The semi-circle of life. (Or: Cortez the Bunny Killer) (Originally published as "The Bunnies of Anne Frank".)

I didn't even hear the fwhoomp that normally accompanies pushing a lawnmower over an item or items that are not grassy, gravelly or metallic in nature.

In the corner of my eye, I saw something hopping across the driveway, and thought, "Toad season already?" A more direct second glance disconfirmed my assumption, as only bizarre hybrid bunny-toads have ears. Rather, the dumbass mommy bunny had placed her nest right in the middle of the yard. I guess you just have them where you have them, you know? (The Diary of Anne Frank would have been a lot shorter had the mom followed standard rabbit birthing procedures.)

Two of the baby bunnies had been mostly obliterated by the mower, barely alive but suffering greatly. One was chopped in half, while the other had a couple of deep cuts that made it squeak like a rusty hinge. After applying some WD-40 to get rid of the squeak*, I disposed of them properly, which left six unaccounted for, as they scattered across the driveway to parts mostly unknown. Two tried to forcibly enter the crawlspace of the house; it was kind of cute, with their baby bunny crowbars and masks. The other four hopped off in all directions to live out the remainder of their hours; it's not likely they would have survived long on their own, as other idiots with mowers were also out in force.

My raging bloodlust* was abated by the fact that I saw this as a potential learning opportunity for Son, who went nuts when he spied the bunnies. He's been chasing rabbits ever since he was able to run on his own, and here was this golden opportunity to finally be able to catch two. I grabbed a shoebox out of the house, put some grass in it and snagged the two wayward bunnies.

Son was amused for about 5 minutes. I implored him to "hug them and squeeze them and call them George," but because they were pretty skittish - and wouldn't you be, having just survived your home's disintegration by a large machine with a sharp blade spinning at 3000 rpm? - he didn't want to have anything else to do with them after we sat one on his lap and it hopped up his belly to his shoulder looking for an escape.

Eventually, we called our niece to see if she wanted them, because God forbid any animal be let loose to die. So her mom came out and picked up the bunnies and made her getaway while Son wasn't looking. They'll eventually die, probably sooner rather than later, but at least they'll do it in air conditioning.

* - kidding.

For the first time since I met him almost three years ago, I felt like I'd really made a connection with Sandals. Typically, most conversations that I've had with him fall into the "10 minutes of my life I'll never get back" category.

But on this particular occasion, I learned a little bit about him. He emigrated from India to the United States some 30 years ago, and told me of his love for America. We both talked about how lucky we were to be living here, especially in light of the extreme poverty, hunger and destitution found in the Third World.

And then he talked about the need to grow natural resources and lost me completely.

I'm sure that it's one of those collegial things that brings great pride to their campus community, yet reading the story about this award that Purdue's Katie Gearlds received from a club at Purdue makes me think that it might not be an award that ends up in a prominent position on her resume after her pro hoops career is over.

It's nice that they're recognizing her for something so positive, but the group conferring it ... I wonder why they couldn't have just called themselves the "Black and Old Gold Club" or something? Did they really have to call themselves the Reamers?

Who says there's not room in the marketplace for two stupid ideas?

The arteeste in me says that whenever Sheryl Crow decides to start writing all of her songs with one chord - say, a C7 - then I'll consider using just one square of toilet paper after I do my business in the bathroom.

Until then, she needs to stop telling me how to poop.

"Wow," was my first reaction this morning as I spied something while mowing the back 40 for the first time this season. "That is a really immaculate dog turd."

As my mind further processed what I just saw, I realized that only an elephantine St. Bernard could have left behind such a gift. It occurred to me it wasn't a pristine pile of dog leavings, but rather a snake coiled in either offense or defense. More specifically, a copperhead.

So, on my next pass, when I saw it in the same position, I ran over it.

The only good snake is a pureed snake.

Billy Mays, stop shouting at me!

And stop lying about OxiClean - the stuff sucks!

Erin Esurance: hot or not?

My vote: h-h-h-h-h-h-hot.

Yes, I know she's a cartoon.

Gay Shit for your MySpace

I just don't know how to make the sparklies.

Gay Shit for your MySpace

I just received notification from my wife that a woman came up to her today and said that I was the reason that her son keeps on getting called "Brandon."

My wife, of course, was all "WTF?"

Turns out that the woman who spoke to her is dating Doom's son, and she and her five-month-old son live with the Doom family.

To paint a clearer picture:

My boss has so much water on his brain that he keeps on calling a five-month-old child in his home by my name.

Which is almost understandable, when you consider that it took him at least six months to stop calling me by my predecessor's name.

Other than the nicer legs and lithe body and smooth skin and long hair and comparative lack of facial hair that my predecessor had, it's almost like we were separated at birth.

"In dramatic lore, they are known as famine, pestilence, destruction and Craphonso." -- G. Rice

So far in this offseason, the Colts have lost Dominic Rhodes, Nick Harper, Jason David, Cato June, Mike Doss, Montae Reagor and Brandon Stokley. (Granted, the latter two didn't play much of a role in the Colts' run to the Super Bowl this past season, but still.)

To replace these integral pieces to their world championship, they have picked up former Colt Rick DeMulling and some guy named Craphonso.

Remember earlier where I said not to be concerned? OK, now I'm concerned.

Just received an e-mail from a spammer. The computer-generated name in the subject line was "Matt Vroom."

That's probably one of the five greatest names ever. It's not quite "Jimmy Rock," and it's surely no "Dick Pound" or "Rusty Kuntz," but it's up there.

