The Crank

Review of the ‘Accu-Check Aviva’ Glucose Monitoring System

by The Crank • February 23, 2012

Or, as I like to call it, “Ignorance in Design, Futility in Function”. As you can probably glean from the title, this is one beige gorilla who will be looking for another way to test my glucose. Years of Twinkies and ‘hecho en Mexico’ Coke have started to take their toll. Maybe Hostess going under isn’t such a bad thing… Meanwhile, my dear Doctor has told me I must take horsey-pill sized meds to help me stave off the seemingly inevitable fat man’s disease…Twinkities.

The pills, while really big, and really harsh on ones’ digestive system, are not a big problem for me. It’s amazing how big or awful a pill one can tolerate when it is inserted in the gooey hole of a jelly donut. No, the real problem is: I want to monitor my glucose to see just what I can use for emotional comfort food, and what I can no longer successfully digest without marking time off my lifespan calendar.

Enter the Accu-check Aviva system, prescribed by my Doctor. As my wife is in the medical field, she read and informed me of the directions, none of which seemed out of my ability to comprehend and successfully master. Yeah-well, uh, maybe.

So the wife says, “Now tomorrow morning when you get up, before you eat your usual six bowls of Honey Bunches of Fructose Flakes, test yourself and call me at work and let me know what the reading is.”

Flash forward to the next morning. My very own personal fur-laden live alarm clock, my cat Cannoli, lets me know the sun is up as I feel the wonderful sensations of wet sandpaper on my arm. ‘Oh, did I wake you? Oh well, as you are up anyway, would you be a darling and put some kibbles in my bowl, please? I would do it myself, but I DON’T HAVE ANY THUMBS!” he says with a meow.

I get up and dutifully proceed to the kitchen, where said monitoring equipment has set up household by the phone. I am then reminded by kitty of the real reason I exist as a human. It is said that dogs have masters, but cats have staff. Oh so right. Anyway, after the aforementioned bowl filling, I sit down with all the equipment, and re-read all the instructions. “No problem,” I said to myself as I line up the little torture devices in order of use.

First: turn on meter. Done! Second: take test strip out of sealed container and place wide end in opening at bottom of meter. OK, problem. Sealed container is child/gorilla proof. After getting out my hammer and screwdriver, I get the bastard open. ‘Remove one strip.’ Well, I cannot, for the opening of the container is SMALLER THAN MY FINGERS. So, I dump them all out on the table, and get one inserted into the monitor. Hooray success! Well, not so fast.

Third: get ‘LANCET PEN’ and set for depth of puncture needed to draw blood. One to five, I set three, midrange is probably ok…is what I am thinking. Fourth: insert drum of lancets into end of pen. Here is where the futility of all this rears its ugly gourd.

I have what is called ‘Benign Essential Tremors’, what amounts to a constant slight shaking of my hands, symptoms typically exacerbated by reading any Zano posts. As I try to match the shake of my hand with the pen in it to the shake of the drum hand, I am reminded of that scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey where the space station rotates and the incoming shuttle tries to match its rotation for docking. I am now wondering if playing ‘The Blue Danube Waltz” on my stereo would make this any easier.

Click-success!!

Fifth: rotate drum to where pointer is set to number 5. Each time you use the lancet, it will then rotate to the next number down. You cannot re-use any lancets; they will not re-load once used. Problem ; no rotation. Reread instructions. Hold tip of pen down and rotate drum, simultaneously. Yeah right. By now, the words “piece of shit” are rebounding from all the hard surfaces in my kitchen.

After realizing it’s already on # 5, I go into the living room and get my other glasses. When that is done, it says to hold the opening in the bottom of the pen firmly against fingertip and press yellow button. While trying to match shaking-rotations once again, I realize I see no yellow button. Reread. Yellow button is actually a clear button that appears slightly yellow when the pen is correctly set. No yellow. Go through the whole mind-numbing routine again, and lo and behold, I see a faint hint of yellow under the clear button. Re-matching shake-rotations again, with pen firmly held to finger, I go to press the now yellow button, only to realize it is not actually a button. It is a pressure sensitive recess in the side of the pen. A recess one would need fingers like pencils to operate, not, as it were, fat stubby gorilla digits.

Five B: jam lancet into eyeball. Rotate.

Ten minutes have now gone by. I move my hand so my fingernail is on the fukking button, and press. I hear a click, but feel no pain, see no blood. Reread. Reset pen to deeper setting. Can’t do, it won’t turn. Reread. Cannot reuse lancet, rotate drum, then reset depth.

I reread Zano feature to calm down.

It is at this point I realize there doesn’t exist ON EARTH enough Ritalin for me to do this regularly. Reset to deepest setting, match rotations, hold firmly, fingernail on button, press. FUCKING OUCH MAN. I did not for the life of me think a little hole would hurt that much. Now I have a hole, but alas, no blood. It is now going on twenty minutes, and I am happy to be alone at this point, for if either my wife or doctor were present, I would become intimately acquainted with the State’s civil involuntary commitment laws.

I used ALL FIVE lancets; I have FIVE fucking holes in the tip of ONE finger. I am squeezing the living shit out of my finger now, using words I have never even heard before and I am looking for the hammer to finish the job, when-TAD-DA! Blood appears. I quickly get the monitor and apply the paper strip to the blood. I watch the blood go up onto the paper, and turn the monitor around to look at the face to see what the numbers are. It is then I realize it is off. I turn it on, and it asks me to insert paper strip. THERE IS A FUCKING PAPER STRIP IN YOU, YOU BLOODY EVIL SADISTIC DEVICE FROM HELL!! I Reread the instructions, and some more Zano features, and here is the best part:

“You have exactly three minutes to do all of the above before device automatically shuts off and you will be asked to reset device and start over.”

There is blood on my shaver, on the mirror, on my comb, and all over the steering wheel on the Ram. There is now a pile of hammered plastic debris on the kitchen table, along with a bloody napkin and a note to my wife spelled out, in blood, on the kitchen table. Let’s just say the house will be a little quiet for a while. The whole monitoring thing WAS my Idea after all.

