Yesterday's UGA season opener versus the Louisiana Lafayette Ragin' Cajuns was more family reunion than football game.

Those poor Cajuns were outmatched from the time they signed the contract to play the game, and everyone, including the Cajuns, seemed to know it and planned accordingly. That UGA managed 55 points with a freshman quarterback and several stars deactivated for a litany of violations against team rules, accused NCAA infractions, and state laws wasn't nearly as surprising as the fact that the Cajuns scored 7 points. (They scored on their only completed deep pass one play following UGA's sole turnover of the game, an interception off a bobbled reception. It's always better to be lucky than good.)

For those of you who have wondered, mouse over to see my seats.

The smell of sunblock was more prevalent than the smell of beer as old friends caught up on gossip gained since last year's season finale versus Kentucky. The temperature was unseasonably mild and insidiously pleasant, distracting everyone from cooking in the direct early afternoon sunlight. Twin F-18's missed their cue, arriving about 30 seconds too early and washing out the "Sanford Stadium tradition" of the Redcoat Marching Band's rendition of the National Anthem, but nobody was disappointed. Even Russ, Uga's temporarily replacement seemed contentedly lethargic as he lazily (and not without much coaxing) fulfilled his mandatory photo-op duty for the University. It was really a pretty swell atmosphere for a football bloodbath.

Eagle-eyed readers may notice that the endzones are painted slightly differently than in past years. I pointed this fact out to my mother before kickoff. "Only you would notice something like that," she sighed. I also noticed that the roof of Russ's doghouse read "UGA Mascot" instead of "Uga" (as it did last year) and that the scoreboard promoted UGA players now in the NFL using a logo that the NFL replaced two years ago. I didn't bother pointing these things out. I'm sure mom appreciated my silence.

The only bleeding done last night at the inaugural Georgia State University football game was by Shorter in a very lopsided 41-7 affair. What college, no matter how small, gets beaten by a commuter school team playing it's first game ever? I've seen high school football teams play better ball than the Shorter Hawks. In the past week!

The first play from scrimmage in GSU history was negated by a penalty, but the Panthers manged to end the drive with the first touchdown in school -- thanks largely to some major penalties committed by Shorter (including illegal participation and unsportsmanlike conduct penalties). Sure Shorter may be able to gripe about Georgia State running up the score a little bit, including scoring a touchdown with 8 seconds remaining in the game. But I'm not sure that you can hold that against the young GSU squad wanting to make a big splash in their first game.

This was the first trip to the Georgia Dome for my mother, a GSU alumnus. Judging by how clearly inexperienced the crowd of 30,327 was, I'd say that there were a lot of first-timers present. No one seemed to know when to cheer (the rowdy crowd caused the GSU Panthers at least 1 false start penalty) or boo (the crowd was especially unruly after Shorter's only touchdown and appeared to be booing the GSU defense). One student sitting behind me nearly went hoarse trying to explain to his neighbors the finer points of football, such as the theory behind Shorter's option offense, what exactly a fair catch was, and how teams change sides between quarters.

However, if the crowd was clueless, they were geniuses compared to the operations crew. I know that GSU has never had a football team before. And no doubt they were intimidated by the Georgia Dome facilities. But the entire affair seemed to be run by someone whose experience with college football was from a pop-up book he checked out of the library.

The school had a marching band that included electric guitar players, but only played songs that were popular prior to the birth of any of its musicians. There were fireworks for player introductions, but only two cones of intermittent sparklers being watched by two students with fire hydrants. They prepared some nifty videos and graphics to play on the "Panter-Vision" during key situations, but had no concept of timing and didn't even remember to warn us to drink responsibly until a quarter after the taps had closed. Key advertising partners had been selected for between-quarters entertainment and highlight replays, but no one seemed to think that it was a bad idea to allow a seafood restaurant to sponsor the "Six Feet Under Fan Cam." And the PA system was much, much too loud.

The highlight of the evening was a second-quarter video of a player who tried leading the crowd in a cheer. After the first pass at the cheer resulting in only half-hearted and murmured participation, in typical cheer-leading fashion, our video-taped ringleader encouraged the crowd to try again:

VIDEO-TAPED PLAYER: I can't hear you! 'G-S'...

CROWD (loudly): 'U'!

VIDEO: 'G-S'...

CROWD (louder): 'U'!

VIDEO: 'G-A'...

CROWD (screaming): 'U'!

In the moment of near total confused silence that followed, I looked at my mother and asked, "what the hell is a 'gau'?" My bemused mother replied, "I think they were supposed to say, 'state'." No one tried to lead the crowd in any cheers for the rest of the game.

Despite the many, many snafus, I think in the end a good time was had by all. Except maybe Shorter.

Welcome to the 5th Annual Wriphe.com Batman and Football Month. It's hard to believe that it's been five years since I was asked to choose between Batman and football. In retrospect, over that time I have watched 21 different colleges play ball in person, attended 2 Super Bowls, and stopped buying Detective Comics altogether. So I guess there's your answer. (Time really does tell!)

Since no one spoke out against posts every other day when I asked last week, I'll start trying to post more often. However, it is now football season, and all bets are off for my posting schedule when post dates may conflict with my attendance of live games. (Currently, I'm scheduled to attend 7 live gridiron contests this season, but I think I may also attend the Stephenson HS vs. Newnan HS game in late October. We'll see how I feel that weekend.)

You may also have noticed that since my last post I've changed the layout of the blog. In order to make my old posts more accessible, I've been moving all old posts into the database. I've also begun the corresponding implementation of a tag system. Right now, searches only function by tag, and only for those posts that have already been tagged. And if you're nostalgic, you can still go back and look at the old posts by year, just like you used to.

It must be an election season. I'm getting pretty damn sick of hearing people say that this country is being run into the ground because the left is full of corrupt Socialists or the right is full of heartless bigots. I'm tired of hearing people say that they understand the intentions of the Founding Fathers while everyone else is completely screwing them up. I'm fed up with people who use fear as a motivational tool while denying that is what they are doing. I'm disgusted by the humorless egoists who pass off their opinion as News, and I'm appalled by the people who can't tell the difference. And I'm completely pissed off at people who bully or con others into judging people without any consideration for the rights of those people.

If you disagree with me, you're stupid.

I'm considering changing my posting schedule here at Wriphe.com/blog. Right now, I post every three days (exactly as often as I shave). Should I start posting every other day? Or perhaps not at all? Speak now or forever hold your piece.

Following my last post which revealed that the rainbow ends in disappointment, I present the two inevitabilities in life: death and poodles.

July looks very jaunty in this image, no? I think perhaps I need to start taking pictures of July in front of other bleak subjects and see if she can't liven them up a bit. House fires and auto accidents, here we come.

Question: What's at the end of the rainbow?

Answer: It's the Pitts.
[Photo taken 08/19 in Dublin, GA, where "pot of gold" = "used cars."]

Since my brother moved away last month and took his Tivo with him, I've been watching a lot more commercials. I find that instead of instilling me with a desire to purchase another product I probably don't need, most of them are filling me with unreasonable rage.

Take for example the Pepsi Max commercial where a Pepsi Max vendor and a Coke Zero vendor become friendly only to have the Pepsi fellow reveal that he is an absolute asshole by publicly jeopardizing the Coke vendor's job. (You can view the ad here.) That is supposed to make me want your product, Pepsi? All that does is make me want to preemptively punch anyone wearing Pepsi gear in the face.

