You Know the Weather; Here s the News:

Note: This report has been updated since its publication earlier this morning. I m hoping this update will reveal, at least in part, the necessary sarcasm to make me feel good about myself. ~Editor


This morning I watched the reports of Hurricane Wilma on the various national news and weather channels. It s comical that these channels put reporters in the wind and rain to report the news .

This is what I learned from these on-the-scene, breaking-news reporters (and I m not kidding and I m not leaving anything worth reporting out):

Usually during bad hurricanes the ocean floods the street that one reporter was reporting from. This time it didn t.

The force of the hurricane blew over several newspaper boxes. The boxes were left in the shot behind the reporter to prove it.

The same force blew the canvas off a restaurant awning, reported another reporter , but the roof and all its shingles were still intact proved by a close-up shot of said intact roof.

One reporter reported that street lights were out on the street where he was reporting live from. He also reported that there was no storm surge worth reporting .

Another said that, in his previous report , objects were blowing off a nearby rooftop. He further reported that no more objects were seen blowing off that roof. He did caution that more things may blow off later and that, on his next report he d update us.

Another guy told us that it was reported to him that strong winds uprooted several trees and broke branches, but he couldn t confirm it as he hadn t seen it himself.

A reporter on CNN reported that he took his goggles off because it stopped raining.

Finally, and this is my favorite, a reporter on FOX reported that a streetlamp had broken off its stanchion. In mid- report his producer, or what could only be his producer, repositioned the streetlamp into the shot. The rest of the report consisted of denials that the reporter was reporting with props.

All that breaking reportage reported by qualified, on-the-spot reporters broke no real news. (It might be worth noting that according to that reporting is a type of journalism that is usually distinguished from similar work by news judgment determining newsworthiness. ) Bullshit.

Back to you

24 October, 2005 posted in In the News | Comments (5)


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The Fuck Off Rant

not mine, but a friend s .

We all have such a rant. Oh, it s deep in our heads somewhere but it bubbles to our consciousness from time-to-time. It may even burp into the real world when the poor schmuck got our McDonald s order wrong or when every phone in the house dies, as happened to me last night.

A mini- Fuck Off rant insued:

Whoever decided to pull the power off the main phone base thus killing the phones in the entire house - a problem that turned out to be beyond repair. That person can fuck off.

That person turned out to be the Wife-beast and it was an entirely premature fuck off, because you should be able to plug and unplug the power to your phones without breaking the entire stinking phone system (four phones all electronically and wirelessly tagged to the aforementioned base unit).

So the owners, engineers, manufacturing personnel, sales people, and everyone else that works at Uniden can fuck off.

The person who decided we didn t need a backup, plug-in-the-wall, tied-to-the-wall, garden variety, circa 1978 phone can fuck off. That person, it turns out, is me.

And the Powers-That-Be that arranged the planets so that the Wife-beast was left out on the road, alone in the middle of the night, in the rain, in my rear-wheel drive, manual transmission, light-in-the-ass-end, truck with one of the two household cell phones and my 14-year-old daughter at some stranger s Sweet Sixteen party with the other cell phone and me with no phones and, hence, incommunicado with both of them should either need me with no time to run and buy a new phone, can fuck off.

Some of us are uncomfortable with our fuck off rants and choose to ignore them. But I bet every single one of us could, give the right prompts, could go off on a huge Fuck Off rant (see above) or be stuck in traffic when the last place in the world you can be is stuck in traffic.

For what it s worth, I think I m in a unique position on Ray s Fuck Off rant as someone who expect(s) me to do something (anything) for free—y’all can fuck off and someone I hope he considers on his SHORT list of friends.

For what it s worth, I ran and bought a phone several. It wasn t without stress and time constraints, and buying a goddamned phone should be stress free. I called the Wife-beast several times. Did she answer the phone? No. Maybe she s in a ditch. Fuck off.