So I will forgo checking my blood sugar but will now need to add a blood pressure medication.

A note to the manufacturer: I know that you must have used thin, young, healthy, intelligent people when testing ease-of-use. Uh, the problem as I see it is that by the time a person is ready to use your product—fifty or so years of stress, fattening foods, and sedentary lifestyle later—you have made your product totally fucking useless to us fat-assed dim-witted shaky, high-blood-sugar types. You know, the ones who will, in all probability, be the ones actually purchasing your lovely little product.

Looks like I get a free pass this morning…Mexican Coke/Rum and Twinkies all around.

Breakfast of Champions!

The Crank

by The Crank • February 6, 2012

Nothing Golden Can Stay: Farewell Hostess with the Mostess

Long before there was Spongbob Squarepants, there was Spongecake Cream Members. But 1/10/2012 marked the beginning of the end. No, it isn’t cataclysmic storms, or giant grasshoppers like that similarly named Peter Graves’ movie. It’s not tsunamis or earthquakes or Mayan Gods either. It’s not even Ahmanutjob flexing his nuclear muscle, nor is it Kim Jong Jr. testing his authoritah. I’m afraid, it’s much, much worse.

I cannot get much more depressed and still function. Today, sniff-sniff, Hostess Bakery filed chapter 11 bankruptcy. Yes, I know, I know…how will we ever function without the Sacred Twinkie? I don’t know…but somehow we must soldier on. If not for us, for the sake of the children. Yes, for the children. But how can a child grow into a fully functional adult without first knowing of the magic ‘T’? It’s like a rite of passage. The mighty sponge member, Exglucosebur, passed down from father to son, from mother to daughter, for countless generations. The Once and Future Ring Ding.

When one reaches a certain age, the parent sits you down and hands you your first one. You are told just how to slowly and methodically open the package without damaging them. You are then told to take a bite, albeit a small one. We never know just how the little ones will react to the flood of flavor, the tsunami of sugar, the cacophony of cake, the symphony of spongy goodness.

Oh, I still remember my first time: I was behind the candy rack in my parent’s deli, hiding, ashamed, yet curiously attracted to them. Mom said they weren’t good for me, especially seeing as how I was already adept at finding the right end of the fork, so to speak. Yes, ahead of my age was I—a fact directly related to having access to free food 24-7. I took one bite and it was the first time I heard the music. The first time I saw the light. After I engulfed the little yellow wonders, almost swallowing them whole, I felt a sudden flood of warmth, a kind of epiphany—an epiphany only superseded by my first encounter with Coca-Cola. I grew up fast in those years, always managing to keep my little diabetic dalliances a secret from the parents.

I was finally caught on day, the plastic wrap and the little cardboard in my shirt pocket, face full of yellow cake, and the telltale spent white filling still in my hand. I was humiliated, eyes downcast, waiting for my father to fulfill his fatherly duties and wup my ass. What happened that day surprised me… one day you realize, the dad you had was not the dad you thought you knew.

No, that one warm June day in my seventh year, he sat me down and opened up another pack. He then went to the dairy case and grabbed a can of ReddiWhip. As he was telling me to keep my mouth shut about this, he covered each of the Twinkies with a delicate ribbon of whipped cream and handed me one. He then reached into the soda case and grabbed two Cokes—you know, the little 6 oz ones from years past. As he handed me the Coke, he had this little crooked smile. “Now this is our little secret, OK?”

I know why he had to keep it a secret. He, like me, had learned all too well the wonders of food. But unlike, yours truly, he was unable to remain just a ‘social eater’. He was a habitual user, Dad was. Hard stuff, too. One time, right after returning from WWII, he downed 13 bowls of Minestrone soup. He survived the war but had to have his stomach pumped that night. Eventually such indulgences came back to bite him in the ass.

Mom didn’t understand; she wasn’t like ‘us.’ She had never seen the light, nor heard the siren’s song—at least not until the day Dad took her to see Englebert Humperdink. She sure saw something that day. Came home all wobbly and glassy-eyed with the same crooked little smile… I never understood her addiction.

But will the little ones even remember the Twinkie? What great poems or sonnets will be written about the Ring Dings? the Choc-o-diles? the Devil Dogs? Oh, the humanity of it all. We need to act and act now. I say we do a fundraising telethon thing. Instead of ‘Jerry’s Kids,’ we can get a bunch of fat kids crying and staring into their empty Twinkie boxes.

“Why, mommy. Why?!”

That should do the trick. Think of it, Twinkies are the go-to for all occasions. Just lost your girlfriend? Get over that pair with another golden pair. Won the lottery? Twinkies. Hormones going wild? Twinkies. Pregnant? Twinkies. Postpartum? Prepartum? Post-prepartum? You always had a friend in Twinkies. For some of us, sadly, they were our only true friend.

We also need to think about the coming achococlypse. If we are to survive the coming onslaught of Global Problem Du Jour: pollution, radiation, droughts, liberals and famines, we will need the chemical properties of our favorite little ‘Soylent Yellow’ to help us endure and persevere. After all, they may just keep us alive. Twinkies are forever, too. Have you ever seen one go bad? Think of it. Well-armed Mad Max type vehicles will scour the countryside in search of them. Future history buffs will no doubt read of the Great Twinkie Wars.

“The Shroud of the Ring Ding has fallen. Begun the Twinkie War has!”

—Yoda

They have a half-life of about 400 years and are on the periodic table of the elements too, right next to uranium under Ts. And didn’t we find yellow cake in Iraq? Iran is trying to enrich Twinkies, but we can’t let them succeed!

I will now go to my local convenience store and start a memorial outside, complete with little crosses made of Twinkies, flowers, notes, the whole thing. I have even started knitting a patchwork quilt. Their stories must be told! It just seems wrong, so so wrong…

The Crank

by The Crank • January 26, 2012

Typically, when a coworker comes to me first thing in the morning with a ‘story’, I feign interest. I might smile and maybe even nod periodically as if listening intently to this intriguing yarn (much in the same way I read Zano posts).

