Thursday, March 29, 2012
Is Alive
Apparently, I should have alerted you that I am alive and in New York. Posts about the trip next week.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Salutable Shorts
As of 7:30 am, the entrants are:
Stormy Westside
Bethany Peters
Aleksandr Kretic
Will two more brave souls join their ranks? Will the contest be saved? Stay tuned to find out!
Saturday, February 25, 2012
My Road Trip
So, this here's my currently planned trip back to New York for next month.
View Eastward, ho! in a larger map
If I'm driving by your neck of the woods and you'd like me stop, let me know!
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Red Rock Search
I went out to Red Rock Canyon (well, technically, east of Red Rock Canyon) today as part of a search for a hiker who has been missing for almost three weeks. We didn't find him, or any trace, really, but we did find a few other things. A backpack stuffed with a mental patient's paperwork (seriously), lots of broken beer bottles, a pallet of telephone books (some of which had been set on fire), and this endorsement from an obviously satisfied customer:
Obviously, I didn't get a chance to take a picture of everything I saw out there. I was actually looking for a missing hiker. That we didn't find. So, to avoid being a complete downer, here are pictures of some of the spectacular sunsets we've had lately...
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Vote for ME for DICTATOR OF THE WORLD!!!
(I promise to be benevolent. Mostly.)
Here are all of this year's campaign promises. Please remember to vote for me for dictator of the world in your upcoming civic election.
My first act, if elected dictator of the world, will be to remove school zones and crossing guards around all middle and high schools. While it is indeed a tragedy when a dumbass 13-year-old gets run the hell over because his eyes are glued to the screen of an electronic gadget that cost more than half of my friends' cars, the true tragedy is that he may one day breed more dumbass children.
My second act, if elected as dictator of the world, will be to eliminate all maximum speed limits, institute minimum speed limits, and quadruple the penalties for reckless driving.
My third act, when elected dictator of the world, will be to ban any and all forms of reality television. News programs will be allowed to apply for an exception permit.
My fourth act, for when I'm elected dictator of the world, will be to get rid of airport security people and just issue all stewardesses a shotgun.
Since I'm busy with the SOTU drinking game, today's campaign promise is a platform that I've been standing on for years and will not flip flop on: I promise penal reform, in the form of heads on sticks.
My (whichever, I think I'm up to five) act as dictator of the world will be to outlaw oversensitivity, and require all those who are offended by words to be publicly beaten with a live lobster - to thicken their skin.
Today's campaign promise involves children. I vow, that as dictator, all parents who do not remove screaming/crying children from public places that have a reasonable expectation of adult behavior (churches, theaters, restaurants that aren't Chuck E. Cheese, etc) will be forced to surrender their children to CPS.
I almost forgot a campaign promise for today! I guess today's promise is to decriminalize assisted suicide. And marijuana, too. They both get a bad rap.
And for your special bonus campaign promise: I promise to legalize dueling, so that the idiots who want to shoot each other can voluntarily be removed from the gene pool.
That's all until the next time this perpetual campaign pisses me off. Thank you and remember to vote for me as dictator of the world!
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Drinking Games
So it appears that what people actually want from me are more drinking games. And since I'm a slave to public opinion, I'll try for a new one every week. I'll continue to link them here so that it's even easier to find something to drink to.
Movies
Political
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
2012 State of the Union Drinking Game
Good Evening, Ladies, Gentlemen, and Liberals! (Just kidding, guys)
Welcome to Aynsley's 2012 SOTU Drinking Game!
I'll be watching the SOTU here, and tweeting when to drink here (in case I was way too accurate and it becomes difficult to keep up).
Before we begin, I'd like to recommend my Julius Punch for this drinking game. I make it with a can of concentrated orange juice and 80 proof vanilla rum. To prepare the punch, make your juice as normal, but substitute 1 can of rum for 1 can of water. This delicious beverage is refreshing, and unlikely to give you alcohol poisoning.