You may have noticed that this commercial is a re-imagining of an older Pepsi commercial. (View the original ad here.) Notably in the 1995 original, it was the Coke vendor who provoked the discord by stealing the Pepsi vendor's Pepsi. That's a pretty good commercial: the Pepsi is so good, the Coke guy would rather drink it than Coke. It is a much better punchline than that of the remake, where the Pepsi guy posts a video to Youtube of Mr. Coke giving the Pepsi Max a fair and friendly taste test. That's the equivalent of what Andrew Breitbart did to Shirley Sherrod that resulted in Sherrod's firing by the USDA last month for comments taken out of context. I have no doubt that Brietbart drinks Pepsi.

So what about that new commercial makes Pepsi think that's it's an improvement? Why not just re-film the exact script with Pepsi Max and Coke Zero in place of their higher-caloried counterparts? Does Pepsi think that just because it includes a reference to Youtube, it's going to incite teenagers to drink their diet soft drink? That would make teenagers stupider than soft drink executives!

So I'll tell you why we can't be friends, Pepsi: you're a dick. You can keep your technology-savvy vendors and your Youtube; I'll keep my Coca-Cola. Now get out before I throw you out.

I live in a town where the the biggest thing is always eating at the newest restaurant. For weeks after a new eatery opens, it is thronged with excited customers. It makes sense when the crowd surges towards the new Olive Garden or Mama Lucia's. However, it's a little more confusing when you watch people wait in a line around the building for the Checkers. From the Opinion page in yesterday's Newnan Times-Herald:

DINING CHOICES: We must be starving for something new. A Checkers opens in Newnan and the lines are 30 minutes long. Don't you think we need new dining choices in Newnan?

According the the Coweta County Convention and Visitor's Bureau, there are 168 eateries in this county. You could eat out at a different location every night for almost 6 months and never visit the same restaurant twice! (Granted, you would be eating at a Waffle House once a month, but at least they would be different Waffle Houses!) But, no, we'd rather stand in line for Checkers' Baconzilla® and then write into the paper to complain about the wait.

Checkers, enjoy it while it lasts. In 2 months you won't be the new greasy spoon on the block, and Newnan will abandon you like we did Carabba's, Chili's, and China Garden. Yum. Tastes like closing.

This past Thursday, a school bus collided with a pickup truck on Interstate 44 in Missouri, killing two teenagers. Apparently the tuck stopped suddenly to avoid hitting a semi truck that had slowed for road construction. The truck was totaled by the school bus which was in turn hit by a second school bus that was "following too closely." According to the Associated Press, the driver of the pickup truck (the son of a Missouri politician) and a student in the rear of the first bus (voted "friendliest girl" at St. James High School) were killed in the collisions.

That sounds horrible, right? Think about it this way, World According to Garp-style: the buses were transporting the kids, reportedly all band students, to Six Flags St. Louis. And attendance of a typical Six Flags park is a fate worse than death. So actual death on the way to a Six Flags park is really not the worst possible outcome of this tragedy. And even the survivors got an experience superior to that of a typical Six Flags "thrill" ride with a considerably shorter wait time.

Yes, I recognize that I just followed a misogynistic post with a post making light of the death of a young girl. I am indeed a monster. But at least I didn't make any comments about the sorts of activities that go on in the back of a high school bus or what it takes to be voted "friendliest girl" in a high school. And I also restrained from making disparaging comments about the doomed future prospects for band geeks in high school and beyond. Even monsters have boundaries.

Call me a misogynist if you will: I walked out of a GameStop video game store today because of the three employees working, 2 of them were females. I don't mind equal rights for the fairer sex. If those girls want to work in a shitty customer service job, that's fine by me. But they should stick to the jobs in their domain like cosmetics counters, flight attendance, or hooking. Leave the manly work of selling video games to the men who play them, ladies.

I am aware that the Entertainment Software Association claims that 40 percent of American video gamers are women. But are we really going to believe the trade association for the video game industry? They also say that the average gamer is 34 years old and has been playing video games for 12 years. I'm 34 years old and have been playing video games since I was 7! So that proves that their data is faulty. Besides, compared to the US government's claims that women account for greater than half of all Americans, 40% doesn't look like such a big number, does it?

Girls, you can keep your browser-based Bejeweled and Farmville and any other game that you can play with your 3-inch long press-on nails. And if you must have a PS3 to play your adorable Little Big Planet between trips to the mall, I'll not hold a grudge. Those aren't really games, anyway. Meanwhile, if you can stop talking on the phone long enough to remember to stay out of my GameStop, I'll promise to stay out of someplace you like to go. Like, say, hair salons. Or kitchens. Deal?

I've been busy this past week installing a fence at my brother's home in Dublin, GA. I've been calling it a cyclone fence, but you probably know it as a chain link fence. Turns out that cyclone fence got that name from the Cyclone Fence Company of Waukegan, IL, a trademarked brand now owned by U.S. Steel.

So I've been committing the same error as people who call a copy a Xerox, facial tissue Kleenex, a hook and loop fastener Velcro, and soda Coke. (For those paying attention, the grammatical error of substituting the specific for the general is called a metonym.) Worse, Cyclone Fence was initially a northern brand (though the concept of the chain link fence was invented by the British), so I have unwittingly been using a Yankee word! I apologize to ya'll for this error and will try to correct my usage in the future.

P.S. I'll post a picture of Trey's fence once I've developed my the pictures still in my kodak.

[UPDATE 08/03/10]: Pictures. Note the DirecTV dish in all three pictures for site reference.

Start of Day 1: It doesn't look that big, right? Next time you shovel the concrete.

Start of Day 2: I lost track of how many fence posts after I was attacked by the fire ants.

Start of Day 3: Another day, another $12.74 worth of rebar to fix what we did wrong on Day 2.

On July 30, 1956, "In God We Trust" became the official motto of the Untied States of America by act of Congress (Public Law 84-851). I had long been opposed to such a statement appearing on the noisemakers in my pocket, but I recently learned that the primary impetus behind such an act was a direct response to the "godless" Communists, our Cold War enemies. The motto has been challenged in the courtroom, the battleground of the intellectual, and the Supreme Court ruled in Aronow v. United States (1970), "[the motto's] use is of patriotic or ceremonial character and bears no true resemblance to a governmental sponsorship of a religious exercise." There you have it, a ruling by the Supreme Court that God is a figurehead for America. So I'm okay with it now. In God we trust, you pinkos!

Take a look at the blog post below this post. See how I referred to the Associated Press? Some bloggers would have just posted the entire article on their site. Technically, that's copyright infringement. Now it seems that someone plans to do something about that.

According to David Kravets of Wired magazine, the company Righthaven is buying the rights to stories published by sources such as the Associated Press and Wired magazine and then suing the pants off of anyone who dares to steal that information. As I see it, there is just one small problem with that plan: bloggers who reproduce news items verbatim are not typically affluent people.

It is hard, as they say, to get blood from a stone. Similar methods of stringent pursuit of copyrights have recently helped the recording industry make hundreds of thousands of dollars, discounting the 8-digit millions of dollars that they have paid in lawyers fees. That's not a very good business model, unless of course you are a lawyer.