Oh, one final fuck off, the guy at ATT who decided to hardwire the phone cord to the base thus making it totally impossible to attach a longer aftermarket phone cord (which Target placed tantalizingly adjacent to said phone fuck off, Target) can fuck off.

I know, that was two final fuck offs. Fuck off.

22 October, 2005 posted in Miscellany | Comments (2)


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Another Series of Unfortunate Jokes

I m a big fan of bad jokes. One of my favorites to tell is this series (best said if you memorize several and tell them in machine gun fashion):

What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs at your front door? Matt.

What do you call the same guy swimming in the ocean?

What do you call his armless, legless girlfriend waiting on the beach for him?

Same guy in a hot tub?

What if he s stuck at the bottom?

Same guy working under your car?

What if he s working on the electrical system?

Water skiing?

In a hole?

What if you bury him 6 feet under?

What if it s only 3 feet?

Same guy hanging on the wall?

What if he has no tongue?
Tasteless Art (sorry).

What if he s sitting on a grill?

What if he s an Irish guy with no arms and no legs sitting on a grill?

Oops! No, it s not an Irish guy. It s a chick.
Patty (of course).

What if the guy is on the edge of a golf green?

Same guy in a flower bed?

What if he s playing with the kids?

Playing with a tiger?

Playing in a pile of leaves?

What do you call him and his armless, legless friend if they help you hang drapes?
Curt and Rod. (You ll figure that one out.)

What do you call him if he can play half-a-dozen instruments?
Stump the Band. (Boo!)

What do you call a girl with no arms and no legs playing tennis?

Swinging from a chandelier?

Same girl in your kitchen sink?

What if she s under your bed?

Whew! Okay, two similar ones:

What do you call a guy with no arms, no legs, and no torso? Dick.

What do you call a girl with no arms, no legs, and no torso?

Finally, a kid joke:

What do you call a boy with no arms and no legs playing baseball? First Base.


19 October, 2005 posted in Miscellany | Comments (3)


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A Series of Bad Jokes

Q: What do you have when you have nuts on your wall?
A: Walnuts.

Q: What do you have when you have nuts in your urine?
A: Peanuts.

Q: What do you have when you have nuts on your chin?
A: You have a d!ck in your mouth! That s what you have!

19 October, 2005 posted in Miscellany | Comments (1)


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Rush Radio

I have a subscription to Sirius satellite radio and usually listen to their music feeds on my computer at work.

But tomorrow I think I m going to listen to Rush Radio . is a 24-hour per day, 7-days per week online all-Rush radio station. And I know that there s at least one JimFo reader who is as big a Rush fan as I am who is going to enjoy this link. You know who you are.

17 October, 2005 posted in Internet Stuff | Comments (0)


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I Hate Toledo Nazis

Over the weekend, Ohio Nazis planned to march against black crime in a black neighborhood. Many in the neighorhood rioted.

I mean, really rioted. Vandalization. Buildings being burned. Rocks thrown at police cars and ambulances. State trooper reinforcements. Cops on horseback. Chaos. Curfews.

A spokesman for Ohio Nazis just smirked and said, See?


17 October, 2005 posted in In the News | Comments (2)


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Cup of Wonder

If you are a Jethro Tull fan, as I am, check out Cup of Wonder , The Annotated Jethro Tull Lyrics Page. It s good.

16 October, 2005 posted in Internet Stuff | Comments (0)


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Party Conversation

Sis-in-Law: Do you think God is good?

Me: I don t know.


I don t know.

You think God is evil? Or has evil in him?

I don t know what evil is.

C mon!

Define evil for me and then we ll talk.


Later in the conversation:

Sis-in-Law: I can t reconcile why God lets innocent children die.

Me: I can.


Because He doesn t care whether you live or die.

You can t be serious.

As a heart attack.

If God is immortal then a life of one day or one of 100 years or a millenium is essentially the same time.

If life is nothing more than a transitional stage of a Soul that your Soul lives before and beyond your body why would a god mourn your death?