This particular story caught my attention with its opening line of “Hey, I was pulled over this morning on my way in.” It seems as though said coworker was doing more than the posted top speed whilst going through a residential area. The local city constabulary is known to still be trying to figure out how the paper sack resists their efforts to punch through it, as it were, so I figure this story just might have some Discord-style yuck yucks attached to it. Little did I know…

The coworker’s tale:

“So there I was, up to my knees in Caribou dung, surrounded by a thousand Umbatzu tribeswomen naked to the waist.”

Sorry, that’s an old Wild Kingdom flashback. I still get those from time to time.

“So there I was, minding my own business, blowing through some apartment complexes, when all of a sudden I hear a siren and see the flashing lights in my mirror. I pull over to the side of the road and proceed to get my stuff out of my wallet. I even leave the seatbelt on, and you know how hard it is to get your wallet out of yer back pocket with the damn belt on!”

I am injecting a quick note that will prove important as we proceed. You see, a very large squash is sitting next to my coworker on the front seat of his pickup. To us Itralians, the word we use to describe a very large squash, or a very stupid person, is ‘Googootz’.

“So this cop walks up to my window and says the usual license registration and proof of insurance number and I start handing him my stuff.

He then says to me kinda quick-like ‘Do you have any guns, knives, sharp objects, illegal narcotics, open beer or liquor bottles, hypodermic needles, Googootz, or any other items which I might need to know about?’”

At this point I would like to add another tidbit to this story. My coworker is Montana ex-Mormon. He can count on one hand the number of Italian-Americans he has talked to in his entire life.

“So I’m all nervous-like and just say no. I didn’t really listen all that well to his question. So he repeats it and I again says’ no. He then asks me to ‘step out of the truck please.’ As I step out of the truck, I’m trying to figure out just what pissed this guy off. Ah mean, I got the new mufflers and they ARE a bit loud, and the tires are big, but they fit within the width of the truck.”

Then the officer said, “Sir, you told me you had none of the items I asked about, and I see one of them as big as life on your front seat.”

He then points to my coworker’s big assed squash. At this point, fellow Discordians, I am laughing about as hard one can internally while trying to keep a poker face on the outside. Tears start to well in my eyes as I watch my friend all red-faced and twitchy continue describing his ordeal:

“Just how the crystallized-f%^& was I supposed to know it’s a goo-whatever-the-f&*^ing goonie goo goo? I’m about to pass out when he smiles and says he was talking about the squash. He just told me to slow the hell down when going through this area, and to have a nice day, the little prick.”

As I can no longer hold it in, I burst out laughing. He then hands me the biggest Googootz I have seen in a quite a googootsin long time. He tells me it was hiding in his garden, and he wanted to know if I liked squash.

I said, “No, but I do appreciate a Googootz like you.”

Normally, this would mark the end our tale, but I brought the protagonist of our story home that day but I left it in the Ram overnight. The next morning, after my wife left for work, I saw it sitting on the passenger seat, so I brought it in and put in on the kitchen counter and headed to work. Later that day, after it got dark, I get this phone call from my wife…a rather irate wife.

“What the hell is this friggin’ Googootz doing on the counter?! It’s dark in here when I get home and all I see in the glow of the street light coming through the window…to me it looked like a friggin’ baseball bat sitting on the counter! I damn near called the cops!”

All’s I could think is this same cop would respond and, having had enough, would haul the thing downtown for questioning.

My wife continued, “I thought there was somebody in the house, maybe a burglar or something. Scared the shit out of me. It wasn’t until I put on the lights that I saw this friggin’ Googootz staring at me.”

My wife made both my coworker and I some really nice Zucchini bread. But, sadly, she doesn’t like squash anymore.

Googootz night and Googootz luck

The Crank

by The Crank • January 12, 2012

Representative Anthony Weiner, or ex-rep anyway, embodies all that is wrong with the world in a nutsack—er, nutshell. Do we remember any legislation he was responsible for writing or passing? No. Has he left the world a better place? No. Did he respect the office? Well, maybe the TV show.

We remember Representative Anthony Weiner (RAW) for being RAW. We remember when he tweeted his peter. If he can’t make Time’s Man of the Year award then let’s, for lack of a better word, thrust the title The Discord’s Member of the Year upon him (pardon the pud). And least we never forget that fateful day when someone named Weiner, a Congressman no less, sent someone a picture of his own…now what should we call it? Tubesteak, kielbasa, rod, howitzer, stiffy, trouser-snake, willy, Clinton, bazooka, weapon of mass dickstruction, trouser-ferret, pole, painless pole, pecker, boner, thing, piece, member, tool, package, shaft, chub, wankie, doinker, ding a ling, ding dong, meat popsicle, big kosher…

Winslow’s Comment:

The colloquialisms for penis went on for several pages. After receiving this submission, I immediately sent the police to the The Crank’s residence for a welfare check. But when the police arrived he shouted, “I’m up to P, what’s another name for penis? Wait! I got it, pork-sword. Thanks.” And slammed the door.

I did sift through this monstrously schlong list for some politically relevant ones: member of Congress, Richard M. Nixon, demacrotch, Zogby pole, and calling the erection.

We now bring you the rest of The Crank’s feature already in progress.

…stinky pickle, third leg, tonsil tickler, heat-seeking moisture missile, kosher beef bayonet, skin flute, Mr. Happy Johnson, Captain Winky, One-Eyed Willy, purple headed warrior, flesh trombone?

He did this all to impress some virtual woman, probably using a picture of Jessica Alba as her avatar. Oh, and all the while he’s married to Hillary Clinton’s very pregnant right hand woman and main assistant. It was like “Lets see, what could I possibly do today that would totally fuck up this great thing I have going?”

What a dork. Wait, there’s another one! Fill-a-buster, or does that only work if he’s gay?

He is just like all the rest, getting paid to do the people’s business, all the while thinkin’ of “dooin” the people instead.