What does this have to do with Wriphe.com? Well, not much. I don't steal stories, and no one would bother stealing mine. But if you were thinking about that, I now know who to call to do something about it. And we will take your lunch money.

According to the Associated Press, Darth Vader has robbed a New York bank. In addition to bank surveilance footage, several witnesses report seeing Vader, over 6 feet tall, fleeing on foot across a parking lot after the crime. It cannot be a coincidence that David Prowse, the actor inside the Vader costume in all of the classic movies, was earlier this month permanently banned from all official Lucasfilm events, apparently for being too vocal about believing that he has been denied his due residuals from Return of the Jedi. It would seem that the Empire really does strike back.

Have you seen those tv spots for the "magic gravity ball," Fushigi? I swear they are everywhere. I can't watch a whole episode of Hannah Montana anymore without bumping into this ad a dozen times:

No, I am not mesmerized. It's just a ball. What's so amazing about a ball? There's no illusion there. It's a ball. Maybe I'm over-educated for this product. I went to art school. I have a degree in art. You know what I see? Some douche rolling a ball between his hands! Are Americans so stupid that they don't recognize a fucking ball anymore?

I've got bad news for you America: that's not juggling. "Contact juggling" is marketing speak for "holding a ball." It's not floating if you are holding it. It's not levitating if it sits on your arm. It's single, non-mind-blowing movement -- rolling like a ball -- is not blowing my mind. I'm supposed to be amazed when a ball acts like a ball? Seriously? Act now and they will throw in a DVD including "everything you need to know to unlock the secrets of Fushigi!" If you need a movie to show you what a ball can do, you're probably someone who thinks it's a good idea to stick marbles up your own nose.

To make matters worse, they are charging $19.99 for this thing. That's right, $19.99 for a plastic ball! Holy crap. Who has to spend $19.99 to play with some balls? In 1984, a brand new, die-cast metal Optimus Prime Transformer cost me $19.99. Now plastic balls cost $19.99? I'm too old for this shit.

My dogs have had a fight. Now they won't stay in the same room with one another. Victoria seems properly apologetic, but July still growls at her whenever she comes within 5 feet. Most surprising about this is the discovery that July can hold a grudge for longer than 24 hours, though I suspect that she may be milking the situation for a little extra attention. If this is anything like raising children, I'll have no part in that, thank you.

Oops. Just after flushing the toilet, I opened my Marvel™ The Amazing Spider-Man™ Complete chewable vitamins and accidentally dropped the lid and several vitamins down the drain. To my great surprise, this seemed to clear my toilet trap, though the sewer drain may be another matter entirely.

From this point forward I live each day in fear. I know that this incident will come back to haunt me. Which will strike first: an impassible child-proof pipe blockage or a vitamin-powered sewer crocodile? Only time will tell.

UPDATE 07/16/10: First strike goes to blockage. The top got stuck sideways in the toilet trap. So I've just dismantled the toilet, cleaned the trap, and put everything back together. Still I live in fear of the sewer monster powered up on Incredible Hulk™ multi-vitamins. I promise I will never watch Dreamcatcher again. (Though mainly because it is a terrible, terrible movie.)

Every once in a while you see something that you simply cannot believe. This is my most recent something:

According to both television newscast 11 Alive News Tonight and regional newspaper The Times-Herald, Newnan police have arrested a man accused of raping and mutilating a 90-year-old woman. According to the television, the case was broken after a "medium clairvoyant" came forward with details about the attacker. According to the newspaper, the case was broken after a second victim came forward with details about the attacker (no mention of the clairvoyant). This is a prime example of why newspapers are a dying breed: they simply fail to correctly report the facts.

Welcome back, those of you who avoided Superman Month. You're just in time for a slide show of my summer vacation!

Wait, come back! I can't afford to lose any more readers! Fine, no slides! How about if I just post some pictures I took of Cedar Point instead? You can pretend that they are postcards! Ok? Whew. Crisis averted.

In case you are unaware, Cedar Point is an amusement park on the Ohio shore of Lake Erie. Cedar Point is the second oldest existing amusement park in America, and it is home to more roller coasters than any other amusement park in the world. This year's semi-annual pilgrimage marked the 10-year anniversary of my first trip to the park for the unveiling of Millennium Force, at the time the tallest and fastest coaster in the world. I would like to hope that I have aged as well as that coaster.

Giant Wheel and Wicked Twister define the shore of Lake Erie as seen from Space Spiral.

Millennium Force crests its second-tallest hill as seen from the Cedar Point & Lake Erie Railroad.
(Footnote: This image was taken by my friend Michael Foster, though it was my camera so I am taking credit for it.)

Max Air proves that good parks don't need 6 flags.

View of Dodgem bumper car pavilion with inset of sign lit for night.

Sky Ride passes by Raptor as seen from the Midway at dusk.

Composite view of Wildcat, the greatest little coaster in the park.

DC has announced that for the next 12 months, Superman will be literally walking across America. That's 12 issues of Superman where DC's character with the powers of a god will... walk. Sound like your cup of tea? Then maybe you can enter the Official DC Superman "Grounded" Contest and win the opportunity for Superman to walk by your town, provided that you already live within 50 miles of Superman's preconceived route. DC Comics: treating your home town like a truck stop since 1938! Contest details are posted here.

The best part about this contest so far are the comments at the above linked post. People are upset that a) Superman is not visiting the South, b) Superman is not visiting the North East, c) Superman is not passing through his hometown state of Kansas, d) Superman is not leaving America, and e) Superman will be walking and talking for 12 issues like an extended Smokey the Bear PSA. Is there anything that the commenters aren't upset about? It seems to me that internet commenters are pissed-off angry loners, but I wouldn't know from experience because no one ever comments on my site. Maybe I'm not pissing enough people off. I promise to try harder in the future.

My brother has had a hard time finding friends to help him move. Says my brother between mouthfuls of barbecue at dinner, "I need more reliable friends like Superman's loyal pal Jimmy Olsen, not Rick Jones, who abandoned his pal the Hulk for Captain America." Verily, this is a universal truth.

Yesterday, Newsarama.com ran an article titled 10 Things You Might Not Know About Superman. Newsarama.com is a website that is almost exclusively devoted to comic books. So who the hell is reading Newsarama that doesn't know that Superman is a super-ventriloquist capable of changing his voice to aid his disguise as Clark Kent?

I'm not saying that I'm surprised that there are people out there who are unaware of the complete set of Superman's god-like powers. (His hair is super absorbent! He doesn't need to breathe for years at a time! He can never die!) I'm just saying that those people don't read comic book websites.

No one who visits the HuffingtonPost.com is unaware that Barrack Obama is the second coming of Stalin. And no one wanders into PerezHilton.com without first knowing that Lady Gaga is secretly a man. I'd expect that sort of journalism from, say, USAtoday, which makes no pretense about pandering only to people attracted to bright colors and a 3rd grade vocabulary.

If you are desperate to enlighten the nerdy masses about Superman, Newsarama, may I suggest devoting an entire month to the Man of Steel? Sure it reduces your readership drastically, but does anyone really want any readers who don't adore Superman?

No. No they don't.

Six days ago, I insinuated that anyone who wore a pair of those "Man of Steel" briefs must frequent hookers. One of my readers took umbrage with my statement and sent me the following image as proof:

I stand by my statement.

