wherever I went, that shirt was there. I graduated from college, and came home and changed into that shirt. I met my then-future wife, and it was there. Rugged and comfortable, I imagined myself in the far future, my wife and children gathering around me as I wore that shirt. Then I'd be buried in it, with an awesome laser light show as my casket was lowered into the ground.

Then, tragedy: Our cat, Coco (hereafter referred to as "The Destroyer", "The Defiler" and "Black Cat Unit #31223" alternately) got loose in the backyard. Immediately, I girded my loins and donned my Volcom shirt to protect me from the bitter midsummer night San Diego weather, and headed out to retrieve my cat. And retrieve him I did, and until about 5 feet from the back door, he was fine, purring as I mumbled gentle words of comfort.

Then, he became a whirling fury of claws and menace. Dropping him, I crawled back into the house, the deep gouges his claws had dug bleeding profusely. It was then I noticed my shirt. Tattered and torn, it was the worst thing I've ever seen, and I believe I can say without exaggeration that the horror was worse than when a kid jumps on one of those big trampolines and gets caught in the springs at the edge. Oh, and the kid is on fire. Times like...I dunno, 30. That much horror.

I still have that shirt, shredded as it is. It will live again, and when it does, I will re-enter the bright and dreamy world that once existed for me. Not to be dramatic, but it wasn't until after the shirt was victimized that September 11 happened. That's all I'm saying.

In spite of this, I have found a new Favorite T-Shirt. A gift from my wife, it is green with a yellow clover and the words "O'Hurley" splayed across the front. When she bought it, they asked her, "Oh, is your husband Irish?", and she responded, "No, he's a Jew!" and they laughed and perhaps if I were more of a devout half-Jew or perhaps had no sense of humor I would have been upset at that, but things being the way they are, it's funny. Also, the shirt is miraculous in that it somehow makes me look much more in shape than I am. Perhaps my Volcom shirt's spirit managed to find a new host?

Some people have treasured possessions like stuffed animals, heirlooms and jewelry. I have my t-shirts. And my bank card blanket. But that's it. Oh, and my train lamp. The point is the item doesn't matter- it's what it means that does.

Oh, and my old computer parts....

How to upload the funny

I'm glad to see that everyone enjoyed the pirate post. They are history that has become myth and legend, and are beloved despite the fact that they did some pretty horrendous things. In a way, it's human nature to romanticize bygone eras, or at least forget all of the crappy parts of it. Yes, the idea of knights and maidens joined together in courtly love is a beautiful one, but let's not forget they didn't have antibiotics or flush toilets (or worse, toilet paper).

I've had over 250 unique visitors to the blog this month- I suspect that a remnant of a remnant of that number actually reads it- maybe 20 people. This thought fills me with such dread, because now I feel obligated to be the Entertainer. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but I just feel pressure to continually update, which is bad because it steals away precious topics that I can use. I'm sure you'll enjoy my update next week when I discuss the hilarious variances in pH between different hand soaps. It promises to be charming and magical.

Therein lies the hardest part of blogging- finding things to talk about. I could tell you about my day, but sadly, most of my day is spent typing emails to people who don't understand how to print using different paper sizes or whose Blackberry handhelds mysteriously stop working when they throw them across the room. So I have to turn to my imagination, which is always the last desperate act of a man without options. And because television has altogether broken my fragile spirit, most of the jokes you find here are based off of episodes of The A-Team and Fraggle Rock.

As an aside, I will be making another attempt at writing something more substantial and novelish. So far, the two previous attempts have been stories so morose and depressing that it's hard to continue with them. Thus, my newest project will be a comedic story. I can never judge if anything I write is amusing to anyone but myself, but at least it will be good practice. In any event, I will release more details if and when they become available. Let's not get our hopes up, though- I only vaguely have an idea for the book, so it will be a while before anything comes together, and it probably will be a travesty of American literature if it is ever completed. That's just how I like to do things.

My secret dream

One day, when the time is right, I will set into motion a plan of mine- one that has been stewing inside me since I was a young lad. In order to accomplish my goal, I must cut all ties to the world I know. Regrettable, but necessary if I am to succeed. First, I will submit the following letter to my employer:
---
"Dear sirs,

I regret to inform you that, two weeks hence, I will be resigning from my position at this company. It is with the deepest regret that I must do this, for you have heretofore provided me with ample opportunities and challenges, and I hold you all in the highest esteem. Despite this, it is time for me to pursue new journeys and achievements. By this, I mean that I am becoming a pirate.