There should be a ‘common sense’ test to see if you are worth the money you will be paid. This could be extended for all Government employees, all professional athletes, and all Hollywood celebrities. It would be a multiple choice test, kinda like dis:

Question 1:

If you find yourself with some extra time and extraordinarily large sums of money on your hands, your first choice of action would be:

Choke some pit bull dogs to death (as did Philadelphia Eagles Quarterback Michael Vick).
Drop your illegal, loaded handgun on the dance floor of a New York club from the waistband of your sweat suit and shoot yourself in the ass (as did Plaxico Burress, ex-New York Giant).
Leave a nasty drunken voice message on your young daughter’s cell phone cursing her as loudly as you can (as did Alec Baldwin).
Tweet pictures of your penis to young girls (as did Anthony’s Weiner).
Have some McNuggets.

If you’re too fargin’ stoopid to pass this little exam, you forego the money and go back to flipping fucking Whoppers…oh, wait , there’s another one! Just a Willy on Capital Hilly!

Walk-a-proud Tony, walk-a-proud.

The Crank

by The Crank • January 9, 2012

First, let me be the first to congratulate you on the crying Korean-slash-Bachmann joke. Well done, sir. Second, I know Darth Winslow warned me about political commentary—just like the Politicos, he has to pander to his base (all six of them). Yeah, I know, “they are six really smart people!” I’m sorry, dear Winnie, like the spider who kills the goose he’s riding across the river on and drowns, it’s wut ah do.

Your latest post, Mr. Zano, has many problems, not the least of which is the copious amount of unfunnyness it exudes. It’s like listening to Pink phucking Floyd on the way to work in the morning; it only exacerbates my already powerful feelings of helplessness. I read your political stories and I gaze down at my wrists and cry. Just stop! Who is your sponsor anyway, the makers of Prozac!

The Taliban are wonderful people, I’m sure. I just love the way they treat the ladies. Oops, I seemed to have run over my daughter. Oh well, I’ll just have another. She was getting too westernized anyway. See Mick, no way to make them funny. They all suck, all of them. Not Muslims mind you, I’m talking Taliban. If your neighborhood is taken over by Honduran Mafia, do you talk to the moderate killer/drug dealer? No, you call in some “Sherriff Joe” style artillery.

And it’s just not funny. If it’s OK now to write non funny, I gots’ a shitload for you. Oh, it’s not? Well, then…..

Second, I love charts. Especially yours. Having ADHD, your charts are like a shiny sparkly thing waved in front of me. It’s like “…and then the President says that…Oh look, a Mikko chart….”

Yours of course is bullshit. Why do you never put down where you get this drivel? Even I am smart enough not to copy and paste from the Heritage Foundation; you really need to stay away from MediaMatters.shit.

Afghan & Iraq wars, half that amount.
Bush tax cuts need to be added to the next 4 years, no one in Washington has the ‘junes to stop them.
152 billion for the health reform? Yeah, I got some waterfront property in Yuma for you. It’s over 1 trillion.
The Fed has released documents saying that almost 110 billion went out the back door the Europe and its banks, and they ain’t finished yet.
Just today, he added almost 900 billion to welfare and food stamp subsidies.
Its only 3 years to Bush’s 8.
Oh yeah, Bush was wrong also, so uh, remember this quote:

How can you tell if you’re a partisan hack?

When you use something morally indefensible to defend your guy. Thus the whole “I bet you didn’t object when blahblahblah did yadayadayada, so you can’t complain now” logical construct. If the ONLY argument that you have in support of something is a rationalization based on a lack of consistency on the part of its opponents, then you are well and truly sunk intellectually.

Now, there is also this: the Russians couldn’t do shit in Afghanistan. It’s a treacherous shithole. They have no oil, therefore, after we kill all the Taliban fighting men/male children over the age of, well, 7, for their part in 9/11, we need to g.t.f.o. Unless, that is, you want to go pick some poppy? Iraq is another story, we should have taken the oil as payment for letting the Muslim Brotherhood take over the whole region. We repeatedly oust Dictators and then they elect people who all want to kill us. For free. Isn’t the definition of insanity when you keep doing the same fucking shit and keep thinking the outcome will be different? I think 5 or 6 million barrels a year should just about do it.

It’s all for naught anyway, it seems that today Obama just wiped his ass with what was left of the Constitution anyway. You are right, it is all over. It’s just not funny.

And when it comes to politics, neither are you. Oh yeah, and it’s all your fault.

Jeez, I do so love doing that.

Oh yeah, I gave your neighbor a twenty and told him to buy something loud.

I ♥ Liquid Dinosaurs

The Crank

Winslow’s Note:

I never said you couldn’t write political posts, Mr. Crank, but the rebuttals of rebuttals of rebuttals were giving my ulcers ulcers. I allowed this rebuttal against my better judgment. Actually, I work for the Discord so I don’t really have a better judgment. I’m going to steer clear from any political commentary here, although I will say, for the record, the chart in Zano’s post is from the Congressional Budget Office, not Moveon.org or MediaMatters. He did forget the citation, which is actually quite rare, so I docked him a week’s pay. The chart is considered by many to be the chart of the year (so naturally you won’t see it on Fox News).

But I did want to make one point. You said of Zano’s post, “Your latest has many problems, not the least of which is the copious amount of unfunnyness it exudes.” You made this point often. In Mr. Zano’s feature I counted 10 or 15 jokes, some of them were very funny, some were mildly amusing, and still others made me wish I’d chosen a career in refrigerator repair. Point being, they exist, they are there, embedded within the story. Meanwhile, your post was completely devoid of even the rudimentary precursors of humor. Well, there is that Prozac joke, but apparently that was added later by an underpaid and often beaten intern. This being primarily a comedy site, the victory goes to Zano.

P.S. Your other shit has been hysterical lately so you should take your own advice.

by The Crank • December 15, 2011

Living on the surface of the Sun (aka, Phoenix) does have its benefits. One, you never have to travel to see fambly. They will always come to see you. Let’s see, 19 degrees and snow in New Yawk, or 70 and sunny in AZ. Hmmm.

