Archive for January, 2009

Yesterday, President Obama was sworn in and I mused about how the secret service would be better if it employed ninjas. My good friend, groovehouse, showed me better options.

Obama the Bodyguard

Just arm him and let him go to work. You feel lucky, Al Qaeda? Well, do ya?

Obama the Ninja

Now, why didn’t I think of this? Just skip on the secret service and just train Obama as a ninja. He would deal out his agenda with swift and deadly retribution.

Obama the Jedi

You think anyone is going to fuck with Obama with a light saber? Oh, HELL, no! Plus, that Jedi mind control could help him out with congress.

Welcome to the White House, Mr. President.

It is a black art, and I, Haru, am the blackest of the black. Or rather the great white black art… Blackest… Master.

I was watching CNN coverage of the inauguration yesterday and got to wondering something that has frequently vexed me in the past: why are bodyguards, secret service people, etc. required to wear a suit and tie?

You’re probably wondering, “Vexed? Really? You’ve been vexed by this? What do you do all day?” The answer to that question is: think about cake, hurricanes, the abnormally large head of the late Albert Collins, micro cows, sandwiches and ninjas.

That’s not all in one day, mind you. Those examples are probably spread across a month of deep thought or “philosothinking,” just like Socrates, Kierkegaard and Plato. Especially that last guy because I like to eat and his invention of the plate made that a lot easier for me. That’s what you can do with deep brain smarts and stuff.

Through all this mind melding, I’ve figured that secret service agents should be replaced by ninjas. Before you go thinking, “Wow, Jeff, that’s the smartest thing ever,” let me tell you the five reasons why I’m so awesomely smart and deserving of the nobel prize for kung fu, which they totally have.

Ninjas are dressed better for throwing down.

Let’s be honest. When a guy needs to get his fight on, he doesn’t want to be dressed in a suit an tie. Not only is ninja gear far more intimidating, but it’s just easier to move around in. There’s no way some suit wearing dude is going to be climbing walls and laying down the kung fu in a tie and a sports coat. Hell, a track suit or shorts and a t-shirt would be a LOT better for bitch slapping some lowlife. Also, ninja gear better conceals weaponry. What can you keep in a suit? A pistol? Pfft. Try 20 stars, nunchucks, a sword, smoke bombs…and that doesn’t even count those spikes on their hands and feet.

Hoods > Sunglasses

Speaking of gear, hoods are so much more effective for headgear than sunglasses. First, they are just safer. Some jackweed punches you in the face with glasses on, you could lose an eye. Second, without the glasses, criminals can see the look of death in your eyes and think twice about an attack. Finally, who the hell knows what the guy looks like under the hood? He could be some snaggle-toothed inbred who isn’t just going to kill you, he’s going to ass rape you in the woods like you’re Ned Beatty. If that doesn’t scare you, nothing will.

Ninja mind control is the first line of defense.

I know some of you are thinking, “But, Jeff, those guys in suits are there to LOOK scary to keep criminals from messing with the prez. The bad ass swat snipers are on rooftops. Since you can’t SEE ninjas, it might make criminals think that the big guy has been left unguarded.” True, however, you are forgetting about ninja mind control. Like Jedi mind control, they can peer into the minds of criminals before they attack and make them think of puppies and kittens instead of death and destruction and if that somehow didn’t work (you know, like if the criminal was Jabba the Hut), their stealthiness would take the bad guys by surprise like a coordinated raptor attack you didn’t even see coming.

Ninjas can jump

I’m not saying that your average secret service dude isn’t athletic. I have no doubt they have skills. But, seriously, can they like leap seven feet in the air straight up? It’s not like they are recruiting Labron James. And you think bullets are only fired from ground level. Think again, Columbo. If someone fires a shot at the president from a window or a ladder or while hovering in mid air on a silver surfboard, you want a NINJA there guarding him, not some beefcake in a suit.

What’s scarier, Donald Trump or a ninja?

I’m thinking they could have different levels of ninja around the president. The level closest to him could be in something that makes them visible – maybe they dress in fuschia or mauve instead of black revealing them to the general public. You think some average looking business guy in a suit is scarier than a fucking purple ninja?

