byrneunit

Tonight I glanced at one of a great many empty Old Style 30-packs that patiently wait in the back of our kitchen as I fail to discard them time and again.

What the box said: “Pure Genuine.”

What I saw for a split second: “Pure Genius.”

Anyone familiar with the fine work of the Heilmann family can attest to the fact that the latter description is just as apt, if not more so, than the former.

Henry is not impressed with my fresh, new Doctor Who t-shirt. I’m beginning to doubt his maternity.

Please, please, please for the love of god turn up your volume and listen, read, and experience: You Make Me Touch Your Hand For Stupid Reasons.

Okay, if you can think of something more horrifying than this that’s made the news in the last five years, please let me know, because I’m fully prepared to spend the next several weeks being exclusively horrified by this.

Listen up, Internet. Have you seen this?

You’re welcome.

Yeah, so I just found out that the Seattle Supersonics are moving to Oklahoma City. Apparently this has been percolating for a while and I have just not been paying attention. Well, now I can’t stop thinking about it. You know why? I’ll tell you.

Hopefully the Sonics will change their names when the move to OKC, so as to avoid the patently ridiculous Utah Jazz syndrome, werein a team with a name that’s very specific to a state or region, moves to another state or region where the name doesn’t fit at all. How about the Lakers? They moved from Michigan, the Land of 1,000 Lakes, to Los Angeles. Land of no lakes.

But it doesn’t always have to be like this. The Houston Oilers moved to Nashville and changed their name to the Titans. Though the Grand Ol’ Oilers would have been acceptable. In order to avoid Utah Jazz syndrome, OKC should kick this ‘Sonics’ nonsense to the curb and call themselves the Oklahoma City Bombers.

Aren’t sports teams supposed to sound vicious? What’s more intimidating than domestic terrorism, bitches? Nothing. If they name that team the Oklahoma City Bombers, they will not only be owning the pain they have worn so proudly for the past 13 years, but they will strike fear into the heart of any Raptor or Timberwolf.

I can see it now: They’d have a giant Tim McVeigh mascot that closely resembles a converted Pistol Pete. Their dancing girls will have outfits that alternate between sexy orange prison jumpsuits (with hot shackle action), and tight T’s that say “The tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of patriots.”

They would be unstoppable. Oh, shit! What if they got Najera back?!

God, I would be so proud. You keep on doin’ fine Oklahoma.

(From here)

One superdelegate, Reggie Whitten of Oklahoma, endorsed Mr. Obama on Tuesday because, he said, he believed the candidate needed a new public vote as the Clinton camp was battering him daily over the bitter remark.

“I don’t think all of this divisiveness is helping him, so it was a good time to send a signal of support from a conservative state like Oklahoma that we believe in him,” said Mr. Whitten, a lawyer from a suburb of Oklahoma City.

Oh, y’know what that little pang I just felt was? Pride, if you can believe it. Way to go, Reg. Can I call you Reg?

your pal,

-b.

Ohmigod, I don’t want to get ahead of myself or anything, but I think it may be time for Luke and Noah to finally do the deed. See, things were incredibly boring and ridiculous for a few weeks, so I didn’t want to recap them because they were so awful. Noah and Muslim girl are married and her hijab has gradually gotten looser and looser. Like, first it was all up around her neck like a wimple, then, after she started flirting with Casey, she became more and more immodest. We can track her corruption quite efficiently.

ANYWAY! Noah and MG move into an apartment that had been recently vacated by some other people. Fortunately it’s free and furnished. This was to throw Homeland Security off of their tail. Because, you know, every single suspected green card marriage gets it’s own field agent.

Now Luke and Noah finally get to be alone together! How do they start it? By running and jumping on the bed like a couple of mental patients. It’s the most awkward, un-hot thing I’ve ever seen. It may be worse than when Henry and Vienna fucked that one time, because Luke and Noah are really giving it their all. The panting. The ripping off of henleys.

Meanwhile, back in the town square, Muslim girl is telling Casey that she’s in love with Noah. “No way!” you say. Way, I say. So Casey suggests that they go right back to the free and furnished bungalow and tell Noah how she feels about him. Because isn’t that just the best idea you’ve ever heard?

A week or so ago this gang of four had a big freak-out about going to some party. It had to appear that Noah and Muslim girl were totally together, so Luke made Casey pretend to be a homo, just for one night, so they could keep up appearances, lest INS is lurking in the bushes. They didn’t go into it, but I have a sneaking suspicion that later that night Casey believed Luke when he said he’d just put in the tip.

So after this huge build up of “OK! This is what we’re gonna do!” They got to the party and nobody else was there, except the fugly couple throwing the party. Then they proceeded to sit and talk about their rare predicament. Way to keep it a secret, guys.

Then we cut back to Luke and Noah who are grappling at one another like rodeo clowns, and there’s a knock at the door. Who would want to interrupt actual queers kissing like lovers on the lips?

OH SHIT! It’s the Feds!

The want to come in and take a look around. Meanwhile, Muslim girl is legging it in the window. Just in time for INS guy to open the door, where he finds her jerking her scarf into place. There’s another knock at the door! It’s Luke, who also legged it out a window, and Casey, pretending to be gay. Suffice to say, they don’t have to pretend too hard. Those dudes could be sitting at opposite corners of Owen field and someone on the 50 yard line would figure out that those two probably fucking.

Woah! Dodged a bullet there gang! But it’s starting to take it’s toll on Nuke. I’d go into it, but it’s too silly. Honestly, just imagine the most retarded conversation two people in an argument could say to one another. That’s it.

Luke storms back to San Snyderfarm Estate and tells his dad how lucky he is to be free to be with the person they love. Lame. So lame.

Oh, wow. Noah and Muslim girl are painfully talking about how INS could come back later that night, so they have no choice but to sleep in the same bed. They have to!

Tune in tomorrow when we finally see Muslim girl’s hair.

So I’ll admit I was a little concerned when, toward the end of our visit, we discovered the gates had been locked. But when Erin called the number on the office and a friendly man picked up and gave us directions to the service expert, the only black mark on our experience vanished.

Beyond that, our visit was terrific, and mind-boggling. Nearly every grave in the place was from before 1946, and there were fewer vowels on the headstones than I’d have ever thought possible in a place that size, and nearly half the headstones had tiny cameo pictures of the departed on them, and they were all of severe-looking women built like refrigerators, with the occasional nattily dressed husband thrown in for good measure.

And then there was the dead rooster. (Click for detail.)

See, it’s not just that I don’t usually encounter dead roosters, even though I don’t. It’s more that roosters are not nearly as likely to happen in as urban a setting as we live, with the possible exception of the Halal meat place on Western that sells ‘n’ kills poultry for you on site. Moreover, it’s the fact that dead roosters don’t just happen to end up on top of 4-1/2-foot gravestones. It’s not like this rooster was flying along and just happened to have a massive tiny heart attack and just happened to drop, stone dead, onto Rod. Vlazny’s giant chunk of granite. You find a dead rooster in a place like that, in a city like this, and what I’m telling you is that someone put it there on purpose. Anybody can see that.

The flies had started to go at it, and the dead cock had started to get gamey, and neither of those things were the most disconcerting thing about the whole scenario.

All of which is to say that, as cemetery experiences go, there are serious doubts in our household as to whether this one can ever be topped. Good job, Bohemians!

your pal,

the living Brian

From me to you, Doctor Who.