Why Bavaria ROCKS!!!

The whole region. It just simply rocks. It is almost as if it was designed for great gags, funny photos or some damned interesting sight-seeing!

Let us take a little hypothetical road trip to illustrate my point.

We'll begin at Kissing. (Kissing, Germany.)

From Kissing, its a long, long road, but if persistent, we will eventually get to Petting, (Petting, Germany.) And Petting is a lot of fun. A lot like Kissing, but more to do.

It may have taken some time to get from Kissing to Petting, but it was worth it. Not just because of the wondrous things right at your fingertips, but because now we are so close to Fucking, (Fucking, Austria, that is.) And Fucking is great. Much better than Petting, though Petting is quite nice.

So we go north. You know you are well on your way once you get into Tittmoning. Its just a little further on.

And then here we are. Beautiful Fucking. You’re going to like Fucking. Hey! Let’s make a day of it. There are so many different ways to enjoy Fucking. It really is terrific! I love it.

(There is a bit of scandal in this quaint little town, though. Apparently, the Fucking mayor has been trying to get the Fucking police to stop all the Fucking tourists from stealing the Fucking street signs. Apparently, they are highly sought-after Fucking souvenirs!)

Incidentally, if you get to Petting and things aren’t going quite as you planned, you can always turn south instead. And have a fine time for yourself by going to Wank for a little while.

That’s always fun, too. (Wank, Germany, of course.)

auf Wiedersehen,

Chris

Decisions, Decisions...

Who names these places anyways?

My First Confession

Forgive me, Reader, for I have sinned. This is my first blogged confession.

My first week back to work was stressful for me, and I wasted away my off-hours in trivial pusuits such as beach volleyball. My sin is worse than just a lack of industrious endeavors, (or "sloth,") however. Please bear with me.

Of these games, (twice a week, weather permitting,) I have bragged to my wife in regards to their health benefits and exercise and the like. What I kept from her, (a lie of omission, you might say, for sin #2, if keeping score,) is that between games, I would recoup and regroup in the fashion of my teammates; with beer and cigarettes. Yes, my trusted confidantes, I smoked.

Now, frankly, this would be no big deal had I not quit smoking ten, (or so,) years ago, as I began my wedded life with the missus. A relapse would have surely be seen as a disappointment to her, hence my lie.

To make matters worse, I found myself in Staples one evening after a game, getting some supplies before heading home. While there, I noticed the smell of cigarettes on my hands. In order to hide this smell from my wife, (or compound the lie. We'll make that sin #3!) I decided to clean my hands. As I walked the aisles, I saw a bottle of Purell that had been opened and I chose to swipe a little for my deceptive puposes, ("theft;" sin #4.)

I took a squirt or two, (okay, three,) and began to vigorously rub the tell-tale odor from my hands. Almost immediately, I noticed how viscous the Purell was. Thick and very sticky, too. I looked down and saw the luxurious dry lather I was building and then noticed that I had not stolen a shot or three from a dispenser of Purell, but from a bottle of clear SoftSoap.

I was all soaped up and without any water and in the middle of Staples.

Fortunately, being a goofball is not a sin, so THAT doesn't count toward my running tally. I wiped my hands off on my lower pant leg, made my way through the registers, and went home. I was a little proud of the smoke-masking scent that I had inadvertently covered my hands with, however, ("pride;" Sin #5. Making a grand total of five sins that I am repenting today.)

For my penance, Dear Reader, I shall promise to not have another cigarette, at least until the next volleyball game, and I will have nothing more alcoholic to drink for the rest of my evening.

Thank you for listening. I feel purged, and pure once again.

Technophobe's Illustrated #17

Christopher P. Toler, 9/10/2009 .

(Okay! Even I agree, this is a bit of a stretch. Oh well!)

Postcards From The Road: Bretton Woods, NH

Travelin' Uncle Chris at The Mount Washington Hotel.

From the Stinkhammer songbook...

The year was 1989, (or was it 1990? Whatever. It doesn't matter.) It was the era of big hair, aviator sunglasses, tight acid-washed jeans, the "Heavy Metal Power Ballad," and

Well, one day I was approached by our guitarist and our drummer, with a request. "Write us this song!" they said and presented me with the title, (and gave me a short list of words they insisted were used.) Never one to refuse a challenge, I penned the following little ditty, to be sung in the Power Ballad-style of the day. I give you now;

"I Love You So Fuckin' Much I Can't Shit."

So Fuckin’ Much That I Can’t Shit

Sitting here thinking ‘bout the time you left me on my own

Turned me from a proud young king to a lonely prince on an empty throne

Since you left me standing there on that stormy night,

Seems that nothing's able to come out right.