On to the rules:
Take one drink every time BO says any of the following:
"Sustainable" (or sustainability, etc)
"Occupy"
"Generations"
"Accountability"
"Bipartisan"
"Expand"
Take one drink if:
The camera pans past your representative or either of your senators
You see anyone playing with their cell phone, tablet, or other PDA
BO name-checks anyone
The camera catches Biden making a silly face
Take two drinks every time BO says any of the following:
"Fair share"
"Enhance"
"Redistribute"
"Stabilize"
"Partnership"
or mentions his father
Drain the glass and pour another if:
BO mentions the "socialist mop"
Any of the congressfolk yell during the speech
The camera catches John Boehnor or Harry Reid rolling his eyes
BO mentions Charlie Sheen
Forget the juice and just finish the bottle if:
BO announces he will not seek a second term and endorses Hillary Clinton as a Democratic candidate.
Welcome to Aynsley's 2012 SOTU Drinking Game!
I'll be watching the SOTU here, and tweeting when to drink here (in case I was way too accurate and it becomes difficult to keep up).
Before we begin, I'd like to recommend my Julius Punch for this drinking game. I make it with a can of concentrated orange juice and 80 proof vanilla rum. To prepare the punch, make your juice as normal, but substitute 1 can of rum for 1 can of water. This delicious beverage is refreshing, and unlikely to give you alcohol poisoning.
On to the rules:
Take one drink every time BO says any of the following:
"Sustainable" (or sustainability, etc)
"Occupy"
"Generations"
"Accountability"
"Bipartisan"
"Expand"
Take one drink if:
The camera pans past your representative or either of your senators
You see anyone playing with their cell phone, tablet, or other PDA
BO name-checks anyone
The camera catches Biden making a silly face
Take two drinks every time BO says any of the following:
"Fair share"
"Enhance"
"Redistribute"
"Stabilize"
"Partnership"
or mentions his father
Drain the glass and pour another if:
BO mentions the "socialist mop"
Any of the congressfolk yell during the speech
The camera catches John Boehnor or Harry Reid rolling his eyes
BO mentions Charlie Sheen
Forget the juice and just finish the bottle if:
BO announces he will not seek a second term and endorses Hillary Clinton as a Democratic candidate.
Monday, January 16, 2012
The Land of Sunsets
In the land of sunsets, I sit with my father and my grandmother drinking iced tea out of very tall glasses from a pitcher that we never can manage to finish.
They both think I am a little strange for drinking my tea unsweetened, never mind that neither of them put sugar in their tea, either, so it saves us from making two pitchers anyway. They don't even use the same artificial sweetener. My father likes the kind that comes in the pink packets, and my grandmother prefers the kind in the blue. Never mind that they do not actually have to skip the sugar anymore, habits are habits. I am still the odd duck, but some things never change.
The glass table we sit at in white wicker chairs is cool to the touch. It somehow matches the drinking glasses, although not the pitcher. The pitcher is one I have often seen in my father's mother's kitchen, filled with iced tea. Whoever made the tea brewed it perfectly - plenty of flavor, and not even slightly bitter. It is refreshing.
My grandmother, not his mother, waits for me with my father. She is friendly and cheerful with him, like she is with everybody - she could make friends with a rabid dog, as long as he agreed not to bite her or much drool on her pants. My father, not her son, is relaxed and amicable with her, like he is with everybody. People tend to like my dad - he makes friends easily and often. You have to be a real son of a bitch for him not to like you.
They are not the only ones there, but they get first crack. I occasionally see others, and those that I know nod to me from time to time, acknowledging without interrupting. One friend winks at me, to remind me that he is as patient as I am not. His smirk is mocking encouragement and gentle admonishment, all at once. I briefly consider excusing myself to sock him in the gut before deciding not to prove his point. We will have plenty of time to discuss his facial expressions later.
My grandmother asks me if I am okay. I give her an honest answer, the only one I have, that I am not. My father continues by assuring me that I will be, after all, that is my specialty. He pronounces the word with a British accent, adding an extra syllable. I do not know why.
I call it the land of sunsets because it is. When I arrived, the sun was sinking below the horizon. Not the remote and dessicated horizon from my desert, or the green, hilly horizon from my forest, but something in between. I pour myself a glass and sink back into my chair, watching the last rays of the sunset fade while I intently dig my toes into the grass.
They have a few questions, but I am not sure I have the answers. I'm not even sure that I understand. They tell me that it is okay if I don't understand, the necessary thing is to try. And I do.
