It would seem as though I missed the very item in the news that inspired me to post on my little slice of internet this morning.
Barron Hilton (patriarch of that Hilton family...you know, the one with the media slut) has had it up to here with his granddaughter's shenanigans. The 79 year old family member who holds the most sizable sum of the family's holdings has cut Paris out of his will, leaving her short $60 million. Mr. Hilton is reportedly all sorts of embarrassed of his party girl granddaughter, and how she's sullied the once respectable family name. Allegedly, the leaking of her sex tape started everything, and her recent stint in jail really sent him over the edge, deciding that he no longer wanted to leave any of his money to his family...and who can really blame him?
$2.4 billion (That's with a "b") gained from the sale of the hotel chain to Blackstone will be donated to the Conrad N. Hilton Foundation, a charitable fund set up in honor of the hotel's founder.
To Paris: You can't have it. Not yours. That's hot.
My mom says I'm cool...
Monday, July 30, 2007
It's Monday, it would seem.
Taking a few moments (about four hours worth of moments, really) to troll the internet at my favorite sites (which you can for the most part find linked right over there to the left), I came across some stuff from the San Diego Comic-Con that I'd unfortunately missed. I can't manage to watch it here at work, but I'll see to it that when I get home tonight I'll ingest it wholly, and undoubtedly be left wanting more.
In an unfortunate turn of events for misogynists everywhere, St. Lous mayor Francis Slay has turned down requests for September 2nd to officially be known as "Ike Turner Day." Ike Turner, 75 years old and best known for being the abusive husband of Tina Turner is erroneously quoted as saying "I'll punch that bitch in the back of the neck." Actually he said he didn't really care, he was already famous enough to have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and that all he was worried about was making the audience happy.
Ike, of course with his advanced age, is unlikely to smack around anything other than oatmeal mush and Geritol. Plans are currently underway to make September 2nd some kind of day, and other ideas have been pitched such as "Roid Rage Day" (in honor of Chris Benoit), "Lisa Marie Nowak Day" to bring awareness to mentally unstable astronauts everywhere, and "Jimmy Hoffa Day" where citizens from all over try to find Jimmy Hoffa's body.
In further "news," it seems that after 195 some odd million years, Sturgeons are still jumping out of the water. Not entirely understanding why reporting on the doings of a critter that's been doing the same thing for the better part of 2 million years is newsworthy, I suspect it's because in following the natural course of things the fish are hitting boaters all over a 40-mile stretch from the Suwannee to Manatee Springs near Orlando, Florida. In a reported 24 month period, there have been 12 cases of the fish that can grow up to eight feet long leaping from the waters of Florida's lakes and rivers and maliciously attacking boaters. For a fish that boasts a lifespan reaching nearly 200 years, one can only assume that the crotchety old fishes are simply tired of those punk kids being on their lawn.
In a bit of personal news, the job search continues. Sooner or later, somebody's almost certain to be desperate enough to hire me.
I relieve my disappointment at not having found a new job yet by reminding myself that "Happy peanuts soar over chocolate covered mountaintops and waterfalls of caramel. Prancing nougat in the meadow sings a song of satisfacion to the world."
Visualize Whirled Peas
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Not to be outdone...
Never one to be outdone when I can easily make an ass of myself by trying to keep up, I'm not entirely willing to let my wife's blog get completely out of the reach of my own.
My own personal blogging experience once led to a bevy of faithful followers (at least ten that I know of off-hand), a published book (which only has one copy in all of existence), and two years of writer's block, verbose dissertations on nothing in particular, and lots of time wasted wondering what I was going to write about next. Many times I found myself wandering aimlessly through the wilds of Drew Curtis' FARK.com, MSNBC, or local news websites, ever searching for that one sure nugget of idiocy that would provoke my ire, leading invariably to at least a paragraph of madness.
Deviating from my year-long plan to consistently update and improve my previous endeavor to see my own greatness recognized by others, my blog fell to the wayside (and can now only be seen through use of The WayBack Machine, though I'm not sure Mr. Peabody has anything or even ever had anything to do with my rantings), and I undoubtedly let several people down...including yours truly.