Do you mourn the passing of a caterpillar to a butterfly?

Sis: Yeh but

Later in the conversation:

Sis-in-Law: Do even you believe in God?

Me: Dunno.

What do you mean you don t know?

Dunno. Don t care to know. No matter what, it can t be proven either way. I m not willing to tear my heart out trying to figure it out anymore. Because it can t be figured out.

Do you really think that?

Yep. When I was born no one handed me a rule book that said, This is very important: Before you die, you have to pick a god to follow. If you choose unwisely, you risk the eternal damnation ( see: hell-fire, brimstone, ABBA music pp. 2045-2156 ) of the True God.

I ve opted out of the system.

The Wife-Beast: Um, Jim, we have to go home. Now.

16 October, 2005 posted in My Philospophy (more or less) | Comments (2)


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Broad Cast

The Masters is, perhaps, golf s most prestigious golf tournament. It ranks up there with the three other majors : The U.S. Open, The British Open, and The PGA Championship.

Augusta National, a prestigious golf club, runs the event and may be the most exclusive golf club and course in the United States. Augusta National has no female members. They don t want any. They re not seeking any. None are invited.

Of course, this angers some women s groups. And they weren t about to let this go without action. In 2003, they lobbied Augusta National s membership committee. Their attempts to have female members admitted were ignored. These women started applying social, political, and peer pressure on them. Each member simply lit another cigar with a new one-hundred dollar bill, elbowed the guy next to him and laughed, Ain t those dames cute?

Those dames played their trump card. They jumped the media, Augusta National doesn t allow female members. We are outraged by this and are calling for a boycott of all the sponsors of Augusta National s precious tournament, The Masters.

For a while, these ladies hit the media hard and often. Until. They. Realized. That there were no sponsors.

That year The Masters was played on television sans commercials.

In the face of all this pressure and possible negative press, August National decided not to put their sponsors in a compromising position. They pulled all televised sponsorship and were accepting of none. August National alone paid to have The Masters televised. The boycotters were left with nothing to boycott and no one to pressure. There placards and sandwich boards were left blank, silent, impotent.

Whether you believe that any private club can selectively chose their membership based on their own subjective criteria or you believe that there are certain criteria that should never be used (gender, race, religion, sexual preference, et. al.), you have to like Augusta National s moxie.

This bit was originally published sometime in 2003. Get used to reading some old stuff as I update and repopulate the JimFo Archives.

16 October, 2005 posted in In the News | Comments (0)


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Caldwell at Sixteen Months

still growing

15 October, 2005 posted in Family Business | Comments (2)


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You Need a Number

A couple of years ago, I learned that you need a telephone number to buy sneakers and an address to buy furniture.

After selling my old house and before moving into this new one, my family and I lived with my sister-in-law and her family for a few weeks. On the first evening of my stay at sis-in-law s home, the sole blew off my sneaker. The rubber pealed off the bottom and I started walking around in a flap, step, flap, step, flap, step style. I needed new sneaks.

Some miles down the road there is a FeetFirst shoe store. My daughter came with me as I picked up my standard Nike fair, a pair of cross-trainers, and brought them to the register. "Phone number," the girl at the counter asked.

"Excuse me," I asked.

"Can I have your phone number?" She repeated.

"Umm. I don t have a phone."

She looked at me. I was dressed in my work duds slicked out in a nice silk tie, white shirt and crisp slacks. And then she glanced at my daughter, well-dressed and clean. The sales-girl s face wrinkled in confusion. I m sure she was thinking, "They look like they should have a phone. How could they not have a phone?"

"Listen," I broke the silence. "I just sold my home and am living with in-laws "

"That s okay," she interrupted. "Just give me their phone number."

"I don t know it," I said. This was followed by another pause and more strange looks from the girl. "I just want to buy a pair of sneakers."

"But I need a phone number."

I picked up a business card on the counter and read the number, 609-242-2667.