I love the grass here, simply because it is green and soft and fragrant and I am not allergic to it. My father asks me a question, and I look up to answer him, shielding my eyes from the sun setting behind him. The sun is not particularly bright, but habits are habits. I pause to take another drink of tea. I never sip it.
I comprehend more than they expect, but less than they hoped. I take it as a happy medium. I am, after all, only human. I watch another sun set behind my grandmother, relaxing into her voice. I sense that my time to sit with my father and grandmother is drawing to a close.
I'd like to pull each of them into a hug that could crack a rib, but that sort of thing is not done here. The body is vulgar. Instead, I sit quietly and fuss with the hem of my sundress. Grand displays are the sort of thing that ensures one will not be invited back. I compromise and reach across the table to squeeze my grandmother's hand, as hard as I can. She grimaces at my freshly-painted, dark blue nails, and then smiles, anyway. Habits are habits.
It is time to leave. I stand, unsure of what happens next. My father stands and surprises me with a quick embrace. We were never very good at affection after I grew up. It is as comforting as it is unexpected.
I miss them.
They both think I am a little strange for drinking my tea unsweetened, never mind that neither of them put sugar in their tea, either, so it saves us from making two pitchers anyway. They don't even use the same artificial sweetener. My father likes the kind that comes in the pink packets, and my grandmother prefers the kind in the blue. Never mind that they do not actually have to skip the sugar anymore, habits are habits. I am still the odd duck, but some things never change.
The glass table we sit at in white wicker chairs is cool to the touch. It somehow matches the drinking glasses, although not the pitcher. The pitcher is one I have often seen in my father's mother's kitchen, filled with iced tea. Whoever made the tea brewed it perfectly - plenty of flavor, and not even slightly bitter. It is refreshing.
My grandmother, not his mother, waits for me with my father. She is friendly and cheerful with him, like she is with everybody - she could make friends with a rabid dog, as long as he agreed not to bite her or much drool on her pants. My father, not her son, is relaxed and amicable with her, like he is with everybody. People tend to like my dad - he makes friends easily and often. You have to be a real son of a bitch for him not to like you.
They are not the only ones there, but they get first crack. I occasionally see others, and those that I know nod to me from time to time, acknowledging without interrupting. One friend winks at me, to remind me that he is as patient as I am not. His smirk is mocking encouragement and gentle admonishment, all at once. I briefly consider excusing myself to sock him in the gut before deciding not to prove his point. We will have plenty of time to discuss his facial expressions later.
My grandmother asks me if I am okay. I give her an honest answer, the only one I have, that I am not. My father continues by assuring me that I will be, after all, that is my specialty. He pronounces the word with a British accent, adding an extra syllable. I do not know why.
I call it the land of sunsets because it is. When I arrived, the sun was sinking below the horizon. Not the remote and dessicated horizon from my desert, or the green, hilly horizon from my forest, but something in between. I pour myself a glass and sink back into my chair, watching the last rays of the sunset fade while I intently dig my toes into the grass.
They have a few questions, but I am not sure I have the answers. I'm not even sure that I understand. They tell me that it is okay if I don't understand, the necessary thing is to try. And I do.
I love the grass here, simply because it is green and soft and fragrant and I am not allergic to it. My father asks me a question, and I look up to answer him, shielding my eyes from the sun setting behind him. The sun is not particularly bright, but habits are habits. I pause to take another drink of tea. I never sip it.
I comprehend more than they expect, but less than they hoped. I take it as a happy medium. I am, after all, only human. I watch another sun set behind my grandmother, relaxing into her voice. I sense that my time to sit with my father and grandmother is drawing to a close.
I'd like to pull each of them into a hug that could crack a rib, but that sort of thing is not done here. The body is vulgar. Instead, I sit quietly and fuss with the hem of my sundress. Grand displays are the sort of thing that ensures one will not be invited back. I compromise and reach across the table to squeeze my grandmother's hand, as hard as I can. She grimaces at my freshly-painted, dark blue nails, and then smiles, anyway. Habits are habits.
It is time to leave. I stand, unsure of what happens next. My father stands and surprises me with a quick embrace. We were never very good at affection after I grew up. It is as comforting as it is unexpected.
I miss them.
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