The chance did not occur to me until I found myself amongst the crew in a local tavern. There, they swore to sail under my flag until death or capture. We will seek our fortunes and fame on the wine-dark seas, rather than in the neat cubicle that you provided me during my tenure at our company.

I can not say for certain what if fortune will favor me: nonetheless, I feel that once I have the rolling deck of the Bloody Mary's Revenge beneath me, the sea salt stinging my eyes and the Jolly Roger above me, I will have at last found my true calling.

Fare thee well,
Captain Tom "Tarbeard" Flint

---

Next, I will have to break the news to my wife. This will be the most difficult thing, because she'll probably start crying and then I'll have to punch her, because I can't stand to see a woman cry because of bad news- however, I love to see them cry because of physical injury, so it will work out well. Once she is assured that I will return with a fortune in bullion and jewels, and my love stronger than ever, it will be time to notify my friends and family, and then head to the seas.

Ah, piracy! Even the word connotates images of well-tanned corsairs sailing the Spanish Main in search for hapless Spanish merchantmen laden with treasure and exotic goods stolen from mystical natives. And that's a lot for a single word. True, pirates are nothing more than robbers on ships, but they're cool robbers, and they're on ships. And ships are cool, because they're made of wood and have cannons. Well, not all ships, but the good ones do.

So you may suffer a little scurvy or keelhauling or being-murdered-by-your-mutinous-crew or caught-and-hanged. It's a small price to pay for riches beyond your wildest dreams, and as much grog as you can drink. Plus, you can wear a poofy white shirt and a colorful sash, which especially shows your disdain for contemporary 16th-century society. Add an accessory, like eyepatch, hook hand, peg leg or parrot, and you're set. Of course, you'll have to give up your eye, hand, leg or dignity (in that order), but I consider it a fair trade.

Some may try to persuade me otherwise; that it's far more lucrative to become a cowboy or viking. But my mind is made up, and I will not rest until my dream is a reality. One day, I will realize my dream, and then I will be staring off the side of my ship, watching the sun melt into the calm and shining sea, the only sound the wind and the wood.

High school and the power of the press

For some, high school is a nightmare, filled with constant reminders of the awkward state of one's teenage mind and body compounded with the viciousness that others release due to their own insecurities. For others, it's looked back as the greatest years of one's life- the faintly glowing glory days when they were at the peak of their physical and social lives; those fortunate enough to pass whatever arbitrary standard was levied were elevated to near godhood.

For me, it was an antiquated society, stratified and irredeemable among students and faculty. Conservative by nature and exclusionary by choice, it was what I would later call a "target rich environment." That is, I attempted to mock everything possible and do it without becoming ostracized.

"You were being a pain in the ass", my wife would say.

Me? No way.

I had some minor irreverencies: I played the tragic Ophelia in a front-of-room scene from Hamlet; We had a series of lessons and exercises about different types of poetry- no matter the type, iambic pentameter to haiku, mine were exclusively about Cheese Whiz. I would bring a big gym bag to school and steal sodas and food from my hapless friend who worked in a "lunch cart" with a decrepit old lady. I worked for the cafeteria for a month, in which I earned 80 dollars, a few slices of soggy pizza and a daily berating about how they were losing money because someone was stealing. When the lady in charge saw me later and waved, I gave her the finger.

My greatest work, however, was during my senior year. I joined the newspaper staff and immediately became the most inflammatory opinion writer ever. I didn't need sources or facts. What I had was a perfectly feigned sense of moral outrage, and somehow I rocked the school world with my first article detailing about how it was the Janitor's job to clean up the trash, not my own. It was a thing of beauty. Muffled whispers as I walked down the halls, or even outright acclimation from some of the less thoughtful of my classmates.

And yet, it was not my greatest work. A few issues later, I knew that I had to raise the bar. The ire and outrage I needed to spew needed to be even more venomous, needed to irk people even more. My grandiose article on how, if you lived in America, you needed to speak English was my Magnum Opus. I was actually called into the office to have the Spanish teacher verbally assault me for a half-hour. They didn't know what to do with me- Here I was, a normal kid with no bad record writing this hateful article. It was sublime. I wrote other articles, but I never got so vehement a response as those two.