Hey, that s our number, the girl said.

It s the only number I know.

She sold me the sneakers.

After moving out of my sister-in-laws place and before moving into the new house, I lived a year-and-a-half in an apartment. Knowing I d be in an apartment for a while, I put our 15-year-old, over-worn dining room table into long-term storage. My plan was to buy a new, smaller dining room table for the apartment.

I went to Value City Furniture to take a look at a table my wife had seen in the Sunday paper. "If you like it order it," she said.

I liked it and wrangled a salesman into checking stock and availability. "It s in stock and we can get it delivered to you, and this is great, in about ten days."

"Ten days is no good. I need it now. You see, I m moving into a new apartment today and have no table. I need a table. Do you have one in the back that I can just bring home now?"

After some conversation, I found out that the warehouse is about an hour north of the store and that I could go there to pick it up. I placed the order giving the salesman all the requisite information until he got to, "Address?"

"I don t know."

"You don t know your address?"

"Nope. I don t. I know where the apartment is, but I don t know the address."

"We won t mail you anything," he said.

"That s not the issue. The issue is that I really don t know my address."

"Well, I need something for this form."

"Why? I m going to pick up the stuff myself. You re not delivering it. It shouldn t be a big deal." He paused in the same way that the girl trying to figure out a way to sell me sneakers without a phone number paused. "Can I make something up," I asked.

"I guess." He looked around to make sure the manager wasn t watching. Go ahead.

161st Street and River Avenue, Bronx, NY. Yankee Stadium.

Shortly after buying the sneakers, I thought they were just just so-so. I like to break in sneakers the way I like to break in a baseball mitt. It takes a year or two to get the things just right. Besides, at the time I had my eye on a different pair.

I picked up the table with no problems. I even went back and bought a matching pub table. The guy who sold me my table was let go. I hope it wasn t because George Steinbrenner complained about the ValueCity junkmail.

I just bought a new pair of sneakers to replace the ones bought above last week. The old ones still worked fine and they re finally broken in. I just wanted a new pair.

We moved into the house a little over six months ago. We decided to keep the small table. It s very nice and fits the house just perfectly.

Like you care.

15 October, 2005 posted in Tell Me a Story | Comments (1)


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Whistling on the Web

Another friend of mine is publishing on the web again.

15 October, 2005 posted in Internet Stuff


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We Need Plastic

This evening I was tidying up some files on my hard drive when I came across this short bit based on part of a George Carlin skit.

We tried the dolphins, the orangutans, and even a couple of parrots. Nothing. None of them could make plastic. The Boss says we need plastic.

I think we should go forward with the Man expermiment. I mean, the prototype seems capable

Too risky. We can t chance it.

I think it s all we got. It ll only take us a couple of million years to build them and get them to the point where they can make plastic. Once they start making it, it ll only be a couple of hundred years before we ll have all we need. And then we can press the extinction button.

Yeh, and they ll destroy the whole Place in the process. You saw the computer models. You know what ll happen. What good is plastic if they screw up the rest of the Place? We ll be culpable.

Well, I m going to suggest it to the Boss.

No way, man. If He finds out we went forward with the Man Prototype, we ll both be working in the nematode factory again.

But we need the plastic. The chimps are fuck-offs and the orangutans are lazy. We didn t give the fucking dolphins hands, so they re no good to us.

We ? It was your idea to put them in the water. Flippers, you said. Mammals with flippers! How cool would that be? Brilliant idea, idiot. With no arms or fingers or thumbs, they can t even jerk-off. They re still pissed at us.

Let s not start pointing fingers. You did the chimps but you screwed up their brains. Now ALL they do is jerk-off! and throwing poop at each other.

They are fun to watch though.

Yeh, I ll give you that.

09 October, 2005 posted in Tell Me a Story | Comments (2)


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A Friend of Mine

is publishing on the internet again .

08 October, 2005 posted in Internet Stuff


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