Lunar Lopes are tough.

I really hate George W. Bush's policies, and I'm not a big fan of the man, either.

But, darn it, I want to walk on the moon.

It musta been the tacos.

A minor setback is enough to make me give up all hope for the future. What is wrong with me? Maybe I'm bipolar...

I'm still here.

But mostly I'm here. I suppose this destroys my vaunted pseudonymity, but I worry less about readers of Rooster Spice finding out who I am than people who know who I am finding Rooster Spice.

The dirty little secret is that I don't yet know whether our team has been accepted. Shhh...

Daredevil.

Giant holes where the actors ought to be.

Blind fucking rage about nothing. Was that a Seinfeld blind rage? When I look back, will my life be a blind rage?

"All I know is
What I want most of all
Is to know what I want."
-- Into the Woods

It all comes down to one fucking choice. Except, of course, it doesn't, not really; because one choice is so inextricably bound up in the person you are (and were), and that choice, even if it were different, would have been cancelled out and rendered moot by all the other choices, and the result would have been virtually the same.

Unless, I suppose, one talks about the choice of one's parents to conceive and the choice of the chromosomes to stick together in just the specific way that created you. That's a choice that could have made a difference.

Why should we care? Seriously.

Motherfucking dickhead Christ-on-a-stick asshole bunghole Izusuhole crap shit moron. Go back to the Shadows.

Just fucking bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Leave me alone. Short people got no reason to live.

Fortunately, I don't own a copy of Mein Kampf.

My one-year-old daughter loves to read books, and she oftentimes grabs grown-up books just to leaf through them. The other day she grabbed my Little Red Book, and started calling my name: "Da, da, da, da..."

"Yes, honey?"

"Da, da, da, da--dialectical materialism!"

Bizarre phone conversations: a new sub-genre.

What's the proper response to "Hello, do you have a wife who's Oriental and drives a station wagon?"

All I could come up with was, "Uh, no."

In retrospect I probably should have said, "I have a wife who's Caucasian and takes public transit."

Upon watching The Two Towers, Diarrhea Edition.

I finally got it! I was wondering where the heck I had seen this performer before. Of course! I didn't even know he was an actor!

Marvelous, Holmes, marvelous!

"If you find a small portion of your front yard is wet, you may reasonably conclude that your neighbor's sprinkler was poorly adjusted. However, should you find that your trash can, car, and driveway are wet, you must not infer that your neighbor ran throughout your property with his or her garden hose; rather, you must conclude that it has rained."

I voted.

The person for whom I voted shall remain a secret, at least until I get bored. I urge anyone from the Super Tuesday states who can vote to do so.

It seemed like an exercise in faith-based voting this year, with those shiny Diebold screens blinking at me and assuring "Your vote has been recorded" while offering no solid evidence that it had been. I want a printout, damn it.

I think it might be time to quit blogging again.