It was all a joke, and nobody ever caught on. Wonderful. Magical. It's not that I delight in toying with human emotion- I just want to see what people will do.

"You were being a pain in the ass."

Of course I was.

Better than a shark riding an elephant that has had an energy drink.

My most prized possession is one that I was born with. No, it's not my appendix. That goddamned thing hasn't done a lick of good for me. Nor is it any other organ I may possess, although I can think of a few that rank very highly in my book, and I do my best to maintain them and keep them shiny. The best way to do this is with quality rum, according to all scientific information I can find or make up.

I am in (non-romantic) love with my ego. Even as a baby, I had a swagger that was obvious. Oh sure, I gurgled and burped, but I did it with a confidence unknown to other floppy-headed infants. As I grew, so did my ego. By age 4 I was wearing a hat that said "Greatest that Ever was or will be. Far, far better than any of you slope-headed neanderthals." I was convinced that the whole purpose of Creation was to provide a cornucopia of plenty for me for eternity.

Then, an event occurred that shook the very foundations of my world. There I was, in Mrs. Levinson's kindergarten class. It had been a cool morning; brisk, with the telltale scents of fall in the air. I was dressed finely, my OshKosh overalls had been laundered the night before in preparation for my Show and Tell presentation. I had selected one of my favorite works of the time- Jaws, by Peter Benchley. A classic tale of gripping horror, I felt that it would be well-received by my schoolmates.

As the reading commenced, things seemed to be going well. Everyone's attention was focused on me, as well it should have. But then, as I continued, a curious thing happened: the children were losing focus. Here I was, a five-year old reading a novel intended for a mature audience and they were coloring on the tables, picking their noses and, to my chagrin, rocking their seats back and forth. My disgust turned to wonderment, and when I returned to my seat, my world was shattered when my classmate turned to me and called me a "nerd".

It dawned on me, then, that my ego had gotten the best of me. Later, I would realize that it had expanded too far and become that oversized "superego" that's all the rage with psychologists. With that in mind, I decided to resolve myself to becoming a more humble person. Yes, I would become renowned for humility unseen in human history. Musicians would sing of how awesomely humble I had become. Later, I realized that was also egotistical.

I managed to strike a balance. Humility towards others while never losing my sense that I could do anything if I focused my efforts. I learned that all people are capable of wonderous things, not just me. Psychologically, I was never more healthy towards my fellow man and myself.

Fortunately, it was just a phase, and now I remember just how fantastic I really am. So suck it, losers! (Kidding!)

Your dessert & beverage guide

While my lovely bride and I were gallavanting around town today, we somehow got on the subject of chocolate.

Before I continue, let me explain something about relationships, since I am an unabashed expert on the subject, or at least I can fake it, since I tricked the woman who is currently singing to the cat into unbreakable vows before the Lord. The first stage of a relationship is the Dating stage- generally, money is exchanged for fancy meals and shows in a bizarre ritual, while each partner only shows the facets of their personality that are guaranteed not to immediately frighten the other away. This means that if you are showing your date your complete collection of Star Trek novels, you are showing too much.

The second stage of the relationship is the Normalization stage- often indistinguishable from the Dating stage at first, this stage is the riskiest. Slowly and carefully, you must drop hints at the fact that yes, you do occassionally play a game online where you are a scantily clad elf, and yes, you do get that right-wing newsletter. For the female, like a bird you will create a nest of hair and skin products that live in the male's bathroom. Don't worry, they will soon have a will of their own and expand- facial cleanser will beget exfoliator, which in turn will give way to decorative soaps and hand towels.

If both parties survive, they will get to stage 3, which is the Glorious Relationship. This stage may include marriage, a host of shrieking, drooling babies, thinning hair, increased weight, bloating, hot flashes, cold flashes, lukewarm flashes and/or pepperoni. This is the ideal state for a relationship to be in, and don't let those liars from Stage 2.5"Kinky Sex" tell you otherwise.