This, as it turns out, is a-ok with me for I have more internal steel than the average Volkswagen. So a trip through airport security usually involves a swat team and lawyers, or at the very least a related Warren Zevon song. Lawyers, because, the longer I stand sans shoes being felt-up by a fucking dimwitted TSA agent—who repeatedly wands my ‘Terminator’ knee joints as if he’s never seen one before—the ornery-er I ah git. I have a tendency to say things, rather impolite things, when I get ornery (see any Zano rebuttal).

My wife usually will have disappeared at this point and will have disavowed any knowledge of me, or my actions, in favor of airport gift shops or airport bars. She knows, all too well, what’s coming. After the angry fat man is cuffed and stuffed, generally comes the call to the aforementioned legal counsel.

Air travel today summed up: here’s 12-hundred bucks, now belt my fat ass onto a fucking candlestick holder, fuck with me for 6 hours, give me toy food and, oh , please lose or break my luggage. Why don’t you just call it S&M Air?

If the fambly we happen to be talking about is children and grandchildren, whether 2 or 40 years old, it seems that you always end up paying for the trip. It’s like a kind of Mafia ransom thing. “You wanna sees da little ones again, it’s gunna cost ya.”

But, being able to gaze upon the most beautiful little eyes on earth for 14 days, to hear the little voice, to be hugged by the little hands…but enough about my Mother. Tadumdum. Talking face-to-face, instead of Skype to Skype…what a concept. I started to think the kids were actually pixilated, and I admit I was a little disappointed when they couldn’t magically transport across the room. At least we are now human to them, not just computer generated relatives (CGRs).

My Son now likes beer, expensive micro-fucking-brewed beer. Lots of beer.

“I’m on vacation,” he says.

Did you ever see a recycle truck tip over? It almost did when it tried to lift MY can. Oh yeah, and kids eat a lot. I forgot how much; it’s been a long time since I rock & rolled. By the end of the 14 days, I was on a first name basis with all the cashiers at the Safeway. Getting a title loan on the Ram would not have been my first choice as a way to get food money.

Oh, and toddler’s shit. They shit nearly constantly, like little evil perpetual motion machines programmed by the anti-Christ (EPM and, er, another M…shit, I give up). By the smell of baby shit in my garbage, I’m sure the neighbors called the local constabulary.

“My neighbor is hiding a dead body in there! Yeah, the fat angry guy from the airport.”

Oh, and if you shake-em a little, that Larry the Cable Fellow is right; they do spew like a warm can of beer. But, unfortunately, not the kind my son will drink.

You just can’t hate them, though, being terminally cute and all. And they know it, boy do they know it. Got Grandma wrapped around they’re little digits, they do. They’re like really, really good drugs. You go to bed exhausted, vowing on the graves of all your dead relatives to never ever to do this again. Yet, when you wake up, one look at them and you’re all Charley Sheen (forgetting yesterday and ready to do it all again). Yeah, I’m sending the bail Brooks.

I have two cats. One is an old black female, who I lovingly refer to as ‘Bee-och’. She does not have any use for humans. She spent the majority of the 14 days behind the TV, only coming out exactly one minute after we put the little ones to sleep, or during Desperate Housewives. I could see the “Oh Thank God” in her eyes. She really loves season two.

The other one is a one year old male, long hair white and rust named Canolli. He was amazing. Never once complained about the little devils. Never a hiss, never a scratch. They tried to put him head first into the hope chest, took him for rides on the trike, sat on him, and he always came back for more. He would probably even like that airline I was talking about. Only once did I have to rescue him…as my grandson had him by the tail and the neck and was carrying him into the bathroom. Canolli looked at me with those wide-opened kitty eyes that said, “This isn’t going to end well at all, ummm, a little help?” I had to oblige.

Watching my wife with her grandchildren as she read to them was priceless, and worth all the effort. Being able to talk with my son face-to-face made the 14 days not anywhere near enough. Seeing my son and daughter-in-law let us know the kids were in good hands. Eating myself into a coma was nice too. I can’t get away with that all that often, with Grandma being a nurse and all. Now here is a little secret from me to all Grandpas: grandchildren do make excellent diversions. “Now listen here little one, you go up to Grandma and give her a BIG LONG hug, whilst Grandpa raids the fridge, Owtay?”

14 days of cartoons should be used at Gitmo. No one could do that without giving up all the secrets. My mind turned to ooze as I watched them in place of my usual morning news; it’s like only watching MSNBC. Strawberry Shortcake made me want to toss my cookies, just like Rachel Maddow. And Pound Puppies made me see them as so much road pizza. This shit makes water boarding look like part of some water park ride.

Oh, and children come standard with all sorts of paraphernalia. Enough ‘stuff’ that it took both my wife’s Sonata and my Ram to transport us all anywhere. Special seats, special wheeled devices, large vinyl bags with all sorts of evil shit-related items, bottles of beige swill they seem to crave incessantly, and complete changes of clothing for any possible weather scenario, across any geographic region. Then there was the stuff my grandchildren needed (aka, lots of stuff for a three mile drive under blue skies and 70, is all I’m sayin’).

Thanksgiving dinner was only one of more than a dozen skin-stretching gastronomic diversions (DS…sorry, way too long into the article for an acronym joke)’. When you’re off from work for any amount of time and eating becomes the household pastime, you get lulled into a kind of time-loop (no beginning and no end). But, the time did come for goodbyes. Seeing the kids off on their trip back home was hard—unless I win the lottery, it will be a year before I’ll see them all again, unpixilated. That is the crappy part of having a 2000 plus mile gap between loved ones. Now, if I can only get them to move here. Hmmmm.

Messin’ with kids’ heads since 1991

The Crank

by The Crank • December 5, 2011

Watching the Recording Industry Shit on Me since the F-ing 60s

The hysterical lawsuit letter you are about to read is very real, but let’s begin our tale here: in the late sixties, my earliest memories of recorded music involved 45s and albums on an ancient record player, one that my tech savvy brother-in-law managed to hook up to my brother’s accordion amp. Mono Led Zeppelin, lots of bass, who wus better’n me?