Since the time that you and separated,

Thinkin’ ‘bout you’s made me constipated,

I love you so fuckin’ much, that I can’t shit.

Seen the doctor he said the problem’s in my mind,

And thoughts about you make my bowels bind.

He gave suppositories but they don’t reach my heart.

No matter how deep I push ‘em, they only make me fart.

In my mind I see your face and my heart skips a beat,

And the pain it causes keeps me glued to my seat,

I love you so fuckin’ much that I can’t shit.

The night you left me hurt me to my very core.

It made my stomach tight and my sphincter sore.

You said goodbye and then just hit the road.

If you don’t come back soon, I may just explode!

Thoughts of losing you were my greatest fears.

Now your gone and I packed up to my ears.

I love you so fuckin’ much that I can’t shit.

I miss the love and affection that you give.

When we were together they were like a laxative.

Now you’ve left me and I’m tighter than a drum.

It’s been so long I’ve forgotten how to wipe my bum!

When you left me you took a piece of my soul,

But I’ll keep waiting for you, perched here on the bowl.

I love you so fuckin’ much that I can’t shit.

Chilling, I know.

Oh, what could have been...

Postcards From The Road; Moab, Utah

Traveling Uncle Toler in Arches Nat'l Park...

☟

Decisions, Decisions...

"Lost" In Translation

It is true that I believe I have too much time on my hands. But the following post quite conclusively proves this point...

So, one night I had decided to translate the theme song to Gilligan's Island into Japanese and back to see how badly it's meaning had changed. I then got the idea to translate it from Japanese to Hebrew. And then I thought, "Why not Hebrew to Finnish?" Why the hell not, indeed!!!

I entered each line of the song into the online translator at "Worldlingo.com," changing the languages as I went: Japanese, Hebrew, Finnish, English...

This, then, is my result.

First, the lyrics in the original, English version, (for those who don't know it as well as I do!):

"Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a fateful trip
That started from this tropic port
Aboard this tiny ship.

The mate was a mighty sailing man,
The skipper brave and sure.
Five passengers set sail that day
For a three hour tour, a three hour tour.

The weather started getting rough,
The tiny ship was tossed,
If not for the courage of the fearless crew
The minnow would be lost, the minnow would be lost.

The ship set ground on the shore of this uncharted desert isle
With Gilligan, The Skipper too,
The millionaire and his wife,
The movie star, The professor and Mary Ann,
Here on Gilligans Isle."

Now, the lyrics after running it through multiple translations:

"It is he whose back is parted, just presented sitting; you have asked a story,

The story of death driving.

We started with this more tropical port;

It is a small boat.

As a partner, that man was a great maritime safety,

A courageous man, with a flag, really.

The five other passengers on sail day

Travel costs for a period of 3, 3 times to travel.

The climate began unclear

The boat was thrown out small,

When he did not have the courage, it has the group courage,

He lost small fish; smaller fish, has lost.

The island of solid boat-land beach, mapped this desert

Gilligan, the person, through which flies in such a way excessively,

the large magnate and that, his wife.

Star transmission, and leopard and the United Nations,

I am here, Gilligans."

Kind of poetic in its own way, don't you think?

Postcards from the Road

Many years ago, back when my Goddaughter, Shawna, was still a young child, I used to send her postcards from wherever I was visiting.

During one trip out west, I saw this postcard of “The Jackalope:"

I knew this was more interesting than my trip, so I decided that I would send her postcards like this, educational, informative, entertaining and existing almost entirely in a fictitious world from my very own melon.

From that same trip...

Montezuma's Castle, Camp Verde, AZ:

I considered myself, "Traveling Uncle Toler" and sent a card whenever I was away, and I carried this tradition on with my nephew as time went by. It might mess up their grades in school if they were to ever use these as a reference, but I think it is often more interesting than the real world, and it is important to show kids alternative perspectives...

I no longer have these postcards, they were mailed to her years ago, (and she probably still has them!!!) but I decided I could reproduce them accurately enough now and post them here, just for S&G!

Decisions, Decisions.

"Gourmet" Hot Dogs

So, the missus and I went to one of those “gourmet” hot dog places recently. Now, I gotta say, I have nothing but respect for the Hot Dog; It’s all-American, a perfect size to squelch a hunger without making you feel full, and it has a lot of room for individualization through toppings. And one simply can’t go to a Sox game without Ballpark Frank! It’s a good, good thing.