This sculpture and others are the work of Roman sculptor Adrian Tranquilli. It appears that he's investigating applying the common themes of the human experience to mythical cultural figures. But looking at his work (here and here), it sure seems like he's got it in for Superman. Tranquilli is clearly a super villain in the making.

Why do I have a Superman Month? Because in my daily life, I have telephone conversations in which I discuss the existence of adult Underoos. Behold:

Of course, that's a Supergirl costume. These things actually exist (they can be purchased here) and yes, they are licensed by DC Comics. But don't worry, they make something for the boys, too.

Seriously, this underwear is every dick joke rolled into one convenient package, pun intended. Also available here, it takes a certain kind of man to wear these things in private, much less over his tights. A giant "S" emblem exactly over the business end and a waistband that reads "Man of Steel"? Subtle. Something tells me that the wearer of these bad boys frequents hookers.

But I'm not saying that I don't want a pair very, very desperately. "Up, up and away!"

The 32nd Annual Superman Celebration kicks off at 5PM in Metropolis, Illinois tomorrow. This year the town will finally be unveiling the life-sized, bronze Noel Neill Lois Lane statue to accompany their Superman statue. The statue of "Superman's Girlfriend" has been sculpted by Gary Ernest Smith, the same artist who sculpted the town's Superman statue in 1993. On this timetable, Metropolis will have a Gary Ernest Smith statue of "Superman's Pal" Jimmy Olsen by 2027. Save time and plan your trip now.

Love role-playing games but tired of the same old hack 'n slash campaigns? Then have I got a treat for you: Smallville: The Roleplaying Game! This is not your father's roleplaying game: this game's got angst!

Now you can take on the role of a teenager who is too shy to tell the girl of his dreams that he is invulnerable to bullets but not Cupid's arrows! Or play as the jealous rival who spends an inordinate amount of time trying to extract himself from his parents' controlling shadow while assuming only model poses and moody pouts. And battle villain after villain who developed amazing and obvious powers as a result of exposure to alien radiation that no one over the age of 18 has seen before or since!

Rest assured that if nothing else, you won't have to worry about your characters wearing any garish costumes. Everyone wears black! (All the kids are doing it!)

Welcome to the 4th Annual Superman Month at Wriphe.com! I know that some of you don't care for the comic book stuff, so I'll see you back here in July.

Now that I've gotten rid of those party-poopers, we can get down to brass tacks and begin celebrating the world's greatest hero as he fights for

Ruth,

juggling,

and the African survey.

Beginning today, I'm going to try running for a month. I know that admission may have knocked some of you out of your chairs. But I thought I'd try exercise for 30 days to see if I like it. If I don't like it, I'll return it for a full refund. I figure that if I admit to it here in the blog, I'll give myself motivation to actually do it. Besides, this post gives me an excuse to post my "I've given up on running" post in about 10 days.

Stick a bunch of women on a secluded island, and there's no telling what awesome stuff they will come up with. My bet would have been on shoes, not inorganic and non-metallic transparent flying machines, but what would I know about women?

The speed of sound at sea level is 343 meters per second, or 768 miles per hour. Traveling above the ocean's waves in 1942 in her "silent, invisible plane," Wonder Woman is traveling at speeds approaching Mach 3! The technology of Man wasn't able to reach those speeds until the mid 1950s. In fact, the first pilot to pass Mach 3 was killed in the attempt when he turned too fast and horizontally inverted his plane. That plane, the Bell X-2, had a liquid-fueled rocket engine, not a seemingly simple propeller! What a pilot that wonder woman is!

Three things of note today:

1: May 25 is International Towel Day, a day of celebrating the life and works of Douglas Adams by carrying around a towel. If you don't know why carrying a towel is a relevant way to celebrate or even who Douglas Adams was (hint: he's a brilliant, deceased British author), you can probably skip this event.

2: May 25 is International Lilac Day, a day of support for the life and works of Alzheimer's Disease patient Terry Pratchett by wearing a lilac. If you don't know who Terry Pratchet is (hint: he's a brilliant, diseased British author), you may still want to wear a lilac in support of Alzheimer's sufferers everywhere.

3: Remember my friend Brian? (Refresh your memory here.) Well, I haven't heard if he's survived his trip, but someone is posting images of his trip on his Facebook account. And I am sooo jealous of him now:

That's Brian with Penn Jilette. If you don't know who Penn Jilette is (hint: he's a brilliant, living American entertainer. Bonus hint: he's the one in the middle above.), then I have to say that I'm beginning to wonder what you're doing reading this blog.

Kudos, Brian. Whether you are now dead or married, I'm sure it was totally worth it to meet Penn Jilette.

Hollywood has made its latest great mistake in casting Jaden Smith, Will Smith's son, in the upcoming The Karate Kid remake. Nothing against Jaden, but that role was custom made for The Douche, aka Shia LaBeouf.

Think about it: what do you remember about Ralph Macchio's Daniel Larusso? He's really whiny and runs his mouth. A lot. It gets him in fights. It ruins his relationships with family and friends. The hot girlfriends just seem to fall into his lap. Remind you of anyone else?

The Karate Kid and its sequels are really successful thanks to the work of Pat Moriata, Martin Kove, Billy Zabka and an otherwise outstanding cast. Larusso is so irritating, you're practically pulling for Johnny to destroy him when he sweeps the leg just to shut Daniel up. Likewise, LaBeouf has been in major blockbusters that have succeeded despite his douchey presence: he's been upstaged on film by an old man, computer generated stereotypes, and holes in the ground. This time around, he could have been upstaged by Jackie Chan, who knows way more kung fu than Pat Morita ever did.

You missed your chance, Hollywood. By the time you get around to remaking this film, LaBeouf will be too old to play the role. LaBeouf is already filming the sequel to Wall Street, and you've seen what happened to Charlie Sheen's face since that film. Working with Michael Douglas ages you: just ask Kathleen Turner and Sharon Stone.

The Cooking Channel debuts on Memorial Day. Maybe "debuts" is a little strong. Technically, it's a re-branding of the Food Life Network (FLN). Apparently living food got to be too much, so they've decided to turn on the oven and change their name.

Cooking Channel is owned by Scripps, which also owns Food Network and the Travel Channel, home of food-centric shows such as Bizarre Foods, Man vs. Food, and No Reservations. Just how many food-centric television channels does one company need? Hell, how many food-centric television channels does one country need? The FDA is prepared to say that too much salt is bad for us, but the FCC is keeping mum on the proliferation of cooking television networks. Does America have so many food networks because Americans are fat, or are Americans fat because we have so many food networks?

I speak from a position of indifference: my plebeian tastes never evolved past the 4th grade cafeteria. My palate still prefers mashed potatoes, pizza, and chicken fingers. I won't eat anything that I've ever seen Bobby Flay prepare. I've never even heard of most of the secret ingredients used on Iron Chef. And I don't care enough to get queasy over Bizarre Foods. I'm the antonym of a gourmet, which Dictionary.com defines as an "ignoramus."

If something is an acquired taste, why should I bother to make the effort to acquire it when I'm just going to be hungry again in a few hours anyway? Give me something that won't go bad before I eat it and can be prepared in under 5 minutes, and I'll be just happy with my peanut butter and honey sandwich on white bread, thank you very much. Let's see Scripps turn that into an entire television channel.

