The best part is that I could actually imagine something like this. I particularly like the comment in the “web only bonus clip” at the end, where we learn about the horrible worst thing is that could happen to your character.

I’m not even sure what to say about this one. Uh, enjoy?

I never thought, however, that I was going to laugh myself to death over a burrito.

Final exam tonight in Evidence class. So don’t expect any substantive posts today. One thing I can say: This post is Admissible as Character Evidence when the Key Issue is America’s Paranoia.

Secondarily, however, it occurred to me that the episode might explain some of the odd things that have happened to me over the last few years …and how I might have inadvertently contributed to them. And so I thought perhaps I should clarify a few things.

For those who did not watch CSI last night, the show starts off with a guy found on or near a highway (I missed the first few minutes of the show) in a Rocky Raccoon suit. He is, to put things bluntly, roadkill. He was apparently struck by a car. The first question becomes “What is a guy doing in the middle of the road, outside town, dressed as a raccoon?”

As I recall, the person who struck him is dead, also. There’s something in there about an 18-wheeler, but, as I said, I didn’t see the first few minutes.

Things get even more confusing on the autopsy table: It turns out he has a through-and-through bullet wound that apparently went in his back, out through his chest, fired from either from a very high position, or while he was on all fours, or (as it turns out) both.

Somewhere along the line, a suspect is questioned and admits to scritchin’ and yiffin’ with Rocky. He insists — correctly, it turns out — that he is not responsible for Rocky’s death. However, it also turns out that if Rocky had only scritched instead of yiffed, he might still be alive today.

So what does this have to do with me? Other than the insanity of it — or perhaps the Humor Quotient — why did I feel compelled to write this post?

Well, okay. Mostly it was the Humor Quotient.

But I can’t help wondering if it explains a few things that have happened to me over the years. You see, when I was younger, I had the good fortune to be occasionally identified with Tom Selleck — as in, “you kinda look like Tom Selleck.” More often, it was “you kinda look like Chuck Norris.” Occasionally, it was “you kinda look like a furry little monkey.”

Unfortunately, I’m also prone to (deliberately) making up words. One of those words is “scritch.” I often use it instead of “scratch,” as in “Could you scritch my back, please?” (Among other things I learned this morning, Merriam-Webster defines “scritch” as a variant of “screech.”)

A final reason for my compulsion to clarify: I often call my wife, based on a favorite story of ours, “Bunny.” Therein lies the rub…or scritch…or yiff…

As it turns out the aforementioned Rocky Raccoon was a member of a group of people known as “furries.” You’ve heard of people who believe they’re males accidentally born in female bodies, or vice-versa? Furries are people who believe — or want to believe — that they’re really animals accidentally born into human bodies.

These nature “lovers” dress up in costumes and “socialize.” This includes “scritchin’,” or scratching a “fur” on the chest or behind the ears (because it’s pleasurable, I, uhm, hear), and sometimes “yiffin’,” which might include sounding like a fox, but usually involves some form of — by my definition — kinky sex.

We’re not talking role-playing games here. We’re talking communities. Specifically, we’re talking about a community of people built loosely around the idea that they aren’t really people at all, but instead are, um, “furries.” The sort of folk who are getting in touch with their inner kinkajous, if you will.

They hang out together, and there are more of them than you might think. — Jeff Schultz and Nicole Chardenet, “Furries” (last visited March 3, 2005).

For my wife and I, “more of them than you might think” means there’s at least one.

At any rate — particularly since, as I understand it, not a few geeks are furries and the article quoted above mentions getting in touch with your inner kinky Jew — I want to point out that although there may be people who believe I look like Tom Selleck a furry animal and although I may be prone to use words like “scritch” and although I may refer to my wife as “Bunny,” I am not a furry!

Now get off my leg.

“So, nu,” says the daughter, “you’ll never believe.”

“What?” says the mama.

“Today, at high noon, I received a proposal for marriage.” answered Minihorowitz.

“Yes?” says Pocayenta, “What did you say?”

“I said ‘yes.’”

“You said ‘Yes’?” asked mama.

“I said ‘yes.’”

“That’s wonderful,” says mama. “She said ‘Yes’. Did you hear that Geronowitz? Our little Minihorowitz is getting married!”

“I heard,” says papa. “I’m kvelling. So who’s the lucky boy? Is it Sittin’ Bialy?”

“Sittin’ Bialy?” says mama, “of the SoSiouxMe Tribe?”

“That’s the one,” says Minihorowitz.

“Oy, Geronowitz! The SoSiouxMes! There are so many of them! How will we be able to feed them? How can we get them all in our teepee for the wedding?” exclaimed Pocayenta.

“We’ll think of something,” says papa.

“Geronowitz! Get me a buffalo!”

“What, at this hour?”

“No, you can do it tomorrow. It’s for the wedding. I can make buffalo tzimmes from the meat, and we can make an extra teepee from the hide. So, get me a nice buffalo,” mama exclaimed.

