I have no idea why, and I'm sure you don't, but I'm going to try to make the following post as serious as possible. Bear with me, here.

I received in the mail yesterday a letter from Tom Daschle (D-SD) telling me that now was a trying time for Democrats all around the country. He included a snippet, purported to be from the Roll Call, that focused on a non-profit organization making every effort to destroy Mr. Daschle's political career.

Normally, I would sit here and espouse the evils of a 501-(c) taking political action of any kind. Technically, it's illegal, as nonprofits aren't supposed to have any sort of public political agenda. That's why they're able to be nonprofits, rather than the run-of-the-mill political action groups (PACs).

But.... this is different. I've been doing a lot of reading lately, mostly on those alternative, fringe, independent news sites, and I've come to a conclusion. Despite my great desire to do so, I can't really trust my government any more. And, as such, I really can't bring myself to care about Tom Daschle anymore, because he is an agent of that government which no longer lives up to my trust.

First, let me clarify my news reading. I don't go around reading Pravda or anything, cuz that's just a generally fucked-up paper, but I do read the Daily Rotten (see the sidebar) for articles on otherwise reputable websites: The Washington Post, CBS, The New York Times, and their cohorts. I generally leave the editorializing to the Daily Rotten staff, who, frankly, has more balls than I do. Large steel balls, they have.

Back to not trusting the government. There is a difference between not trusting the government and wishing it to be overthrown. To be sure, I am a big fan of our representative government system, if it's used properly. The problem, as I see it, is that our government, rather than being an agent of the people, is being used by people who have no desire in love beyond accumulating as many references in the Times and the Post as they possibly can. To do so is beyond petty; it is pride. And pride, as many of these self-proclaimed Christians should know, is a deadly sin. One of seven, as I recall. Vengeance is another, but that's a topic for another day.

I think my lack of trust started in March, when the Post stated, quietly, that some of the evidence that Colin Powell presented before the UN Security Council was falsified, including the key piece of evidence that pointed to Iraq attempting to build nuclear bombs. To enrich uranium, you need aluminum tubing. And Saddam Hussein, according to this letter which was the only real body of evidence, had attempted to purchase that tubing from an African country. The problem is, the letter was a forgery.
(See the story here. I've read the original, this is a direct plagiarism.)

Now, honestly, I don't think that Colin Powell made up that letter. But somebody did, and that brings me to a portion of my point. How in the world can I trust the Secretary of State of the most powerful nation in the world (with the biggest chip on its shoulder) if he's going to make such an unabashed lie to my face? And, by extension, how can I trust that nation itself? The answer to both questions is that I can't.

This point was driven home again today by a story from CBS saying that our military's decapitation attack on the Iraqi leadership's bunker was actually an attack on...drumroll please...nothing! We bombed a house, which is great, if that was what we were going for. But we attempted to blow the living bejeezus out of someone we dubbed an international terrorist when he wasn't anywhere around. Now, I distinctly remember hearing from the major news outlets that "Saddam had been seen on a stretcher, being loaded into an ambulance," when apparently he wasn't. Where'd the footage come from? The story said that no evidence of a bunker was ever found. So we apparently bombed somebody else into oblivion, and somebody either jumped to conclusions or was pushed to them. Defense Secretary Rumsfeld said, "There is no question the strike...was successful."

No, it wasn't. (See a blurb here, and another story here.)

This is the sort of thing that makes me wish I were in Canada, or something. Honestly, the idea that any government anywhere will lie to its own people in the interests of maintaining its own leadership (which can really only hope to last a maximum of 8 years anyway) is so disgusting to me that I honestly feel sick. I wish that I had some sort of political clout, so I could make some sort of waves and do more to draw attention to this sort of deception. Unfortunately, I don't, and I suppose I'll have to wait for somebody else to do that. It's a shame, it really is. And I have finally lost faith in my government, and finally started to lose my idealism and hope that my elected officials have my best interests in mind. So screw you, Tom Daschle; Tom DeLay too, and the horses you all rode in on.

I'm sorry if I made you sad, or angry, or whatever. I promise I'll return to giddiness for the next entry.

I worked out today for the first time in about 4 months. I don't really remember the last time I did any sort of muscle-building exercise, of any sort, besides pushups and situps. Well, I don't even really do situps. Crunches, really. And I don't think I did enough of them to do anything but make a slight difference in my abdominal muscles. So, instead of an undefined mass of flesh between my chest and my legs, I now have a slightly less undefined mass of flesh. And, I suppose that's an improvement.

Back to the weight room. Today, I worked on chest, triceps, and legs. I didn't really hit the legs hard, more of a "I want to try to do this again," sort of thing. Of course, I won't say that I hit the chest and triceps very hard either, mostly because I can't bring myself to work out really, really hard. I have no idea why, and I guess it doesn't matter.

And now, of course, I hurt. Not because I pushed myself particularly hard, because I don't think I did, but more because I haven't worked out since the Second Day. Maybe the Third.