So, after that long aside, we have determined the following desserts must be served with the following beverages. A list:

Fruit-based candies: We agreed that these required some sort of cola. A lemon-lime soda would only mask the otherwise delectable flavor of your Starburst, or, if you prefer, Mamba (a note on Mamba: it is a risky thing to purchase one of these, as you only get 3 of the 4 available flavors in a single pack, and you may be saddled with the horror of the raspberry flavor)

Cakes, pies, cookies: Milk or coffee is your preferred beverage. You may substite with cocoa, but be careful- chocolate and fruit pies are a dangerous combination

Dark chocolate: Ice cold milk is our choice here. The reasons should be obvious. If they are not, then just suffice it to say that they taste good together.

Milk chocolate: We nearly came to blows over this choice. Many words were exchanged between us, because my wife felt that milk is also a good choice here, while I dissented, saying that milk was, in fact, contributing to an excess of milk. My tenative choice was cocoa, with coffee available as well. In the end, we agreed that milk is sufficient, but only with the stipulation that it be ice cold. In other words, I rolled over.

As general agreements, we decided that a sugary food item usually indicates that a soft drink should not be imbibed, while salty items almost necessitated a cold soda. I think my wife also mentioned something about a soda IV, but I don't know what she was talking about.

To summarize, my wife and I are insane and talk about nothing of import. But at least we take our ridiculousness seriously.

Gold-threaded paper of the gods

I've been thinking about toilet paper recently. Not a lot- I wouldn't say I've become obsessed with it, just enough that I feel that it's time to speak out about it. Not a lot of people have the courage to tackle this issue, but if I don't step forward, who will?

Toilet paper is the primary example of why we have too much stuff. Too much choice, actually. You can easily make an argument for other products- toothpaste and soap come in different flavors/scents and textures; There are subtle differences between Coke and Pepsi; even plastic baggies can have zip seals or whatever. Toilet paper is unique in that it comes in so many different varieties, and yet, in the end, it's still used to wipe one's backside. Do we really need that many choices? In fact, I'm rather curious why anyone would buy "premium" toilet paper. Certainly, there is the sandpaper variety that most schools and businesses use that's made, I think, primarily from recycled glass and nails, and you can avoid that. I don't even think that's available to consumers, and even if it was, I'm not sure how they would market it. Perhaps, "Buttscraper toilet tissue: Now with 50% less chunks."

On the other side of the coin, they offer toilet paper that basically promises to feel like an angel using her heavenly tongue to lick you clean. I think I saw this the other day in the store, and the packaging was certainly attractive:

Caressoft premium toilet tissue is made from hand-stiched cotton grown alongside the finest grapes in the Chardonnay region of France. There, it is lovingly picked by the widows of war heroes and shipped by carriage across the Bering Strait. Once it reaches our Beverly Hills holding facility, it is washed in melted glacial waters from Antarctica and dried with imported sand from the Sahara desert. Master artisans weave the tissue using golden looms, and Orthodox religious leaders bless the tissue as it is stitched by one thousand Betsy Ross re-enactors. Once it is hand-rolled by former Presidents and heat-sealed in our fusion reactor, it is ready for it's final journey via Pony Express to your store.

That's all fine and good, but it's like 8 bucks for 4 rolls, and while I'm generally one who treats his ass to the finest things in life, unless it's reusable, I've got to pass on that. You need to have perspective on things like that.

On a different subject, I woke up the other day and thought about something and became kind of irritated. I was thinking about so-called "accidental inventions", like rubber vulcanization, penicillin and gravity. There's two things wrong with the idea of an accidental invention. First of all, I'm skeptical that those inventions are "accidental" at all. I know how it is- your wife is bitching to you about how Edison just invented the goddamned lightbulb and the Invention Board is starting to doubt that you can come up with anything and that your coal-powered dresser was just a fluke and not that good anyways, so you "accidentally" leave your bacteria samples out by the window. Not because you're desperate; no, it's all a mistake. "Oops, I spilled rubber on a hot stove." "I'm not shaking this tree in anger; I'm inventing!"

The second point is that even if these were really accidents, why would you tell anyone that? Stick to your guns and tell them that it's what you were trying to do. You might as well look like a hero, rather than a klutz. Even worse, these accidental inventors are lauded as if they did something impressive. It seems like luck to me, and that's why I'm proposing a Nobel Prize in Luck, to cover these people. The winner every year, however, might be that overweight nerdy guy who somehow has managed to nab a woman who is out of his league. You know the guy.

A year- and what a year it's been.

