Spoiler Alert!! Dumbledore is gay.

Well, I never!

I'll just say this: I won't be buying the next DVD!

Pussywillow

Never go to the Science Museum of Minnesota again.
NEVER GO TO  THE SCIENCE MUSEUM OF MINNESOTA AGAIN!

Why? Because it's a dank little hole of lies and sexual deviants.
When liars and traitors die, do you know where they go? They go to the Science Museum of Minnesota, where they lie and betray humanity for all of eternity. They sit in caves, fearing the light of truth and honesty, and wallow in the lies that have spilled like dairrhea from their most unclean and unholy of orifices.

Should you pity these liars, these eternally damned sneakthieves and cutthroats? No. Do not waste your tears on them, for they are dog-fuckers, melon-molesters, and bird-strokers. They are hole-dwellers, bed-shitters, and shit-eaters. Can there be mercy for these lamb-punchers, finger-sniffers, and skunk-humpers? No, not for bottle-breakers, ass-pickers, and nut-crunchers.

They are banned from petting zoos and public swimming pools, and it will forever remain in your interest to avoid their company, so, for God's sake, do not go to the Science Museum of Minnesota. For that matter, do not allow your friends or relatives to go, unless you enjoy the idea of your mother trapped in an elevator with a sweating, trembling pederast. I know that you do not, so don't let your mother be groped in the dark by these albino, charlatan, mother-fondlers.

Why is it that I only now spread the truth? I am, after all, still employed, regrettably and ashamedly, at this nest of snake-charmers and rat-rapers. I now spread the word of truth because it was only this evening that I discovered that a betrayal most vile has been committed upon me. Committed upon me, and, more importantly, upon all of you, and upon an innocent raptorling, a falcon-child who must now go through its miserable and pathetic life with a name not good enough for a tapeworm.

That's right. The peregrine falcon that should have been Pussywillow has been given up to the mouth breathing hordes, and named was named "Nimbus."

Do you remember? This spring, the Science Museum of Minnesota claimed that the people of the world could democratically select a name for the newly hatched falcon chicks near the St. Paul highbridge. The process seemed clear enough - nominations were accepted, and votes were taken. I myself voted several times. And, lo and behold, the best name won! My name! The falcon was to be named "Pussywillow," thanks, in large part, to your efforts. Look, here, look:
http://www.smm.org/buzz/poll/what_should_we_name_the_new_peregrine_falcon_chicks

And now, look at this, if you have the time (page 19)
http://www.raptorresource.org/2007_final_banding_report.pdf

The names of the falcons are Sky, Nimbus, Gyrnn, and Century.

A liar has intervened. A liar, a traitor, a horse thief, a chronic masturbator. A Nimbus, a Gyrnn, a Century.

This was not the work of the DNR, this was the doings of the worst institution in the world (worse than slavery), the Science Museum of Minnesota. Sky was the name selected by a local grade school - they can be forgiven, for they are only half-grown, and no smarter than worms and dirt. But the boldfaced, bare-assed betrayal of the SMM is too much. They had three chances to give a falcon the name Pussywillow, and they threw them all away. They gave them to doughy, boring, garbage-eaters, who could think of no names more memorable than Nimbus, Century, or Gyrnn. The falcons should be euthanised, and saved them from a life of humiliation.

Rooster-lickers.

Jam-stuffers.

Liars

Pussywillow is dead. Long live Pussywillow.

*2009 Addendum—Please disregard some of the more virulent language in this post. It was written in high spirits.

By Jove!

Possible Career Paths:
-Astronaut
-Candlestick Maker
-Kitchen Manager
-Dog Catcher
-Brain Surgeon
-King of Olympus

Oh, speaking of the King of Olympus... He's the actual reason for writing this entry

Who wouldn't want this for themselves or their children?

I got 99 problems, but being sick ain't one.

Jeremy Crisp!! My stomach has gone foul!
TGIF has finally caught up with me. I get off of work on Fridays, and I just have to party. Party party party. So, of course, I head over to TGI Friday's, where everybody knows my name (but not my real name). I got the onion garden, and the sweet n' sassy Cajun chicken lickers. Oh, man, do I regret it now.

I'm very seriously considering staying home from work today. A nice, warm bath, a hot beer, and type "Fat kid" into youtube - the old rememdies work the best, I think.

On a side note, am I the only person who's tired of hearing Sean "Puppy" Combs rap about himself? C'mon Sean, let's branch out a little! How about a verse or two on Jesus, or Mexican food?

A new look, for an old man.

I thought it was about time to shape things up on my myspace page. Everyone here has got naked pictures, and loud music, and crazy bullshit like that, and I hate to be left behind. I won't be left behind.
My simple knowledge of computers and programing turns out to be an ideal match with my taste for simple, bold design, which you can see. I opted, as I expect many of you guessed I would, for a pleasant "summer forest" motif. The theme could also accurately be termed "Elven Ranger," "Fairy Grove," or "Gay Woodsman."

In other news, it turns out that I don't need to get an artifial heart after all. Whew! What a relief. They were all out of ape hearts, so I was put on the short waiting list for a pig heart. Noble animals, I'm sure, but I doubt I'd get any sort of super powers from a damn pig heart. And it's nothing that would impress the ladies - I was all set to tell people that it was a lion heart, or a small lion heart. Plus, I hear that, once you have a pig heart, you have to give up eating pork, or the heart will force your body to reject it - out your mouth! Now, I know pork is what got me into this situation in the first place, but I was not about to give it up. Who starts their day without a bacon ham hamwich (the "Hogzilla")? Right. I didn't see any hands go up.
Anyhow, it's a moot point; turns out the whole thing was the result of a botched self-diagnosis. What I thought was heartburn was actually a burst battery in a LED Harry Potter pin I've been wearing. Also, if you can believe it, it turns out that "heartburn" has nothing to do with your heart being on fire, and is rarely fatal (as one would naturally expect, should your heart actualy catch fire).
Western Medicine, you and I have finally reached a fork in the road. Be sure to write.