Penance for my sins has been nothing short of painful, though not excruciating. Ideas would occasionally assail my mind, only to find no creative outlet with which to make good their mass exodus and infect the world. For somebody who enjoys writing like I do, the fact that you have nobody to read what you put down on paper (or in this case, inconvenience several billion electrons into displaying the ramblings of your drippy mind) and incite conversation, praise, or even criticism is nigh torturous. Never one to see the glass as half empty, I find myself facing the realization that while I may not have the following that I once had, the readers that do find their way to my little corner of "teh intarwebs" are of a more intimate type for the time being.
Admittedly, I relished in my former glory. Whether or not this is a bad thing, I may never know until I stand tall before the man. Nevertheless, I'm willing to (for now) settle for a more intimate reader-base. Maybe then if I bail out of this ship though it's not sinking, at least I know that my readers will still have to love me.
Who knows? Maybe this time I'll go somewhere with my writing.
But probably not.
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
My own personal blogging experience once led to a bevy of faithful followers (at least ten that I know of off-hand), a published book (which only has one copy in all of existence), and two years of writer's block, verbose dissertations on nothing in particular, and lots of time wasted wondering what I was going to write about next. Many times I found myself wandering aimlessly through the wilds of Drew Curtis' FARK.com, MSNBC, or local news websites, ever searching for that one sure nugget of idiocy that would provoke my ire, leading invariably to at least a paragraph of madness.
Deviating from my year-long plan to consistently update and improve my previous endeavor to see my own greatness recognized by others, my blog fell to the wayside (and can now only be seen through use of The WayBack Machine, though I'm not sure Mr. Peabody has anything or even ever had anything to do with my rantings), and I undoubtedly let several people down...including yours truly.
Penance for my sins has been nothing short of painful, though not excruciating. Ideas would occasionally assail my mind, only to find no creative outlet with which to make good their mass exodus and infect the world. For somebody who enjoys writing like I do, the fact that you have nobody to read what you put down on paper (or in this case, inconvenience several billion electrons into displaying the ramblings of your drippy mind) and incite conversation, praise, or even criticism is nigh torturous. Never one to see the glass as half empty, I find myself facing the realization that while I may not have the following that I once had, the readers that do find their way to my little corner of "teh intarwebs" are of a more intimate type for the time being.
Admittedly, I relished in my former glory. Whether or not this is a bad thing, I may never know until I stand tall before the man. Nevertheless, I'm willing to (for now) settle for a more intimate reader-base. Maybe then if I bail out of this ship though it's not sinking, at least I know that my readers will still have to love me.
Who knows? Maybe this time I'll go somewhere with my writing.
But probably not.
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
Friday, July 27, 2007
Hi Ate Us?
Generally, when you're gone from something for the better part of four months and you've got nothing to show for it and less excuse for it, they call it going on hiatus. I've seen it called that, or sabbatical if you're a college professor, vacation if you work for a living, or just plain old-fashioned "I got nothing" laziness if you're me.
However, with the wife of your very own personal friend known only as John Q. Public's wife growing her wings and deciding to try her hand at this mostly useless and requisite to nothing pastime that we call "blogging," I've decided to come out of my self-imposed retirement and find things on the internet that are worth nothing less than a verbiage-laced waste of time to post here.
That said, I'll direct you right on over to what's known as "The Apprentice Wife," composed entirely by Mrs. Q. Public, if you will.
Beyond that, I've got little or nothing to offer for the remainder of this post, so once again I'll bid you adieu with the promise of things to come right here at Greater Failure.
Stay tuned.
However, with the wife of your very own personal friend known only as John Q. Public's wife growing her wings and deciding to try her hand at this mostly useless and requisite to nothing pastime that we call "blogging," I've decided to come out of my self-imposed retirement and find things on the internet that are worth nothing less than a verbiage-laced waste of time to post here.
That said, I'll direct you right on over to what's known as "The Apprentice Wife," composed entirely by Mrs. Q. Public, if you will.
Beyond that, I've got little or nothing to offer for the remainder of this post, so once again I'll bid you adieu with the promise of things to come right here at Greater Failure.
Stay tuned.
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