So Geronowitz goes out to hunt a buffalo. A day goes by, then night and Geronowitz has not come back. Two days later he comes home, staggering and exhausted, but empty-handed.

“Geronowitz! I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been? And where’s my buffalo?” said Pocayenta.

“It’s like this,” he says, “On my first day out, I hunted high and low until I finally found a buffalo. But this buffalo, he made Mickey Rooney look strong. It was a tiny, scrawny buffalo with no meat on his bones for buffalo tzimmes, and barely enough hide for a rain hat. So I settled in for the night to try again the next day.”

“The second day,” continued Geronowitz, “I went one way and then another way until I finally found a big buffalo with lots of meat and lots of hide. But, I tell you, Pocayenta, this was the ugliest buffalo I ever saw in my life.

I thought to myself, ‘This is not the buffalo for MY daughter’s wedding’.”

“So, again I settled in for the night to try again the third day. I got up early went up the hills, down the hills until I finally found a buffalo. It was a big buffalo. As buffalos go, it was a beautiful buffalo. I said to myself, ‘this is the buffalo Pocayenta wants for Minihorowitz’s wedding’.”

“So I reach into my backpack quietly for my tomahawk, as I tip-toe over to the buffalo. I raise my tomahawk slowly over the buffalo’s neck, when suddenly like a bolt of lightning from the sky, I see it.” “See what?” says Pocayenta, who by now is impatient with Geronowitz’ long tale.

“I’d brought the dairy tomahawk!”

[Councilwoman] Pulido said she was confident that citizens who catch a glimpse of offenders would report them to police — though the law also threatens jail for peeping Toms.

Before you get too excited — hmmm…maybe that’s not the right word for this story — that Deep South city? When I said “deep south,” I meant really deep. The city is Villahermosa, in the state of Tabasco, Mexico.

Funny thing, though, I thought Tabasco was supposed to be hot.

The Catholic Church is sure to weigh in against this ordinance as birth rates plummet.

Click here to read “Mexican City Bans Indoor Nudity.”

Of course, the worst part is, Bush won re-election.

Can snark hold out another four years?

But, as Flip Wilson used to say, “Chepooka made me do it.” (Well, that’s what he would say if he were still alive today!)

At any rate, I should warn you in advance that there’s nudity ahead if you click this link. Obviously, if that offends you, you should not click the link. On the other hand, if there were more political advertising of this sort, maybe more people would pay attention.

Sometime tonight I’m gonna have to get serious again, so enjoy this while you can.

Incidentally, one thing I found interesting about the site was that it leads me to believe Bush may not be doing so well among the young.

As it turns out. . .

Whats your Squiggle? by PsykoDragon
User name
Birthday
Favorite Color
Would you like a tic-tac?	Yes No
Your Squiggle
Quiz created with MemeGen!

Don’t know why, but recently some amazingly cute young thang (I think that’s how you say it) dropped a few bytes on me, saying she was adding my blog to her blogroll. Near as I can tell from reviewing the other blogs she’s rolled, I’m the token old fart. Everyone else she links to is young — although it would appear that she’s the youngest, cutest and most interesting of all Fresno bloggers. It was through her “connections” that I found out just what kind of squiggly I am. That’s gotta be worth somethin’ all by itself.

What my inquiring mind really wants to know though is — no, no! wash that brain out with some soap, will ya!? — how does she know so much about what the famous are doing in Fresno?

I guess that’s why her blog is located on the Famous Fresno website.

And Sour Grapes? Isn’t that just another way to describe fine wine?

Check out her site when you get a chance — but do me a favor: Don’t say anything to her about getting too close to my unnaturally wavey arms.

After all, if I’m going to be hanging out with the Famous, I don’t want to ruin my reputation!

One sunny day in 2005 an old man approached the White House from across

Pennsylvania Avenue, where he’d been sitting on a park bench. He spoke to
the U.S. Marine standing guard and said, “I would like to go in and meet
with President Bush.”

The Marine looked at the man and said, “Sir, Mr. Bush is no longer president and no longer resides here.”

The old man said, “Okay” and walked away.

The following day, the same man approached the White House and said to the same Marine, “I would like to go in and meet with President Bush.”

The Marine again told the man, “Sir, as I said yesterday, Mr. Bush is no longer president and no longer resides here.” The man thanked him and, again, just walked away.

The third day, the same man approached the White House and spoke to the very same U. S. Marine, saying “I would like to go in and meet with President Bush.”

The Marine, understandably agitated at this point, looked at the man and said, “Sir, this is the third day in a row you have been here asking to

speak to Mr. Bush. I’ve told you already that Mr. Bush is no longer the president and no longer resides here. Don’t you understand?”

The old man looked at the Marine and said, “Oh, I understand. I just love hearing it.”

The Marine snapped to attention, saluted, and said, “See you tomorrow.”

I found the joke at the end of a article on Chepooka’s site about why John Kerry will win the election.

Thanks, Chepooka!