There was just a bizarre spike in the number of hits on this blog (from the 1080s to almost 1110), and I always fear in such a case that a whole bunch of people are pissed off about something I wrote. I can't find out for sure because BlogPatrol is broken.

But, if it's like the last time such a spike occurred, the mysterious hits will just as quickly disappear, and I'll look delusional.

Everything I know about classical music, I learned from watching Bugs Bunny cartoons.

I say this only because earlier, my mp3 player just spit up one of its pre-loaded classical tracks from the Beijing Philharmonic. The song has already ended, and I can't tell you what it was. It was like the "William Tell Overture," only it wasn't.

And I can't delete the friggin' things. They're locked in to the player. There's 40 of them, and their existence pisses me off.

And if you all look out the right side of the plane, it will tip over.

Eagle-eyed observers will note that, on the right, I've included a couple of new items so you, Dear Reader, can say, "I already know too much about you as it is."

Under the page counter, you'll see a Twitter widget. That's a toy that you can use to keep your friends (or your blog readership) informed of your most current activities that you don't have the time or wherewithal to blog about. It's cool - I'm still working out some of the kinks - but I admit to feeling the pressure to come up with something witty every now and again. You'll note that if the box still reads, "Watching Season 1 of 'My Name Is Earl,'" then I have failed in that regard.

Beneath that is a neat widget from LibraryThing. I'm not going to use it to catalog every book in my library, but I will add to it as I get more books read. It lists the books I am either in the process of reading or have recently finished.

I am currently searching for a widget that automatically lists my last (x) songs played or last albums listened to or something. Any ideas?

Update 1: (It's possible that all of the above is a feeble attempt to convince you - or myself - that my life isn't as mundane as it really is.)

Update 2: Mundane isn't bad. It's just a state, like Nebraska.

Oui, je regrette.

Trying to find something redeeming in the songs of Edith Piaf, and not having any luck. Hey, if you're into it, that's fine, but it doesn't suit me. In my mind's ear, I'd pictured her songs as being more smoky - something like Etta James' "At Last My Love Has Come Along." It's just French, and about as seductive as week-old broasted chicken. My libido literally crawled up into my pancreas upon first listen.

You know - that's twice that the French language has screwed me over. (The first time being, when it came time to select a foreign language to learn in high school, I chose French over Spanish - "It's a beautiful language," I thought to myself, "and the chicks would dig it! Plus, it's the second-most spoken language in the world, says my French-English dictionary from 1964! This will help me in future employment scenarios!" And guess what? It didn't help me one iota - in either circumstance. I blame the circonflex.)

Anniversarus horriblus? Nahhh.

Last Friday was my five-year anniversary. While traditional five-year anniversary gifts usually involve a wood item of some sort, like furniture or a clock, we haven't really followed "tradition" vis-a-vis our marriage. Instead, we played bingo. The local American Legion has bingo on Friday nights, and we had our wedding reception at the Legion, so it wasn't like *no* thought went into the planning of our anniversary. And we both had a great time, unless my wife is lying to me.

Besides, what happened at bingo definitely made for a memorable evening.

There is a woman in our town who, if you're from anywhere around here, you probably know of. I don't know this for a fact, but I believe she has a very mild degree of retardation; still, she functions quite well. She walks around town a lot, and is generally harmless, if at times loud and boisterous - this may be due to frustration because no one can really understand what she's saying.

Shirley (not her real name) was at bingo that night.

Like so many of the other patrons, Shirley was all decked out in bingo regalia. Most bingo crowds are full of serious bingo enthusaists; they have the handmade bags with various bingo insignia on them, with 6 or 7 pockets for each of their different colored bingo daubers. Maybe a couple of people will have a knitted bingo sweater or a bingo jacket. In addition, the hardcore bingoers will have various paraphernelia on them - good luck charms, etc. (Shirley even had a little red stop sign on a stick that read "bingo" that she could wave when she got a bingo - an item that did not come into use that night, as you will see.) Suffice it to say that if bingo kitsch turns your stomach, then you probably shouldn't go to bingo night.

After the early-bird games and the first set of real games for bigger money ($50 to the winner), there was a 10-minute intermission for the smokers present, since the Legion bingo hall is now smoke-free. Following the smoke break, Wife and I made our way back to our seats, where we overheard this conversation nearby:

"The women's restroom is closed. Someone shit on the floor."

And then we heard *this* in a separate conversation following that one:

"Yeah, it was probably Shirley. She goes into the women's room and shits on the floor when she doesn't win."

(This isn't outside the realm of possibility, by the way. Out of the 60 or so the people at bingo that night, if there was someone to be voted "Most Likely To Shit On The Floor To Spite The People Running The Bingo Game Because She's Not Winning," it would have been Shirley.)

Anyway, Wife and I processed these two bits of information and then went on about our bingo.

About 15 minutes later, in the middle of a game, I turned to my wife and and said matter-of-factly, "... So. She shits on the floor, huh?"

We lost it.

We laughed for a solid 10 minutes, till we were both crying. Couldn't keep track of our numbers or anything, and were just a general distraction to the people around us. It was great.

Wife and I eventually calmed down. Then, about 15 minutes later, she starts laughing again. I figured she was still laughing about the previous.

She leaned over to me and said "Shirley .... Shirley ...." and couldn't get the rest of it out because she was laughing so hard. Eventually, she composed herself enough to let me know that Shirley had coughed out her false teeth. More hilarity ensued.

If I'd ever believed that the laughter had disappeared from our marriage, it took our five-year anniversary at a bingo hall to disabuse me of that notion.