But, it is, after all, just a hot dog. These hot dog places, which appear to be riding on a nostalgic wave of novelty as much as, (or more than,) any really product demand niche, charge prices one would expect of “gourmet” but not of “hot dog.”

I paid $3.50 for a dog on a roll with mustard, onion and peppers. (Coincidentally, this was also the cost of two packages of eight Oscar Mayer “Bun-Length” turkey dogs at Stop & Shop!) It was a good dog, but nothing otherworldly, (and not worth three and a half bucks.)

(Cue the "reminiscing-old-fogey" mode:)

I remember a time when a person could get “Two Hot Dogs for a Dollar” at The Pump-N-Pantry, (a local gas station/convenient store.) And not crappy, week-old, formerly-foods, either. Decent franks, freshly made.

In fact, partaking in this twin wonders bargain was part of my standard M.O. when taking a woman out for a second date. 

Yes, I said, second.

You see, for a first date, I would always pull out the stops and go someplace big and fancy, and go for all the bells and whistles; Drinks, appetizers, entrées, deserts, entertainment, the works. And happily drop a wad o’ cash in the process. 

"Hmmm... Very impressive, Mr. Big Spender!"

HOWEVER, for the second date, we were looking at the Pump-n-Pantry and a coupla’ franks. Oh, and share a fountain soda. This served three very important functions; 1) It very clearly passed the message, "Sometimes things are good, sometimes, not so much," 2) it saved me some cash after the first date's expensive meal, and 3) it frequently saved me from having to spend any time or money on any “third” dates. But if, on that rare chance there was a third date after the Pantry’s “two-fer” deal, that was a special woman! (I say this, but to this day, my wife vehemently denies going here with me.)

In any case, I fear that these trendy new Dog stands aren’t going to last too much longer. With the economy and the very nature of hot dogs as anti-gourmet, Franks may soon go back to being relegated to the sales from carts or trucks with a more or the staple of the backyard barbecue, where they belong.

Incidentally, it took a great deal of effort to not use terms like "mustered," "catch up," "relish," et cetera, while writing this. I just wanted that acknowledged.

How will YOU be "Rocked?"

The question comes up throughout the day more frequently than one is usually comfortably with. Turning to pop music for the answers, one comes up with the following likelihood chart.

If, in fact, being rocked is in your immediate future, this pie chart shows you the chances of what that “rocking” might be like.

♪  Like A Hurricane, 44%

♪ All Night, (And Party Every Day), 27%

♪ Around The Clock, 12%

♪ Amadeus, 5%

♪ Like A Wagon Wheel, 4%

♪ Tonight, 3%

♪ Eternally, 2%

♪ To The Ground, 1%

♪ Gently, and/or Slowly, 0.4%

Good luck and be careful! Rock responsibly!

"Among the Sasquatch"

Jane Goodall’s study of Chimpanzee’s, Dian Fossey’s ‘Gorillas in the Mist’, and now...
What is left? Where is the next primatology study hotspot? I’ll tell you! Or rather, I’ll show you!

‘Among the Sasquatch!’ Oh, you read right, friends! Your humble author is on the edge of a monumental study of our NEW closest living relatives, the Bigfoot!

The plan is simple, really. A tree-stand, some motion-activated cameras, infra-red scopes, and a bucketload of patience and luck.

I will live in the trees, but strategically mark out territory with urine much like a bear or cat, (or possibly, a Sasquatch!) and use these territorial markings to “guide” the human-wary Bigfoot into a place where documentation of its existence is assured. Then, a carefully devised trap to ensnare the sub-human would allow me to free the beast, and thusly win over its trust.

It may require several such “chance” encounters, over a period of months, but eventually, I should safely be welcomed into their culture, as simply a follicly-challenged member of their society. It is from this vantage point that I will learn all about the Sasquatch; its attitudes, its language, its familiar infrastructure, and document it for my forthcoming, Nobel Prize-winning documentary.

This is only a dramatization of what MIGHT happen...

Yes, science will gain an understanding of this elusive creature, and my name will live beyond eternity as the cryptozoologist who never gave up believing!

A future honorary-Sasquatch tribe member...

Okay, true, this plan hinges on my receiving a big, fat grant in order to jump-start this little expedition, but I am sure that the delay in that is merely a paperwork glitch. This type of thing takes some time...

Once the grant approval comes through, however, mankind will enter into a new age of understanding, a new dawn of zoology, a new era of awareness. All ushered in by me.

Pretty awesome, huh?

For a dated, pre-greatness, autographed photo of me, your humble author, leave a comment requesting contact information and send $20.00 in cash or cashier's check to the address provided.

condron.us