I managed to make myself a smoothie today, without having to scrub off my ceiling, which is a good thing; I don't think I can lift my arms high enough right now to wipe anything above the level of my waist. This should make ironing my laundry a much more interesting experience than it usually is.

All right, I admit it. I only put this post on so I could have something new and fresh.

I'm sorry.

Did you know that blenders can come apart?
I do. At least, I do now.
See, I went to Schnuck's tonight, because I'm low on...uhm...everything. And, since Schnuck's is the place to see and be seen at 10:15 on a Tuesday night, that's where I went to go buy food. I decided that of the meager supply of fruit available at the Lindell/Sarah Schnuck's (you'd think a place that sells every ounce of food that SLU students buy would have a better selection) the oranges were the most singularly appealing citrus. And, on my limited budget, most appealing citrus means food. In toto.

So I picked up about 2 pounds of juice oranges, rather than California navels, because I suddenly got this great idea that I could start making smoothies and tell Bon Appetit, the highway robbers of college foodservices, to suck it.

So I wandered aimlessly through this Schnuck's in my quest - an aimless one, mind you - to find further ingredients to make my smoothies good. Let's face it, pureed oranges by themselves kind of suck. I managed to track down some cranberry juice cocktail on sale in the "Great Buys!" aisle, and snagged it as well. Since my hands were now full, I determined that this would be the end of my food shopping experience for the day. And, post-checkout, it was.

I schlepped the oranges and juice into my apartment and busted out the blender - which, I should point out, can apparently be used for more than liquor. Who knew? Anywho, I busted out my crappy ice tray, with crappy ice, and tossed them into my otherwise quality blender. That blender and I have been through some times together, let me tell you. Actually, we haven't, but it makes for a great story. Perhaps another day.

Today, back on topic, I tossed in some sliced juice oranges, sans peels, and poured in an equivalent volume of my fine store-brand cranberry juice cocktail. Then I pushed "blend." And that is when the magic happened.

A liquid, under great force, can be accelerated in such a way that it flies upward, opposite the direction of gravity's pull. The result of such acceleration is that the liquid flies upward, and, barring any sort of obstacle, will continue to do so until gravity re-estabilishes herself. The obstacle in question here is my kitchen ceiling. That kitchen ceiling can, in almost all cases, stop the upward motion of the liquid. The liquid won't necessarily rebound, however...sometimes, it sticks.

And that's where I was for several minutes after pushing "off," with my trusty bottle of Fantastik (thank you Dow Chemical) and my trusty paper towels (thank you Kimberly-Clarke). And, thanks to the fine people at Corningwear, I am now able to type this as I drink my SECOND great-tasting smoothie firmly encased in glass, the first being a total loss. Except, of course, in terms of keeping this column new, fresh, and...well...a little bit drippy.

I just thought I'd put this one in for the heck of it. It's kind of funny what you find when you're surfing the internet looking for nothing in particular.

And I guess that brings me to my thought for the day: there is some weird shit on the web. Between all of the pornography and the news that claims to be honest and impartial (it isn't), you can find a whole lot of really funny pictures and tales of derring-do. And, of course, the pictures of Yoda smoking weed.

Ahh, the minor leagues.

This is the place where the true boys of summer play. Not those fat slobs like David Wells or Jesse Orosco, but the slender, lanky kids who are 19 years old, fresh out of high school, and daring to dream the dream of picking off whoever takes Ricky Henderson's place when he tries to steal third.

I don't care what anyone says. Minor League Baseball, and more specifically Class A baseball, is the truest the sport can get without being the rookie leagues. These kids make 20 grand a year if they're lucky, plus a per diem. And they do it all for the love of the game. They love baseball, simple as that.

And they love scoreboards like this one:

Lexington	2	7	3
Charleston, WV	3	2	1

Only in the minor leagues, the pinnacle of sport (with the exception of track, of course), could a team score three runs on two hits. God Bless America, and Bud Selig if He has some extra time.

Go Alley Cats. For more information the Charleston Alley Cats, including where to buy their merchandise, click here.

Alright, I guess the first thing I want to say is that I am not a huge fan of the word, "blog." I've expressed this opinion before, and I'm sure that some of you know everything that I'm going to say on the subject. The following rant is to humor those who don't.

A blog sounds like something you pull out of your nose, or your ear, or somewhere else (if you make a habit of picking any of those). It just sounds wrong. I know, I know, it's a hip simplification of a word, created by the net-savvy to maximize the speed with which they can communicate, or some such nonsense. But seriously: "weblog," the word from whence "blog" came, is only two more letters. I highly doubt that your average h@[|<3r (yeah, you know how I like that k) can really increase the speed with which he chats with his buddies by very much merely by subtracting two letters.

Perhaps it sounds cooler, I don't know. I guess that "blog" isn't a word you'll forget any time in the near future. But then, how many of you have forgotten the more mundane words "air," "chant," or "ointment?" I don't think I've ever been talking to anyone and failed to use any of those words correctly.

Then again, in keeping with the theme of this "blog" *shudder*, maybe I've just stuck one too many forks in a wall socket to form a coherent thought.