I rest my case.

I believe, as his first act in office, Obama should require at least some ninjas be recruited into the secret service. If the White House can be integrated, so can the secret service. For too long, ninjas have suffered in sweet, deadly silence over the inequitable hiring practices in the nation’s most storied bodyguard service. On this historic day, when a black man can take the oath of office, black suited assassins should be allowed to protect him.

If you don’t know me by now
You will never never never know me

My friend, Jill, tagged me today. Oh, it’s not what you think, perv. Geez, why is it every time I write something on this blog, you have to think it’s about sex? There is something wrong with you, deliciously wrong…wrong in all the right ways, if you know what I mean, and clearly you do. You degenerate. You sexy, sexy degenerate.

When I saw I had been tagged, at first I thought it meant something different involving a wooden spoon and your mom (HA! Got you, didn’t I?), but what it really means is that I have to write seven things about myself and then pick seven other bloggers who I get to tell what to do for seven days like a butler service. They have to do whatever I tell them including sweep my floor with their toothbrushes, fix me breakfast, buy me t-shirts…wait, what?

Oh, I’ve been informed just now that tagging someone does not turn him/her into your personal slave or butler or anything cool like that, which is probably good because I’m not sure how Jill would choose to cash in her tag chips with me, though I’m fairly certain it would involve taking pictures of strange bathroom graffiti or serenading she and her boyfriend with songs about Jesus and we all know how awkward that can be.

Here are the seven things about me you probably didn’t know and probably didn’t WANT to know, but I’m telling you anyway. Then, I’ll tag some of that ass at the bottom and by tag, I mean, um, tag. Sigh.

I sleep in Antarctica.

I run my a/c in the winter at night. I pile myself with 1000 blankets and hope for the best. If I had dogs, I’d pile them on my like a Russian winter.

The keyboard on my laptopffff has a ffff very sensitivfffe ffff keyfff.

fffSeriousfffly.

Neither of my front two upper teeth are completely real.

Freaky, right? Both were damaged during a death-defying water slide stunt 20 years ago. And by that I mean that I was on a water slide not paying attention and my face hit a wall. Anyway, one tooth was replaced and the other was overhauled or whatever fancy dentile word they use for it. I think they used dead pirate teeth as replacements, which is why I often feel the need to plunder villages with a musket and eat salted pork. I’m pretty sure that’s why.

I only really like the beach in winter…unless it’s a really cool beach and even then, I’d probably rather fish off of it and scare children than lay on it because I turn into a giant freckle when I suntan.

Beaches in winter are ironic because they are cold and people go there to get warm. See, I get irony. Plus, you can find driftwood and treasure and dead bodies and hypodermic needles and cool stuff like that on them even in the winter time. And, yes, I turn into a giant freckle when I tan, which is kinda funny when you think about it since Giant Freckle was the name my parents almost gave me before opting for Jeffrey or maybe it was Francis. I forget.

I love cake.

Who doesn’t love cake, right? But, I really love cake. I want to eat it daily and smile like a drunken fool realizing that if I were to eat as much cake as I truly wanted, I would grow so large as to not be able to physically move and I’d have to be on one of those Discovery Channel shows where a forklift is required just to heft me out of bed. At least then I’d be on TV and all famous and all of you would say, “I remember him when he was just one of the little people” and you would say it without any kind of irony at all because, you know, I would be fat.

I’ve only seen real snow once.

It was on my honeymoon and contrary to popular belief, it was not simply because I was thrown out in it…well, not entirely. What happened was I started screaming and my ex-wife was like, “What is your problem? I’m from Detroit and shit. Don’t be such a pussy.” I then started crying and she said, “I’ll give you something to cry about” and shoved snow down my pants. What can I say? She knew what I liked.

I am the greatest steering wheel drummer ever.

Impressive, I know. It’s why the ladies dig me or tolerate me. I get those two things confused, like I confuse the difference between funny and stupid. Anyway, I can also talk on the phone and eat a burger while drumming and driving…a standard. It’s probably because I was born with four arms. Oh, did I not mention that? Yeah, I’m a sextoped, which means I have six arms and legs, not that I pedal sex, which is silly because sex doesn’t include pedals unless there is some new technique I haven’t read about. Somebody help me out with that one.