In Memoriam: Brian Cooper (b. 1980-something, d? 2010)

Today my friend Brian is going to board an airplane to meet a girl who thought his Facebook profile pic was cute enough that she contacted him out the blue and offered to fly him to Las Vegas to "see some shows." Since the only two possible outcomes of this encounter are that by the end of the week Brian ends up either married or dead, I'm going to go ahead and offer my condolences. On the upside, there's a better than 50% chance that Brian ends up in an episode of CSI.

Nothing good happens before noon. Ever. Before noon there's a digital alarm siren, annoyingly chirping birds, spilled coffee, and bumper-to-bumper traffic. Most people stumble around like zombies, others are unnaturally cheerful (probably from the caffeine). And all the light in the sky! Ahrrghhh! It burns!

I've been at work by ungodly hour of 10AM for only 3 days so far this week, and that's been enough to remind me why I don't wake up until after noon. Theoretically, I'm supposed to be coding, but typing, much less thinking, is impossible when you're still 2 hours from the semi-conscious state that a mere 4 hours of sleep allows. Ugh.

You morning people do whatever it is you do. I'm crawling back to bed.

From Seduction of the Innocent, 1954, by Dr. Fredric Wertham:

"Superwoman (Wonder Woman) is always a horror type. She is physically very powerful, tortures men, has her own female following, is the cruel, 'phallic' woman. While she is a frightening figure for boys, she is an undesirable ideal for girls, being the exact opposite of what girls are supposed to want to be."

"The Lesbian counterpart of Batman may be found in the stories of Wonder Woman and Black Cat. The homosexual notation of the Wonder Woman type of story is psychologically unmistakable.... Wonder Woman has her own female following. They are all continuously being threatened, captured, almost put to death. there is a great deal of mutual rescuing, the same type of rescue fantasies as in Batman. Her followers are the 'Holliday girls,' i.e., the holiday girls, the gay party girls, the gay girls. Wonder Woman refers to them as 'my girls.'"

Fuck the internet. From now on, I'm only reading old Wonder Woman comics!

Today the West Georgia radio newsreader informed me that a local group was joining efforts in "tracking where sea turtles go on the internet." Isn't it just like people to harass those poor turtles who were minding their own business? Just because they have shells doesn't mean that we need to climb all over their backs.

It seems to me that those turtles should be allowed to go wherever they want so long as they are old enough. While I don't think it's appropriate for confused li'l sea turtles to go surfing for pron, I can certainly understand why they might want to hit Wikipedia to study the "jumping the shark" phenomenon. Some of the more advanced turtles may want to take an online course to upgrade to sea++ turtles.

Why can't those turtles be left alone to follow their own hopes and desires? What do we care if they are trying to emerge from their shells via seaHarmony.com? What business of ours is it if they want to reconnect with old friends on Facebeak?

I say let those turtles be! At the very least, they may be the last significant of users content with the download speed of dial-up internet connections, and that's got to count for something.

If you're reading this blog, you probably know that my hairstyle of choice is the high and tight flattop. I've been sporting a flattop of one color or another for well over a decade. The style is commonly associated with politically conservative men of action, which of course I am: "program," "sleep," and "complain" are all action verbs. The style has many benefits: it gets ready before I do in the morning, makes it easy to see if I'm tall enough to ride roller coasters, and ensures that I never get "hat hair," only "hat forehead." I can't imagine wearing any other hairstyle, especially now that my hairline has ordered a steady and orderly retreat up my forehead. I may be losing the battle with Father Time, but at least I've still got style.

The Georgia Congress is preparing to pass a bill making texting via cell phone while driving a car illegal. This new law is being named for the child whose death while texting & driving inspired his parents to lobby Congress for the change. It will be called the "My Child Did Something So Stupid It Is Now Illegal" law. The original name for the law, the "Someone Always Ruins It For Everyone Else" law, was apparently voted down in committee. Meanwhile, running with scissors remains unregulated by state law.

In the same legislative session, the Georgia Congress has finally passed a bill requiring all pickup truck operators to wear seatbelts, closing a previously existing loophole. Georgia farmers fought the law, citing the hassle of buckling and unbuckling during frequent trips around their property and livestock. The lesson to take from this bit of news is not that Georgia farmers are too poor to pay the state-mandated $15 fine for an unbuckled seatbelt but rather that they are paranoid about the police making surprise visits to their farms to check whether they've fastened their seatbelts. Just what sort of crops are those Georgia farmers growing?

In the wake of all this legislation, the Georgia Department of Economic Development will probably need to start a new tourism campaign. Certainly they will want to consider dropping their mobile website: it'll soon be illegal to look at it while driving, but that won't matter as no one will be able to legally unbuckle his seatbelt within the state even if he wanted to.

Overheard by a Rite Aid manager recently was a lament that Coca-Cola now controls domestic distribution and prices with an iron fist, leading directly to decreased sales in the face of Coke's exorbitant price inflation. To illustrate this point, supermarkets routinely sold 2-liter bottles of Coke for about $1.09 as recently as 2005. Supermarket prices now routinely top $1.79 despite an inflation rate of only about a dime over that time. Coca-Cola blames their poor domestic sales in recent years on health-conscious Americans avoiding sugary drinks (as if!) and declining economics. Of course we're drinking less, Coke, you're selling us half as much for nearly twice the cost!

Not... enough... sleep.... I've been waking up early for the past few days to get some work done. In fact, I had to arise by 8:30 this morning to attend a business meeting. And I've got this to say: you morning people are crazy. Everyone I see with a smile on their face between dawn and noon makes me want to hit them square in their mouth with a Louisville Slugger. Seriously, what is wrong with you people? Screw Ben Franklin; I'm sure rising early is unhealthy. The morning sun probably causes cancer. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some sleep to catch up on.

Blizzard, publisher of the "more than famous" World of Warcraft video game, has had trouble in the past week selling their new Celestial Steed. Their trouble, it seems, is that everyone wants one. So many people have tried to buy the Steed that the Blizzard shopping carts have had to put people into ques to handle pacing for their servers. Some reports indicate that Blizzard is making as much as $500,000 per hour on this little bit of ephemera.

This boggles my mind. These steeds cost $25 in real, actual, U.S. government-backed money for use in a virtual world. I understand that entertainment has value, but compare that cost against going to the movies: for $10, you'll get 2 hours of entertainment. Can Blizzard's new beast of burden really entertain someone for 5 hours? Sure, it virtually "flies" (insomuch as anything displayed on your heavier than air video monitor can be said to fly), but only as fast as your skill makes it go. To get the most from your Steed, you'll have to spend even more time practicing riding it. Figuring a recurring monthly fee for server access ($14.99) and the actual time spent playing (at $7.75 Federal Minimum Wage for, let's say, 20 hours per week), that's an equivalent expense of about $8 per hundreds of man hours of practice and farming time to get the most from your imaginary horse after you've already wasted time in a virtual line to pony up the real cash. No matter how I slice it, this is a terrible deal: wasting money to waste time.

Paying for play in a virtual world is one thing. But standing in line to pay to accessorize that world, that's something else. Something stupid. Maybe I'm just a cheap curmudgeon, but maybe the world really is full of gullible fools with more money than brains.