As my tastes went upscale, around eleven, I purchased—with my own money as I worked the family deli from age seven—a new Zenith ‘Circle of Sound” record player with FM radio and two rather bizarre looking speakers. I still remember the smell as I opened the lid for the first time. The Stones never sounded better. Having ADHD, this lasted only long enough for me to purchase a ‘component system’ from a soon to be incarcerated neighbor, consisting of a Harmon Kardon receiver, Garrard turntable and two bookshelf speakers. By this time, I had ruined at least seventy-five 45s and about twenty albums. That was the thing, you liked them, you played them nonstop, and soon you were looking at hundreds of dollars in scratched up records. Scratch, crackle, pop. Then you awaited repurchase replacements and wasted even more of your hard earned cash.

Upon having secured a hand-me-down 1967 Plymouth Fury at 16, I discovered 8-tracks for cars. I went to the only place that had them at the time, Sears Auto, and got myself a brand-y new, hangin’ from the bottom of the dash, chrome-plated plastic 8-track player with a special “PowerBoost“ button, and two state of the art Jensen 6×9 Co-axials in the rear shelf. I was Mr. Kool at that point, listening to Born on the Bayou as I cruised to work. I could get away with spelling Kool with a K back then, I was that Kool.

Now, let’s get this straight: 8-tracks sounded crappy compared to new albums. But they sounded better than used ones, so the cost for no replacements, portability (listening to your music in your car was a new thing then) and some sound quality, it was worth it. Only they did wear out…quickly. This was soon to become a recurring theme.

Only after I had purchased all the albums I had as 8 tracks, along with many new ones, did the Cassette appear. Smaller than 8-tracks, sounding somewhat better, but only when Dolby came out, the cassette was the new “thing” and there I went, repurchasing all of the music I had already purchased twice, yet again, along with any new music. Now, the cassette had integrated itself with the car’s radio, so new decks and newer speakers were needed, and out went the old stuff. I remember putting out garbage bags full of 8-track tapes. I wish I had them all now, but here’s the rub: they also wore out and sounded awful when they did. Mo money, smaller, worse.

By this time, my addiction to high end audio was at its worst. Custom-made amp, high-end FM tuner, B&O turntable, two decks, Bose 901s, AND Infinity towers. With over six friggin’ miles of wire and four remotes, you needed an engineering degree from NASA to put on a record. My car was even worse. It was about this time my hearing started to go. Huh? Whah? Eh?

The first time I heard about CDs, I was struck by how clear they sounded, yet it still lacked a lot of the “presence” of albums. They supposedly lasted forever, and sounded the same always. Here I went again, repurchasing everything on CD, and all new music from then on. Is this starting to sound like a broken record? CDs were nowhere near the sound quality of new vinyl as it left out some 50% of the information of. Yet, it still became the be-all end-all for music storage. My Telarc brand CD of Star Trek TNG music was responsible for my first encounter with my neighbor. He regularly asked what the fuck I was hammering at 11 PM.

All was well until the invention of the MP3. Now, you could download songs from the web and listen to them on crappy little iPods through crappy little ‘ear buds’. Huh? Whah? Eh? The worst sounding of all the platforms, only the basic sounds remained, no presence, no background sounds, totally unrealistic electronic beeps, lacking all aspects of what real music happens to be all about…just much easier, lighter, and cheaper, but not better.

Now, thanks to people like the late Steve Jobs, we no longer have to interact with other people in our daily lives. Between video games, smartphones and iPods, we can now successfully muddle along without interacting with another soul (off alone in our own little worlds). You know, like in the Zano Zone.

It was about this time that I started to assemble some of the music my Mom used to like, for her to play and enjoy easily. Napster and I became loyal friends. I made many CDs for Mom. I lovingly referred to it as Music of Dead People: Sinatra, Martin, Vale, Bald Tony, et-cetera. It made her happy, and cost me just blank CDs. We all listened to them at her wake. Everyone loved them.

One day I received and email from some lawyer’s office. It stated I had illegally recorded music (the song ‘Pretty Woman’) from the Roy Orbison collection, and was to immediately contact said lawyer to see how much money would be needed from me to escape “many expensive legal issues.”

Here is the actual email that I actually sent back (true story, ask Zano):

To: Mr — —— Esquire

Attorney for the widow of the late Roy Orbison Estate

Dear sir,

As I have been a lifelong fan of Mr. Orbison, I have purchased his music, and this song in particular, many times in the past. I have purchased it on a 45, on an album, on an 8 track, on a cassette and on a CD. That’s 5 times, for the same fucking piece of music. I am not some 18 year old little shit selling pirated music on Ebay.

Mr. Orbison is dead. He will at this point not be needing any of my money. His widow will not be getting any more of my money than she already has. Fuck you all. Get a real job, both of you.

I feel strongly that the recording industry owes me at least $9,500.00 for multiple songs I have had to re-purchase over the last 40 or so years. Would you please remit to me a check? No? Then please accept my suggestion to please go fuck off.

Yours truly,

My Real Name

Now, I am told, the Compact Disc itself will cease to exist as early as next year. Huh? Whah? Eh? Record stores will soon become a thing of the past. They will probably put one in the Smithsonian. No more rummaging through the clearance bin, looking for that obscure band from Ukraine you loved while on your European Pub Crawl.

Downloads only. I remember as a teen, I used to love reading the liner notes and pictures on a new album. I used to like to actually see the musicians on the album, the session guys, the celebrity ‘friends’ that just bopped in for a song or two, as well as the writers. We have lost for good the sound that was new vinyl, and we lost the album cover art, liners, etc. We now have crappy digital heartless groups of notes created when some technogeek in a fucking studio recording of some idiot kid who can’t sing worth a shit, and put the whole foul smelling porridge through something truly evil, called Auto-Tune. This, presumably, to correct the singer’s lack of ability to, well, er, fucking sing, so it ends up sounding like some kind of futuristic robot shit from hell!

AhahhaAhhahahha!!!! AHhHHAah!!!!!!!!!! Sorry, I suffer from Intermittent Kinison Disorder (IKD). Sam I am.