—

There are my seven things. Now, you know things about me even my mother doesn’t know and, really, don’t tell her because this list is going to be her Christmas present in 2009. She doesn’t read my blog because I told her it was written in blood and cursed by a voodoo priestess, which is totally true if by blood you mean pixels and by voodoo priestess you mean my cat whose name is voodoo priestess or VP for short. She hates me and curses me all the time.

Your turn you seven crazy bloggers. Get after it, yo.

She Eats
Cosmopolitician
Cybertoad
Greg
groovehouse
CryJack
Photine

We have a great bunch of outside shooters. Unfortunately, all our games are played indoors.

I’d like to tell you a little story about a college basketball coach, a cab driver, a valet and the coach’s wife. I’m sure you are thinking that this sounds an awful lot like the beginning of a porno. That’s quite true. In fact, I believe that particular title is White Men Can’t Hump starring John Hardwood, but, that’s for another blog post or maybe another blog.

No, children, this is the true story of how the simple flaring of tempers can turn into something hilarious.

Enter Andy Kennedy, the basketball coach for Ole Miss. On December 18, he was arrested for assault in an encounter with a cab driver that has grown more complicated with lawsuits and counter suits.

First, Kennedy sued the driver and a valet for defamation when the driver said that Kennedy punched him and used racial slurs in the incident. The valet backed the driver’s story. The driver counter sued claiming the need to protect himself.

Stupid, yes, but not terribly uncommon, unfortunately. But, here’s where the fun begins.

Kennedy’s wife, Kimber (yes, I said Kimber), filed suit against both the driver and valet. Do you know why? Seriously, you’re going to love this.

Kimber sued the two for…well, I’ll let the story do the talking.

Kennedy’s wife sued that cab driver and a valet driver who backed his claims to police and the media, saying their accusations had harmed the couple’s personal relationship, including their sex life.

[...]

The basketball coach sued Jiddou and valet Michael Strother for defamation the day after his arrest, and Kimber Kennedy filed a lack of consortium suit Dec. 22 against the pair.

That’s right. Mrs. Kennedy sued the cab driver and the valet because she claimed the incident kept her from getting “off the bench” and having any “playing time.” Now, they’ll have to go to “court” since her husband is no longer a “baller.” Did you get that? They aren’t, you know, “having sex.” Those quotes were for emphasis and I was just being, you know, “funny.”

Anyway, you’re thinking, “Wow, Jeff! That’s freaking hilarious. Thanks for telling me this humorous anecdote. You’ve made my day. And the quotes you used for humor are awesome. You are the best and you’re totally hot. Plus, your blog is the bestest ever and supermodels must want to have your babies.” But, that wasn’t the funniest part.

Now, you’re saying, “Oh, my God, Jeff, you can’t possibly be funnier or better. You’re like a blog God or what I like to call a ‘Blod.’ See, I can use quotes too. You think you are so clever, don’t you, Blod. You can just fling around quotation marks like they grow on trees – delicious quote trees. Well, Blod, you’ve got another thing coming…”

Whoa, slow down there. Keep reading and I’m sure you’ll calm down or have a seizure from fits of laughter.

Please consult a physician before reading any further. Jeff Balke and all related parties assume no responsibility for laughter related death, disease or dismemberment.

The wife filed suit on December 22. The husband was arrested on December 18. She is claiming that their sex life had been disrupted for FOUR DAYS!!!

Seriously, I like sex as much as the next person, but four days? What happens when the guy goes on a road trip? Is she going to sue the university for making her vagina lonely? In fact, I would urge her to do exactly that. Use the lonely vagina defense that worked so well in Hooker versus the State of California.

Everyone knows a vagina is a terrible thing to waste, or that might be the mind is a terrible thing to screw. I get these things confused.

Why are you looking at me like that? Kneel before Blod!

Since Superman II, I’ve been wanting to say that, except Zod, not Blod, but whatever.