Ah yes...the first week of spring

Naturally, the meteorologists in the area had been calling for an eighty percent chance of precipitation over the next two days. Such is the first week of spring in the Ohio Valley. Fortunately, we seemed to be, at least for the time being, out of the stage where you still had to scrape your windows, so the idea that it rained all night long failed to affect me, however, along with the drizzle that greeted me was a special little treat on the hood of my car. A coke can.

When I first saw the pop can, with thin grey rivulets steaming down the front of my car, betraying its second life as an ashtray, I was slightly amused. On mornings much like this, I wind up stopping at the end of the street leading into the complex and setting one of the previous days' pop cans out, so I can not only enjoy my tasty beverage, but so the other can can fulfill its destiny as my ashtray for the next twenty-four hours. Don't ask me how I wound up with a car with no ashtray.

Yep, I know what you may be thinking. What a prick, littering like that. So what? What everyone else calls littering, I call providing a valuable side income for the homeless population in southern Indiana, industrious scouts, or people slightly more proactive in their environmentalism that it apparently doesn't faze them to wander around in the rain like an absolute dolt. I probably recycle 96% of the aluminum cans I use, so it's not as though I cruise aimlessly through the streets, showering the bi-state area with all the garbage in my car. I just employ the other side of the fence on occasion, depending on weather.

I know a member of the maintenance crew at the apartment complex was not to blame, so it boiled down to some busybody schmuck picking up the can, waiting for me to return from work and any other number of misadventures or mundane daily functions of life I go through in the course of my day so they can wait until cover of nightfall and rain to place the can on my car, in some quarter-assed attempt at being clever. Sounds to me like someone has seen way too many Truth commercials. Someone should really let the person know that unlike Truth commercials, the end result would not be the most lop-sided red-ass beatdown of your presumably adult life, along with a vandalism charge, should I ever catch the low forehead trying his (or her) hand at prop comedy. I'll even bet the little son (or daughter) of a bitch is overly concerned at how Tyson treats chicken in its production plants, too. Like anyone really gives a damn, just as long as they didn't do anything toxic or sexual to the chicken, then shut up and pass the drumsticks. People who want omelets but protest the treatment of the eggs are generally of less than no consequence to me.

With that spirit in mind, I jumped in the car, ready to tackle, or in all likelihood, be tackled by the world-at-large from the moderate comfort of my bullshit cubicle. Of course, I had done nothing with the can, so inertia eventually took over, sliding the can off the hood and back into the parking lot. I mean, fucking seriously, did the person involved believe way down in their heart of hearts that I would stop what I was doing, take the pop can and toss it in the dumpster, a mere twenty, maybe twenty-five feet from where I was parked, palmface myself and vow to turn over a new leaf over their "witty" little statement? The can still wound up on the ground, so was the energy and effort worth it all in the end? Nice epic fail, Douchebag.

Children of an even lesser god?

I've said it before, and after reading this story, it bears repeating- the worst thing to ever happen to religion was the organization of it. When you have gaggles of people...we'll call them the faithful, running around to gain some measure of faith from an "image" of the Virgin Mary or of Christ on a fucking toaster bagel, even those hints of a higher purpose seem to go by the wayside.

Now comes word of a new vision drawing flocks of people on a mission to lay eyes on a "miracle." I know what you are probably thinking at this point. Pray tell, what manner of delicious breakfast food or tasty snack cake did a religious icon deliver divine intervention upon?

There's the problem. This story takes place in India, so it's not a food. The only food they pray to is perfectly content to watch them die of starvation, but appreciates the heck out of the prayers. Nope, the faithful in India don't have time to find food they can't eat for fear of damnation (or bad karma...I forget how that works), they needs a big-time vision, something that can't be easily dismissed like a piece of toast or some mold on the door of a fridge.

So what relatively mundane object did everybody get thee in front of and stare it with breathless hope? Would you believe the fucking sun? Somehow, I can believe this, as well as I can believe that nearly fifty people have blinded themselves what could either be called a stunning example of God's cruel design, or fits of dumbass rapture. The Kottayam district has reported patients streaming in with burnt retinas from eyeballing the sun. Churches have lept into action, warning their congregation of the downside to sungazing. I have to wonder, though, how many people are actually listening. I mean, what does the church know about miracles?

The image is reported to appear in the sky over the house formerly owned by a hotel owner. Of course, this guy had also said, at one time, that he had statues of the Virgin Mary that cried honey and bled oils and perfumes, so everything seems just a tad coincidental there, and last time I checked, a coincidence is a far cry from a miracle. All I can advise the people in that part of the third world, I mean India, is that next time you see the light, just nod and move on...no sense blinding yourself just because you're a god-fearin person and all.

Gazing into the void once again...

And lo, the skies opened up, and with a moist, room temperature plop!, the word was out- Paris Hilton is returning to television. It was if an occult hand had decided to smack the easy button, rather than just release another god-awful sex tape or similarly god-awful CD. Of course, this project is the perfect fit for Hilton, as it requires no talent whatsoever. Paris Hilton is talentless in spades. See? They were made for each other.

According to Us Weekly, either MTV or VH1 will pick up the as-yet unnamed show, where Hilton is going to be searching for a new best friend. Because we all know that merely dating your ex-best friend's boyfriend's brother is just not going to fill the void. Insert your own Paris Hilton/void punchline here.

Don't worry, though. You knew once we got to bad, it was only going to be a hop, skip, and a jump away from worse.

Chris Crocker, whom the World Entertainment News Network called an "Internet comedian" in the article I read, has apparently bellied back up to the attention trough.

Crocker, the one person on this planet, this mudball I find even less funny than Tom Green, recently admitted that he would go straight if Britney Spears wanted to date him. First off, I don't think he could pull that off even if he wanted to. Not a chemistry thing, but talent. Crocker didn't even pass for mildly fucking amusing in his now-famous YouTube video, so I doubt seriously he could turn in even a one-star performance as a heterosexual.

Secondly...let's be honest here, for Crocker's sake. I'm not trying to be the spokesman for the cause, or anything like that, but I feel I can safely speak for every other straight man out there when I say...

Seriously, Britney Spears is not worth it. Stay gay and bang Perez Hilton instead. Both chubby, both grating on the nerves to the point of a small stroke, so you'd be keeping the annoying celebrity humping festival going, AND we can breath easy, knowing there is no potential for anymore annoying celebrispawn. Let the hardcore vagina enthusiasts whose thirst for danger (or social disorder) knows no bounds do the heavy lifting.