This is a late blog post because I've got nothing to say. Nothing. I've racked my brain for hours. I've started typing a dozen times only to produce blank pages. So you get nothing from me today. Sorry. At least it's nice outside. Go out and enjoy yourselves. I'll try to have something when you get back, but no promises.

• [Glenn] "Beck Equals Truth" sign made from electrical tape? Check.
• "Sarah Palin For President" bumper stickers? Check.
• Unintentionally appropriate street signage? Check.

I suspect that the "F" in this Ford F-series truck stands for "Fail."

True story: on Easter Sunday, I was awoken by my mother who excitedly notified me that I had been visited by the Easter Bunny. On the counter in my kitchen was a 1.69 oz bag of M&Ms and a purple plastic egg. "Open it," exclaimed my mom while pointing to the egg. So I did. Inside I found... nothing. The egg was entirely empty. "Why," I asked my mother, "did you wake me up to have me open an egg with nothing in it?" Replied my mother with a frown, "I was going to give you cash, but I ran out of money."

It's like an O. Henry story without the irony. And now you can probably imagine what my Christmases are like.

New for 2010: Easter poodles! The adorability of a bunny combined with the fun of decorating eggs!

Consistent with the law of diminishing returns, maintaining this blog has become less and less attractive to me. I was re-reading some of my posts from 2006, and it seems that once upon a time I was wittier and more original with my posts than I am now. Since I can't top the work that came before, why bother to try? Rather than continue posting more and more banal comments until updating this site becomes mere drudgery, I've decided that this will be my last post. Instead, I will be devoting this time and attention to other tasks that I am sure that I will find more fulfilling. In fact, I think maybe I'll finally pursue my life's dream and try my hand at competitive eating. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Secondly, Wally, it's inappropriate to talk about your sex life in front of the Star-Spangled Avenger. Unless, of course, this is your way of inviting him into a threesome. The panel above is taken from 1981's Captain America #262, in which Captain America attends the filming of Captain America -- the Motion Picture, and learns that Hollywood is chock full of anarchists and fascists living deviant lifestyles and working together to destroy America through television. Art imitates life, indeed.

In addition to the pre-Census letter and the Census questionnaire, I have now received the post-Census postcard. In the midst of this deluge of Census-related mail, I begin to suspect that this Census thing is just a method to bail out the sinking Post Office.

After reading on the Mental Floss blog that Snap, Crackle, and Pop had a brother named Pow, I lost my afternoon trying to track down evidence. It was relatively easy to discover that the three elves (a baker, a band leader, and a slacker) were created in 1933 as a response to radio advertisement. It was somewhat harder to find evidence for the existence of Pow, who aparently appeared in animated advertisements. But here it is, as provided by John K Stuff. And all that proves is that cereal commercials have always been just fucked up.

[Note: that link above to shamuskrispies.mov is a Quicktime movie link. In my PC browsers, I can't see it, but downloading and watching it on a desktop (i.e. offline) application solved the problem for me.]

I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and as a result have been conscripted to running the light boards at the local community theater production of the uplifting "Death of a Salesman" for the next three weekends. Apparently when they started by asking me to design the poster for the play, I should have run for the hills. Live and learn, I guess.

The first response from EVERYONE who I have told about this situation has asked, "are they paying you?" (I am quite the mercenary. You should wonder if I really care about anything. Or anybody.) While the local acting troupe is pretentious enough to spell "theater" with an "re," they are not elite enough to pay the actors or the help. So as much as it may surprise everyone to hear that I am doing something for free, at least know that I did not volunteer for the job.

I'm betting that you are probably reading this one hour later than usual. The question of the day is how long will it take before some Tea-Bagger accuses President Obama and his Socialist Regime of stealing an hour from us, the early-rising, hard-working proletariat, to give to the undeserving, artificially-illuminated bourgeoisie? Now the government isn't just stealing our money, it's also stealing our time!

Now if you'll excuse me, it seems I've got a stolen hour of sleep to catch up on.

I typically think of myself as a well-spoken individual, but that goes out the window when I am confronted by the stoic answering machine. Actual text from a message I left on a veterinarian answering machine yesterday:

"...I need to make an appointment for my dogs to be spayed. However, one of the dogs may have recently been impregnated by another dog, and I need her to have a, uh, tested for, uh, tested for what do you call it, uh, tested for, uh, pregnancy?..."

Suave.

I just received a letter in the mail from the U.S. Department of Commerce notifying me that I would be receiving a 2010 Census form in the mail. Now, I'm not one to second guess the U.S. government, but why am I receiving a letter telling me that I will be receiving a letter? Why don't they just send me the damn Census form once and be done with it? Isn't the 2010 Census-sponsored NASCAR enough of a reminder? The answer: the first letter is like a subpoena, requiring me to respond to the second.

The US Commerce Department admits that mailing these advance letters is an "important reminder" to people that they need to participate. Fun fact: According to United States Code Title 13, Chapter 7, Subchapter II, Section 221, anyone who refuses to respond to a census request could be fined up to $100. The same section of the US Code also states that anyone who "willfully gives an answer that is false" could be fined up to $500. And there's more! Section 222 stipulates that if anyone makes "any suggestion, advice, information or assistance of any kind, with the intent or purpose of causing an inaccurate enumeration of population to be made, shall be fined not more than $1,000 or imprisoned not more than one year, or both." But that's not all! Section 224 warns than anyone intentionally lying about his business or other organization "shall be fined not more than $10,000." Ouch.

So remember kids, don't ignore or lie to Big Brother, especially if he already knows where you live. And don't even think of trying to escape: his car is faster than yours.

It was recently brought to my attention that England is considering legislation requiring all potential dog owners to pass a test, microchip their dog, and buy insurance in case their dog attacked someone. In theory, this plan would prevent the implementation of mobile collection and euthanasia vehicles such as have been recently employed in parts of Japan in order to restrain out-of-control wild and dangerous dog populations. After all, who could imagine a scenario where someone would abandon their animal after having paid a substantial sum to acquire it, even if that someone had lost their job in a shrinking economy after having overpaid for a vastly overvalued animal in the first place? Come on, it's not like a dog is a house.

How to solve the problem of wild, dangerous dogs is the sort of problem that would only face a government that had already banned gun ownership. Now that guns don't kill people, dogs kill people. With no threat of weapons to keep them in check, the loose dogs have formed nature's equivalent of motorcycle gangs, resorting to wandering from town to town fighting other gangs tooth-and-claw over territory, eating from trashcans, and raping all the uptight bitches. In America, we'd shoot our beloved Old Yeller if he looked at us cross-eyed, but the Brits are searching for a gentler way.

I for one applaud the idea. Owning a dog is like owning a car, and users must be qualified lest they plow through a crowd of innocent pedestrians. Better yet, using the tried-and-true, infallible "slippery slope" argument, it is clear that this action will inevitably lead to the obvious conclusion: qualifying people for parenthood. For far too long, society has allowed the bumper sticker slogan "anyone can be a father" to dictate public policy. I say that it's about time that government qualified what, exactly, that "special" quality is that makes someone a "daddy."

I suggest we follow the format of the British dog law: all prospective parents should pass a written test and buy "child insurance" in case the child one day gets lose from its restraints and bites someone. Once a child is born, we'll microchip them, mainly to prevent child insurance fraud. After all, if it's good enough for dogs, it's good enough for people.