Kids today have no inkling of a realization that they are, in fact, listening to shit. They never heard of Zeppelin, or the theme from The Magnificent Seven, or Ride of The Valkyries. And they’ve certainly never listened to them on a high end record player from a brand new vinyl album, the way God intended.

Music? No, not any more my friends, not any more.

The Crank

by The Crank • December 1, 2011

How You Lakka Me Now? Noticio to All Fiat S.P.A. Shareholders

You stupido bastards, you keepa tella me, “Why u gonna buy Chrysler? Why u waista so much money on such American crap, eh?” I also get lotsa, “U stupido CEO, wherza u brains? Inna u ass?” Anna I getta, “Hey Sergio, whera u woikin nest, eh?” Okay, I’ll stop writing in accent, promise…

If you were wondering, the following is a letter I have written on behalf of Sergio Marchionne:

Dear Fiat Shareholders,

I’ve put up with all this shit from you shareholders for months now. When I agreed to purchase Chrysler, I got grief. When I said I was going to re-finance the debt we had to the U.S. Government, and save us a fortune, I got grief. NOW, all of a sudden, I’m getting no such feedback anymore. Oh, geeh! I wonder what happened. Well, I’ll tell you. The European money market crashed and burned. No one is buying any cars, whether Fiats or Ferrari’s. We can’t fukking give them away. We would normally be doing just what the rest of the European auto makers are now doing: lying to our shareholders, stealing the shareholders’ money and hiding it in our matterratzes, while waiting for the Government to either bail us out (which can’t happen, they actually have less Lire-er-I-mean EU’s on hand than we do), or close us down.

BUT, you know what’s actually happening? Weeell, I’ll tell you. That little deal I had for Chrysler, you know the one where we paid about a penny on the dollar of real worth? Yeah, that one. Well, while we Europeans watch our little experiment in socialismo crash and burn like a fukking Russian satellite, those fat-assed Americans are back to doing what they do best…buying fat-assed SUVs. The largest seller, the Grand Cherokee is from a little company called JEEP. And guess who owns Jeep? CHRYSLER. And guess who owns Chrysler? WE DO, ASSHOLES!

The Jeep Grand Cherokee is saving our greasy WOP asses, boys. So, while the rest of the European car market fizzles like last year’s birthday candles, we be in da Lire, fellas. Big Time! We changed the one thing Chrysler couldn’t do right, interiors. They were like hard plastic little torture chambers that even someone who supports water boarding couldn’t approve of. Who better to redesign a car interior, the Czechs maybe? No, us emotional Italianos. We, the masters of all things leather and chrome (not to mention flappy paddle gear changers). They had the Hemis, they had the styling, and we made the package whole.

So now I’m like a fukking clairvoyant or something, I’m the toast of the town! It’s like I have my own theme music as I saunter down the piazza.

Can I lighta u cigarette, Signiore Marchionne?

Let me get that door for you, Signiore Marchionne.

Will you appear on our TV show, Signiore Marchionne?

Would you wear one of our brand sweaters, Signiore Marchionne?

Fuck you all. I knew what I was doing, oh ye of little faith. Europe will never be the same. Crash and burn. I’m here by bringing notice that the headquarters of Fiat S.P.A. will be Auburn Hills, Michigan, U.S.A. as of January 1, 2012. That is, unless I get one HELL of a deal from the new Italian Government. You listening, Signiore Monti? You’d better be.

As for the rest of you whinny Fiat shareholders, in the immortal words of Roman Maroni, “I’m gonna cut off a u arms and I’m gonna stick’em up a u iceholes!

Respectfully Submitted,

Sergio Marchionne

P.S. You’re a bunch of farggin somna batches!

by The Crank • November 17, 2011

Okay, here goes. You want world peace? Well, I think I may have some answers. I want you to look at the globe, not as a mixture of political boundaries, but a world of people sharing a pastime, or addiction, or religion. Frankly, all of this melting pot stuff is a waste of perfectly good marijuana.

First, let’s take North America. Everything from the Arctic south to Wyoming, the Dakotas, Minnesota, and Idaho will be renamed Hockey, with its Capital designated as Center Iceslip. Let’s put it near where southern Saskatchewan is now, which maybe we could rename Zambonia.

The west coast from Oregon to Mid-California to be renamed Moonbeam, with its Capital being the city of I’mOKyerOK, located near and abouts where California wine country is now. They’re going to need to drink that wine as they go broke.

Colorado would become Little Moonbeam. They have lots of beer, so they should be OK for a time as well.

Meanwhile, Southern California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas to be renamed Dry Heat, with its new Capital city of Fartas de Cervesas Y Burrito. Let’s build it in the desert somewhere west of Phoenix. The more open the space the better.

Nevada and Utah would be called Mormon with its Capital of Sixwives constructed somewhere near Provo.

All the central states would become Farmville with its Capital John Deer City.

Louisiana should be sacrificed back to Lake Pontchartrain and the Gulf. We should probably set up a memorial of a floating Superdome covered in shit with a sign saying, “We will rebuild at some point, promise.”

Mississippi would become Refineri with its Capital of Swetty.

The Great Lakes states would become Nojobshere with its new capital Onthedole.

Now the east coast, from New England down to D.C., would become Joisey, with its Capital of Whatsadatsmell? I think it’s fitting that Joisey should be the first and only city in the world to end in a question mark. Let’s put their capital in the heart of the Meadowlands. This way the foundation of this new metropolis will be truly built upon the people…at least the people the mob whacked.

D.C. south to the border with Florida and west to the Mississippi would become Jesus Christ, with its Capital of Nascarville in central Kentucky.

Central Florida would become New Israel, with its Capital of Bluehair near Orlando.

Southern Florida would become New Rico. No Capital, no one cares. Maybe we should go with Noonecares if anyone mentions it.

Why do the Israelis have to live completely surrounded by people who want them all dead? We need to give them Mexico. First, the Israeli Armed forces will make short work of the drug lords. After 40-years of Islam, those cartels would be like a video game to them. The kind you play all night until you beat. Then, think of what the Jews would do with two long beautiful coastlines! Can you say world’s largest resort? I knew ya could. Being surrounded by enemies and still being one of the world’s most successful economies, think of what they would do without all that pressure and defense spending? Its Capital would be Tel-Amex.