On July 12, 2004, I got the bright idea to make a blog. I remember it like it was 363 days ago- I was in my office, bored from a lack of work.

I never intended for it to come to this- a year of searching for (and recycling shamelessly) topics, of experimenting with weird blog plug-ins and of realizing how edifying it is to do something for yourself, but even more edifying to have people really enjoy it. I never realized I was such a glory hound until this blog came along, and I've accepted it.

Some fun year anniversary facts for Milk-TSK:

• Of the over 500 people who have visited the blog, the main reasons people have immediately hit the "back" button on their browser fall into these three categories;

1- Did a search for "drunk stripping whores" (320 responses)

2- Believe that the government is using school milk to hypnotize our kids (105 responses)

3- Will read anything (50 responses)

• Weather and illness are the most common topics of Milk- everything else is a close second, except David Hasslehoff, who has never been featured.
• In early 2005, Mahd subtly changed the blog's focus from humorous looks at everyday things to radical neo-Naziism.

Now, let's take a look at the month-by-month synopsis of the posts over the last year:

Jul 2004- Introduction, weather, illness

Aug 2004 - The famous "drunk stripping whores" blog that lures horny people to their untimely end

Sept 2004- "Story time", a series of horribly randomly generated stories. Lesson- never write stories based on random tables. Also, never ever be serious. The entire "Story time" collection will be out on DVD later this year, or 15 VHS casettes.

Oct 2004 - In the build-up to the presidental election, Mahd tries to exhort the American populace to take an interest in their communities and make a difference. Okay, just kidding: I wrote some random crap to mask the fact I didn't have anything to write about.

Nov 2004 - Post-election wrap-up, with obligatory Lincoln quote. In a nod to the Simpsons, Mahd uses the tactic of talking about how crappy the blog is, thereby diffusing any criticism about how crappy the blog is.

Dec 2004 - The "San Diego sunshine" weather post. Also, I think I made fun of fatties, which isn't very nice.

Jan 2005 -Mar 2005 - No blogs. Like Batman, Mahd was in a Central Asian prison, training to fight for justice. Also, he forgot about the blog. Look, I was busy, ok? I just needed some time to think and get my life together. It's in the past, so let's drop it. I did eventually write an entry about crazy Internet people, or somesuch. Just get off my back, man.

Apr 2005 - As springtime came upon us, I wrote a blog about getting outdoors. Then I think I played an outdoor simulator.

May 2005- A month that will become known as "Anno Mahd Prolifico". Topics ranged from swearing to writing novels. In the latter, I complained about how hard it was to write a novel; ironically, this month's word total equalled War & Peace.

June 2005 - My sweet and loving tribute to my wife. That post got me some ass, I think. Some other stuff in this month, too, but it's kind of tertiary after that one.

July 2005- Among a mediocre July 4th post and some rambling diatribe about animals, the critically acclaimed "Anniversary" post touched the hearts and minds of a nation. That nation is Eritria, and since they don't speak English, it doesn't count for much.

So what do Milk fans have to look forward to in the future? Let's take a look into the crystal ball:

- All the weather and disease related posts you love and can't live without

- "Return of Story Time", in which I create stories based entirely off of a set of "erotic" refrigerator magnet words.

- Whatever other crap I can pull out of my ass.

In conclusion, it's been a great year, except for my unexplained absence for three months. I look forward to worsening my carpel tunnel syndrome to entertain my phantom audience, and I hope that you'll remember my slogan- "You can't spell 'http://milk-tsk.blogspot.com' without a fuckload of letters"

See you next time!

When animals are awesome

Recently, I was shocked to discover that people are not the only creatures inhabiting the planet. There are, in fact, quite a few of these so-called "animals" that are fortunate enough to have us above them on the food chain. The only animal above us on the food chain is the toucan, for reasons that I won't explain because they don't exist.

If we look at the word animal, we can, after a short trip to dictionary.com, determine that its root is "anima", or in English, "animated." This is why most cartoons feature animals; because it requires less work from the artist.

There are two schools of thought about the place of animals on Earth. In one camp, made presumably entirely out of buffalo skins, the people feel that animals are placed here by God to feed and clothe us, and to provide us moving targets to shoot large-caliber weapons at. On the other hand, there are a bunch of damned hippies who feel that animals have souls and that by harming them, we are harming, like, our soul siblings, man. Both of these people are completely insane. It's quite logical and obvious that animals are mechanical, programmed to repeat the same actions over and over again.