The results are in:

Surprisingly, football received multiple votes, twice as many as comic books did. No one voted for hearing exclusively more about my personal life. (Everyone must already know how boring it is.) Though news reports were the big vote-getter, I consider poodles to be the winner for garnering a vote when they weren't even a candidate. Good girls!

So what did we learn from this exercise? Only that I have lost a reader. At last count, I was sure that I had 11 readers, but the poll only received 10 votes. One of you better have died.

[UPDATE]: As you can see from the comments below, Randy fessed up. As a result, I've updated the table above. Eleven readers, eleven votes. Everything is now right with the world.

The American Academy of Pediatrics wants legislation to label foods that may prevent choking hazards to children. But rather than stop simply putting a label on all phallic foods that may clog a toddler's airway, they go so far as to ask for "a recall of food products that pose a significant choking hazard," the Twinkies and Beanie-Weenies in your pantry included. As crazy as this proposal sounds, it certainly seems like this has a better chance to pass Congress as "health care reform" than any other "public option."

I've been dog sitting for my father's poodle puppy, Rambo, and it turns out that his puppy is better behaved than mine. Victoria, my full grown poodle, is determined to catch one of dad's cats or hens, which makes every trip into the yard a struggle. So far, the score is Victoria 2, Hens 0 -- that's hens caught, not hens killed (Victoria has a poodle's typically soft mouth) -- before I could separate the combatants. Meanwhile, Victoria has her own cheering section as Rambo patiently stands at the top of the deck and barks his gleeful approval. He may be better behaved, but that doesn't mean that he's helping.

[UPDATE]: This blog post requires that I include the following picture of Rambo to illustrate just how vicious he is. You may want to shield the eyes of your impressionable children before scrolling down.

I've had a few people tell me in recent weeks that they read my blog, but they don't care for the comic book parts. That made me curious: what do you guys prefer to read about? Let me know by using the simple poll below. (I'll let you kno what the results were at the beginning of March.)

[SUBMISSIONS DEACTIVATED 03/01/10]

Disclaimer: I'm asking for what you like here at wriphe.com/blog, nothing else, so don't get too cute. This poll does not constitute a promise to cater to your whims. In fact, if anything, I'll try harder to keep what you like from you. But if you've been coming here long enough to have an opinion about what you like, you probably already knew that.

Remember last week, when I noted that the sales tax on sodas had failed in New York and Washington, D.C.? Well, according to Reuters, now California wants to take a stab at it. However, their twist will be to tax bottlers, not consumers. That's a great idea, since clearly that cost will not be passed along to consumers.

California, maybe you should consider cutting some government expense instead of wasting time debating bills that cannot pass muster with the public or the powerful soft drink industry. But we all know that's not going to happen. You will not be surprised to learn that if you search for "superfluous government expenses California" in Google, the first link says "Welcome to California," which is really all that you need to know.

*Or it may not. The "May" makes it legal. We checked.^**

**Anyway, it's chocolate; you know you want it. Go ahead, take a bite. You can stop anytime you want.^***

***Trust us, we're General Mills. Sure, we promised last year to reduce the sugar we put in foods marketed at children, but what else are we going to do with all that sugar if we don't put it in foods marketed at adults? Adults like sugar, too, right?^****

****Whatever. In any event, there's still a spoonful of real heart in every bowl, and that we don't have to qualify with an asterisk!

According to the Newnan Times-Herald, Newnan has taken drastic, preemptive action to put down the Great Deer Uprising of 2010 before it can get out of hand. This week the city council voted to approve an ordinance that "expands the list of prohibited animals within the city to include any wild animal." Remember, the cost of freedom is eternal vigilance.

An update to some previous blog entries:

First things first. On my last post, I covered the Scripps Howard celebrity Super Bowl poll. And now that the game is over (damn you, Saints!), it should be pointed out that the celeb who picked closest was Joe Mantegna, who predicted Saints, 28-17. Outperforming a majority of the celebs were video game simulations run by newfangled Madden 10 and classic Tecmo Super Bowl, both of which had forecast a Saints win. So keep in mind that the next time you need to turn to someone to advice, you'd be better off talking to a computer screen than your average celebrity.

On December 17, 2008, I mentioned that New York was planning to tax soda consumption. It failed to pass. According to the Houston Chronicle, a similar fate has just quietly befallen a federal measure with the same intent. Sure, raising taxes on an item to increase revenue and decrease health risks sounds good, but who really wants to pay an extra 15 cents per can of soda when they could instead pay higher income taxes? No one I know, that's for sure.

And speaking of predictions, last week I noted two separate incidents of single-vehicle accidents on the same stretch of road. Now another mysterious accident claimed the life of a third person, who was found mauled in the middle of that road. Police have no clues about the third death in three weeks on Newnan Crossing Bypass, but are guessing hit-and-run at 4AM in the morning. You heard it here first, people. Grab your .30-30s, the Great Deer Uprising of 2010 continues.

Another year, another Super Bowl. But lest you fear that you don't know enough to make a good pick in your office pool, there's always a celebrity nearby to show you the way. For the 21st year running, Scripps Howard News Service has polled 103 of the world's best and brightest most desperate for attention for their Super Bowl picks. Figuring that there must be some wisdom in the masses, I took a look at the figures:

• Sixty-two of the 103 stars polled (60%), including Haley Joel Osment, who has correctly predicted 9 of the last 10 Super Bowl winners, losing only on the Giants' improbable 2007 victory, took the Colts to win.
• Mode score predicted for the Colts is 35. Mode score predicted for the Saints is 28. Four different celebs picked the Colts 35-28, including Pat Robertson, who apparently still feels that New Orleans will get what it deserves.
• The celebs agree with Las Vegas, culminating in an average over/under of just better than 57 points. A very slight majority, 52 of 103 celebs, took the over.
• The only NFL team owner to have a say in the poll is the Miami Dolphins' Serena Williams, who picks the Colts because she cryptically "knows" Peyton Manning. She was among the 10 celebs who declined to venture a guess at the final score. I could say something very critical here, but she'd no doubt threaten to kill me if I did.
• Average final score predicted: 30-28. The only celebrity to pick the Colts winning 30-28 was Russell Johnson, better known as the Professor on Gilligan's Island.
• The smartest celeb reporting is clearly Dennis Farina: "I hate to bet against Peyton Manning because I think he's probably the best quarterback since Dan Marino." Damn straight, Dennis! For the record, Farina, who previously won the Scripps Super Sage Award for picking the closest final score in the 2005 Super Bowl, picks the Saints, 31-27, which looks an awful lot like 30-28.

By accident, I just discovered an Atlanta skyline from 1976 at a site I'd never seen before: AtlantaTimeMachine.com. (Their images of the lost World of Sid and Marty Kroft are lacking, but there's a lot of great images in that site otherwise.) I found that link searching UniWatchBlog.com, where earlier last year I found this awesome image of the Atlanta skyline from the 1972 MLB All-Star Game program. Sweet embrace of nostalgia, here I come.

Today, the NFL Pro Bowl will be played in Sun Life Stadium, formerly Dolphin Stadium, formerly Landshark Stadium, formerly Dolphin Stadium (the first time), formerly Dolphins Stadium (note the "s"!), formerly Pro Player Stadium, formerly Pro Player Park, formerly Joe Robbie Stadium. If you lost count, that's 7 name changes in just over 2 decades. I think it's amusing depressing that in the latest Sun Life advertising campaign, Sun Life naming endorsement opportunities are turned down by washed-up disco band KC and the Sunshine Band but are readily accepted in the real world by the Miami Dolphins and Cirque du Soleil.