Central and South America would become Brazintina, for those two countries run everything there now anyway. The Capital of Univision would be located in the rainforests of central Brazil…a true “green city”.

The current countries of Norway, Sweden, Finland and Denmark would be called Coldfish, with its new Capital of Stiffnipple located in an ice cave somewhere in Sweden.

England, Ireland, and Scotland would become Crappweather, with its Capital of Crappfood located in Northern Indigestion.

The Netherlands and Belgium would become Potnbeer, with its capital of Shitfaced.

Austria, Germany and France would be the country of Incharge, as—let’s face it—they are.

Italy, Sardinia, Sicily and Greece would become Buuurp, with its capital of Depilatory.

Russia would become Putin, with its capital of Putin located in central Putingrad. The countries that used to make up the Eastern bloc will be designated as Not Putin, with their collective capital named Keilbasa Farts, near an around where Sarajevo is now.

All of Africa would become Country of the Month, with its Capital moving monthly to wherever that one tribal group is currently holding power. South Africa, being the exception, would become Don’tSailHere.

India would become Helpdesk, Pakistan would become 7-11, China and Southeast Asia would all be WedocheapMart.

The Mideast would all be Sandistan.

And let’s give Indonesia to Japan (Japanesia?). They could use the space and will likely run it better. They might even build some great resorts there as well…in between giant waves.

Which only leaves Australia. Best leave it be…as the world goes broke no one will be able to fly there anyway.

by The Crank • November 7, 2011

On Tuesday, October 25, 2011, the last of the United States B-53 bombs was dismantled at the PanTex Nuclear Arms assembly and disassembly plant in Amarillo, TX. A holdover from the cold war, this minivan-sized terminator of all things living or dead, or just ‘Fat Bastard’ to its dissemblers, was about 600x as powerful as the Hiroshima bomb. Amarillo was the obvious choice to mess with this thing, seeing as how no one would notice if said bomb exploded there.

The beastie was meant to bring destruction to even the deepest dug sanctuary of evil communism, like George Soros’ office. Its use now is viewed as somewhat “Captain Dunsel” (rendered unneeded) for all you non-Trekkers. Its destruction is being done as the world, well, some of it anyway—well, just us really—wants to get away from all evil nuclear devices. The fact remains, this little dildo of destruction was built so long ago, all the scientists who built it are either dead or retired, which makes its disassembly “quite interesting” according to PanTex techs.

Remember those heady days of the cold war? What fun we used to have at school, learning to ‘duck & cover’ to save us from a Russian attack—a plan which we know now was actually put in place by the government as a replacement for the original plan, labeled ‘bend over and kiss your ass goodbye’, which was deemed discriminatory to fat people and the elderly, who couldn’t achieve the necessary flexibility involved.

As I listened to the sound of the air raid sirens during tests, I would close my eyes and imagine the glowing mushroom-cloud-filled skies with its rainbow of radioactive colors, and feel a distant breeze on my cheek that would soon become the pyroclastic blast of final annihilation. Milliseconds before the lights go out, I say, “Oh look, I can see right through my hand!” Ah yes, the good old days; the days of watching nuclear tests with eager anticipation, always waiting for my favorite part when the house blows up and disintegrates before your eyes…but, alas, those films are gone forever now.

The whole idea was the “you got a big penis, but we got a bigger one” view of Mutual Assured Destruction, or MAD as we lovingly referred to it. If women were in charge at the time, I guess it would be “my PMS is worse than yours, bitch.”

Essentially the plan was this, if you know we have a bomb bigger than yours aimed right at your commie sphincter, you would not use yours. It worked. It has, for decades. Note to Putin: you had best see a physician, because the erection you now have will indeed last longer than four hours (with all accolades due to Jon Stewart).

You see, as we blindly disassemble our only deterrent to mass destruction, our old enemies, and some new ones, are joyfully attending to the assembly of their own. It must be like the North Pole Elves just before Christmas time at the Russian, North Korean, Chinese and Iranian Nuclear facilities. I can see it now, Cheery nuclear winter snow-covered children singing ‘Deutschland Uber Alles’ type music being played through the loudspeakers. They’re sure to be dancing with their little white-smocked elf-scientists gleefully attending to their tasks! Heartwarming, isn’t it? I can just taste the hot chocolate, glowing in the dark in its little cup. So what if the North Koreans have to eat their children to stop starvation, so what if the Iranians now have the whole country of Iraq to use for weapon storage—OK, only the south part. The north was invaded by Turkey today so they could bring those precocious little run-away Kurds back home, but that is a cluster-fuck for another time. So what if China can now hold its Nukes as well as our debt over our heads? It’s all for a good cause, isn’t it?

I think that the reaction to radiation has always been overstated. I mean, look at Chernobyl! The grass is growing, the birds are singing, the deer prance among the tall grasses. OK, the birds ARE a little large (ok, REALLY large) and their chirps now sound like the late Barry White’s burps…and, sure, the deer are now the size of a large Moose and their shit actually crawls away after it’s dropped, but so what? It’s all for a good cause, no? I wonder if one’s genitalia would also benefit from said radio-activity. I must email Dr. Hawking. Road Trip Discordians? A Brief History of Testes.

I hope we have all kept up the maintenance on our 1950s built buried bomb shelters, as we will probably need them soon. Don’t forget, canned goods last only about ten years, but Italian Romano Grating cheese will outlast even the longest half-life on record! It’s on the table of the elements, right next to lead. It’s ‘Lo’ for Locatelli.

So, as I sit here listening to Barry Maguire’s famous song, We’re On The Eve Of Destruction, Dio’s We’re the Last in Line and Europe’s The Final Countdown, while I pop in Dr. Strangelove to REM’s It’s the End of the World as We Know It…well, I can’t help but longingly reminisce on the MAD old days. I just hope I don’t get to say “I told ya so”.

Crank

Disturbing Progressives for over fifty years.