You may think I'm wrong, but ask yourself- why do the swallows always return to Capistrano, or squirrels harvest nuts for the winter, or ants systematically invade and destroy everything you've ever loved? Some call it instinct, I call it a logic loop. It's the same reason that a babboon will cradle a child when the stupid kid is screwing around and dancing in front of the goddamned ape exhibit even though you told him a million goddamned times to cut it out. If the babboon realized that it was a human child, particularly a no-good brat that your stupid brother-in-law raised, it would be far more likely to feed on the kid's sweet, sweet flesh. However, because the babboon is just following it's programming, it does what it has been commanded to do, and the local news has a nice story to put in the "Wacky News" section.

Murderous robots or not, there is one aspect of animals that kicks butt: animal fights. Documentarians have known for years that there's nothing greater than watching a Bengal tiger tussle with a rhino, or a bear on a log fighting off a shark. Animals, unlike humans, have secret weapons. Think that spider is gonna totally destroy the other small bug? Oh no, it's a Mexican burrito moth, which spits fiery tar from it's eyes. Totally awesome, and you can bet the spider wasn't expecting it.

And yet, despite their claws, teeth and poison-laced tentacles, man somehow rose to become king of the world. Some have surmised that it is because of our large, meaty brain that we were able to outsmart the animals. If true, it's not that impressive. What condor do you know that can do algebra? Do you know of a vole that can write like Keats? It's like if some bully picked only on quadrapalegics who were confined to wheelchairs with only one wheel, and also had bad vision. Oh, you're a big man, humankind. Why don't you go wrestle that bear and see what happens?

That's what I thought, wuss.

Land of the Free, home of the 99 cent store

Today is officially America's birthday. 229 years old, which by the standards applied to nations, is just a drop in the bucket. Our country is just entering it's angsty teenage years, which actually might explain a bit. Other nations like France and the UK might scoff at us, but in reality their present governments don't look anything like the ancient kingdoms sustained by forbidding castles and mail-clad knights. Ok, I think France still has knights, but definitely not castles. You might expect me to tell you which country is the oldest: on the contrary, I have no idea, though I suppose it's luxembourg, because why the hell should they be changing anything?
The newest country, of course, is the Federated Democratic Republic of the Unified Congo States, the bloodiest dictatorship ever known to man. I know it's ironic, but it's mostly that they're counting on a preponderance of words in the country's title to stave off any coups. And yet there are coups aplenty. They've had coups that weren't even finished when another coup started. The old coup didn't even have a chance to put new drapes in when the new coup started.
But we're here to talk about America, land of my birth and, yes, land that I love. One question that invariably comes up is America's overall effect on the world. I will list the top three American exports to the world:

1. Confederate memorabilia, most notably a statue of Robert E. Lee that doubles as a flask (for moonshine, ostensibly)
2. Celebrity. America loves nothing more than to take a nobody and create them into a multinational star. And then to utterly destroy that person's reputation. Some may call this unhealthy, but for us it's very theraputic. Some people have 12-step programs, we have this.
3. Freedom, liberty and justice- now all conveniently packaged as "Jusberdom". Just unpack, remove the instructions in Chinese and assemble; in no time flat you'll have 10 Inalienable Rights of Man, with a new Inalienable Right every month.

The fact is, I can't define what America is. Nobody can, because as soon as we establish ourselves in one way, something else comes along and we go with that. We're the ultimate consumer whores, always travelling towards the newest thing. Sometimes, that gets us into trouble, but often it makes us look like visionaries, like we had any idea that we were going to be successful. It also makes us like the wily mongoose. The mongoose does it's own thing, and nobody fucks with the mongoose because it fights cobras. And cobras are awesome, which makes the mongoose even moreso. I'm not sure of my point there, but I just wanted to mention the mongoose because they are badass.

So this leads us to the inevitable question: What is the future of America? Will our nation lie in ruins for future generations to pick through? And what will they think when they find that sticky slime stuff that comes in the little plastic eggs? Or will America endure forever, it's ever-growing bureaucracy causing it to labor needlessly to perform even the merest of actions? The answer is that I have no idea, but I bet it involves robots.

Happy birthday, America. Try not to set the house on fire with all of those candles.