Now, don't laugh.

You know how some people's laugh sounds like a gasp for air? Like their throat is being constricted while they're trying to inhale? And you know how some people do that laugh really slowly when they're fake laughing? And you know how obnoxious it sounds? And you know how if they're sitting in the same office with you and they're having a long, drawn out, condescending, judgmental conversation with someone else you don't like about yet another person you don't like and they do that gasp laugh thing over and over and over and over and over and over?

Yeah. If I ever do that, please feel free to hit me with a large, heavy object. Repeatedly.

Self assessment

I could not be the idiotic, ugly, brainless, stinking, imbecilic, foul, heartless, obtuse, short-sighted, moronic bastard who decides to fire a smart, loyal, hard-working company employee of 27 years. I don't have it in me. I'm not a scum-sucking moron.

Jane Seymour -- with a vengeance

Someone I know accused me of being flippant on this blog. He said that if someone offered me One Million Dollars (US) to wear some Jane Seymour jewelry, I would do it.

I have therefore put some time and thought into this proposition.

And I reiterate my original stance. I would not wear Jane Seymour jewelry for a million dollars. I would not do it in a box. I would not do it with a fox. I do not like ugly jewelry, Sam I Am. I do not like it; I said it again.

No, no, and no

Not for many multi-millions.

Where's the stuff?

I could not live in a house with minimalist design. Where do they keep their stuff?

I prefer "bumbershoot"

This is not the rant you think it is. There's nothing new to say about how reprehensible Chris Brown is, or how misguided his victim Rihanna may or may not be.

No, I'm just sayin' that you can't pay me enough to listen to Rihanna's nasal warbling, nor Chris Brown's pop-tart "hip hop" dance crap. Er, I mean, music. It's all terribly bad. Yuck.

Oh, my ears! Oh, my eyes! Ow, ow, ow!

Miley Cyrus. Victim of pimp daddy Billy Ray. Only he really is a pimp, and the girl he's got on the street is his own daughter. Makes you wonder why people are still allowed to procreate without a license.

Anyway, I swear I will not contribute to this poor girl's giddy trek toward a Britney Spears-like breakdown. I will not watch the show, I will not listen to the caterwauling they call music, and I will not, not, not see the movie[s]. Enough is enough.

Bad walking shoes

Whether you're in a theme park or strolling the floor of the Las Vegas Convention Center, you should eschew cruel shoes. Here's a hint: If it hurts, the attractiveness quotient is moot.

By the by, BadShoe.com used to be a place where all sorts of painful or painfully funny theme park shoes were cataloged. It's worth a look if you would like to laugh at yesteryear's footwear.

Nothing to rave about

Just looking at the picture makes me uncomfortable. This is not my definition of fun.

Live in Atlanta

I was born and raised near Atlanta. I remember lots of peaches and sunshine and red clay and gentility. I don't remember traffic jams that would make you want to put a bullet through your head.