In recent months, the Miami Dolphins have been collecting celebrity owners like some people collect jewelry. Couple that with the long-standing tradition of whoring out the name of their stadium, and I think you can begin to see where the franchise has been headed in recent years. Dolphins: prostitutes of the animal kingdom.

Who says nothing ever happens in small towns? Twice in the past week, cars have left the road on the Newnan Crossing Bypass and ended up overturned in an adjoining retaining pond. Both single-car accidents have resulted in one death each.

Local news on NBC ran the story, reporting that the two incidents were bizarre aberrations in the road's 5-year safety history. However, CBS, home of the smoking-hot Dagmar Midcap, warned me that the road was a death-trap, filled with speeders and crazy drivers. The stations based their news on the opinions of local residents who appeared equally qualified as pundits. That is, if "qualified" were defined as "chosen at random from passing motorists interested in mugging for local news cameras."

I've driven this road. I've driven it fast, in the rain, in the dark, and in dense fog. And rather than the angle of the curve, or the slickness of the asphalt, the real danger in the area is the sudden appearance of deer on the road. Certainly some people overreact when confronted with an unexpectedly stationary 400-pound, antlered obstacle in the middle of the road, and I suspect that they could find themselves upside-down in a retaining pond if they aren't careful. But the question here isn't whether a deer caused the accidents, but why the deer have suddenly turned on us. Is this the first wave of the Great Deer Uprising of 2010?

In Goldfinger, Ian Fleming wrote, "once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action." So we'll see what happens to this coincidence in the weeks ahead.

When I implemented comments at the end of last week only to absent-mindedly fail to direct the comments form submissions to the appropriate insert script, my dear friend Matt Cheever was kind enough to ridicule my failure. Turns out that Matt has recently started his own blog over at kingdomofmatt.blogspot.com, and wouldn't you know it, but I discovered this weekend that I couldn't leave any comments on his blog, either. Seems that turnabout is fair play, Matt.

Rest assured that Matt claims he has solved the problems (Blogger "permissions," or some such rot, he told me), and you can now comment as freely on his drivel as you can on mine. Which, at this exact moment, stands at 2 comments in 2 days. Not bad for a blog with 11 readers, I say.

I've got blisters on my fingers! From all the coding, that is.

Keen observers may notice something new about the blog today: comments. Unlike some other pansy bloggers who use plug-ins or widgets, I just coded the comments section myself. Why, you ask? Because I'm out of video games. So either start leaving comments or give me some video games; I've really got nothing else to do.

UPDATE: A friend emailed me to note that the comments weren't enabled. Turns out I never redirected the comments form from my test scripts address. Bah! But it's really, really working now. Seriously. You can trust me.

America appears to be in the midst of a tidal shift against capital punishment, as at least 11 states have recently considered abolishing their death penalty statutes last year. I can think of at least one person who will be disappointed to see it go.

Ah, Robin, you scamp. Aren't homicidal tendencies just so adorable when they're that age?

The FDA has announced "concern" over the chemical Bisphenol A (BPA), widely used in food industry packaging for the better part of a century. BPA is a synthetic estrogen that provides plastics with added resiliency, making bottles that resist shattering. The FDA has long approved the use of the chemical, but now the agency finds itself under pressure from consumer safety groups arguing that BPA can disrupt fetal brain development and lead to increased obesity. In short, it seems that BPA can make you stupid and fat but at least you'll be more resiliant to damage.

Tests performed recently by the Canadian government agency Health Canada reveal that aluminum cans of Coca-Cola contain 0.18 micrograms (µg) of BPA per liter. The chemical leaches from the epoxy lining of the cans themselves after canning and mixes with the delicious and entirely wholesome Coca-Cola within. No wonder North America is obese: it's not our soft drinks, but our soft drink containers conspiring against us.

Canada's recommended safe level of consumption is 25 µg per kilogram of body weight per day, meaning that you would have to drink more than 138 liters of Coke PER KILOGRAM each day to consume concentrations considered unhealthy. That's over 31,108 12-oz. aluminum cans of Coke per day for the average 80kg (176lb) American. Before you panic over the FDA's announcement, compare that to the USA's advised safe level of 50 µg/kg/day!

Recognizing the severity of the situation, baby bottle manufacturers and distributors have already willingly begun turning away from using BPA in their products. That's a sound start to prevent the clearly overwhelming deleterious effects of consuming Coca-Cola on the development of your unborn baby's brain. But I suggest that it doesn't go far enough. In the interest of product safety, I recommend that everyone install an industrial Coke dispenser in their own kitchen so that they may drink Coke as nature intended: directly from the nipple. That way you can consume your American allotted 273 liters per kilogram per day safely and without fear that the chemicals in our cans are making us obese.

More interesting that any 2009 movie is the New York Times distribution map for 2009 Netflix renters in Atlanta. This thing is fascinating. The North side loves Slumdog Millionaire; the West, Knowing; the East, Not Easily Broken; the South, Tyler Perry's The Family That Preys; inside the Perimeter, Milk; outside the Perimeter, Paul Blart, Mall Cop. Like a Hollywood blockbuster, It's everything that you'd expect.

The world's first "sex robot" was unveiled this weekend in -- where else? -- Las Vegas. Its name is Roxxxy. Roxxxy is a complex electronic toy embedded in the body a Real Doll, which essentially makes it a very expensive Teddy Ruxpin that you can fuck. Before dismissing this as a lone pervert's dream come true, realize that this brings us one step closer to Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner, which would be considered many normal men's dream come true. So here in 2010 we may be no closer to flying cars then we were in 1960, but at least we've got sex robots.

UPDATE 01/12/09: You should see a fortune cookie above this text. If you don't see it, you don't have Flash plugged into your browser. If you do see it, you can click on that cookie repeatedly for fortunes. I really wish I didn't have to include this bit of explanation, but when your Mom tells you that she doesn't understand why you would post a picture of an unopened fortune cookie, it's time for drastic measures.

The end is near! When I revised the Wriphe.com blog from an all-Flash format in 2002, I created gifs for the dates for the blog through 2010. That means that today begins the final year for the original date graphics of Wriphe.com before new dates must be created for the blog for 2011. Think of this coming crisis as the WRIPHE2K11 bug, which I assure you is every bit as dire in consequence as the pending end of the Mayan calendar though with a much worse agent. (As of yet, I have no movie deal.)

Facing such a potentially disastrous future, I think it may help sooth those fraying nerves with some encouraging words by the immortal David Coverdale:

I don't know where I'm going,
but I sure know where I've been.
Hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday.
And I've made up my mind.
I ain't wasting no more time.
Here I go again, here I go again.

Though I keep searching for an answer,
I never seem to find what I'm looking for.
Oh, Lord, I pray you give me strength to carry on.
Cause I know what it means
to walk along the lonely street of dreams.

Here I go again on my own,
going down the only road I've ever known.
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone.
I've made up my mind.
I ain't wasting no more time.

As we all face uncertain future, let us waste no more time hanging on the empty promises in songs of yesterday and move on with our lives. Truly words to live by.