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I could not help noticing this item on a rack at the local Total Bev the other evening. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you “Pong Star“. Yes, it’s a complete beer-pong “kit” featuring not only cups and balls, but also pen and player list.
Who exactly plays beer-pong other than college frat boys? And would they actually spend the money to buy a “kit” when they likely have the doings lying about the house already? And what kind of mega-dork would actually write out a player list?
(Well, I could see the ΣΠΕ house at Dubyanell back in the day doing so – remind me to get the former Llama Military Correspondent to send me the little ditty he and his brothers used to sing about “Spee-Dogs” some time. Hilarious. But who else? Is the game suddenly popular with the gorram baby boomers again?)
Evidently, somebody thinks there’s a market out there.
Speaking of such things, I heard Toby Keith’s “Red Solo Cup” for the first time the other day. Heh, y’all.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo is hardly a global warming alarmist. However, I would note that the temperature here is supposed to get into the 60’s tomorrow and Wednesday. I would also note that the goldfinches are already starting to show signs of their summah plumage, and that the daffodils out front appear to be very confused.
I suppose the upside is that if I had to pick a winter during which the chimney is out of commission, I couldn’t have done much better than this one.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo spent that part of his afternoon not devoted to hauling gels hither and thither putting together his birthday present from Mrs. Robbo, namely his brand new Weber Performance Grill. And ain’t she a beauty:
The grill, I mean. Of course, Mrs. R happens to be a beauty, too. And the fact that she remembered overhearing me praising one of these babies at my brother’s house last Thanksgiving and filed it away as a birthday present idea means that I’m simply not worthy.
What I like about this grill, aside from the fact that it’s a Weber, is that somebody was really paying attention when they designed it: solid construction; a big, wide prep surface; convenient storage bin underneath; an excellent ash catching thingy. The only downsides I can see are a) rayther more plastic parts than I could wish, and b) some kind of Rube Goldberg propane ignition system that I wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. I ask you – if one can’t douse one’s briquets in kerosene, toss in a couple matches and then stand back and watch the fireball boil into the sky, what on earth is the point?
Alas, we’re already booked up with dinner plans the next few nights, but I’m already champing at the bit to give her a whirl next weekend. (I mean the grill again. Whirling Mrs. R is a different matter beyond the scope of this blog.)
[Cue the “Liberty Bell March”]
The surviving members of Monty Python’s Flying Circus are set to reunite for another film, Terry Jones has confirmed.
The star told trade newspaper Variety that he would direct the science fiction picture, Absolutely Anything.
“It’s not a Monty Python picture, but it certainly has that sensibility,” he said.
Jones revealed John Cleese, Terry Gilliam and Michael Palin were on board and he still hoped to sign Eric Idle.
The last time the five remaining members of the iconic comedy group appeared together was in 1998 at the Aspen Comedy Festival.
In the new CGI movie, the Pythons will provide voices for a group of aliens who grant a human being immense power, which eventually leads to all sorts of disruption.
Well, I dunno. This could go either way. Meaning of Life, the last Python fillum, left a nasty taste in my mouth. And Terry Jones is a first class lib wanker. I liked his Eric the Viking, but the bits I’ve seen of his teevee series on the Middle Ages are almost preposterously biased.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Yes, as I mentioned yesterday, today is ol’ Robbo’s birthday. My 47th, in fact. The question is, in crossing this threshold, have I now entered my late mid-40’s or my early late-40’s?
St. Marie of the Blessed Educational Method is holding its annual science fair this evening, hosted by the lovely and talented Mrs. R. Contemplating having to put in an appearance put this in my mind:
Both of the younger gels have entries. Nothing even remotely as fun as this looks, but then again, nothing as remotely messy, either.
On the whole, probably just as well.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
My apologies for the dearth of posts over the past day or two. For whatever reason, my bloggie muse took a powder and I simply found myself with nothing to say. [Ed. – That doesn’t usually stop you, does it? Quiet, you.]
In any event, some random pensees for a Wednesday:
♦ Happy Rabbie Burns Day! Robert Burns, the national poet of Scotland……The only poet of Scotland. (I never get tired of that joke.) I read somewhere or other recently that “Tam O’ Shanter” has been voted his best poem by somebody or other. I could’ne say, meself. Perhaps I should crack a bottle of Laphroaig and consider the question a wee bit deeper.
♦ Speaking of authors, I’ve recently reread Victor Davis Hanson’s Ripples of Battle and his Carnage and Culture. Can I confess something? As fond as I am of VDH’s columns and essays, I really just don’t care for his books that much. There’s a certain disorganized, heavy-handed, repetitive, clang-clang-clang style about them which just puts me off, despite my liking for their substance.
♦ And speaking particularly of historians, go read Robert Kagan’s superb essay about the current fashion on both the Left and the Right of fretting over the imminent and, more important, inevitable collapse of American hegemony. Kagan’s position, based on the long view, is that this is a lot of nonsense, and that the primary danger we actually face is of bringing on such a collapse by psyching ourselves into it. The results would not be pretty.
♦ Speaking of views, perhaps it’s just because my prescription is so strong and my peripheral vision so terrible, but whenever I wear my glasses I have the curious sensation of looking out a window at the world around me. And conversely, I have the sensation that other people can’t actually see me.
♦ This makes driving interesting. Most interesting.
♦ Well, tomorrow happens to be ol’ Robbo’s birthday. Perhaps I’ll have something meatier to say to mark the occasion. On the other hand, another step in the march toward senility may keep me blathering at exactly this same level. Who can say?
If you haven’t read Mark Steyn’s weekend piece on the sinking of the Costa Concordia and the barbarism of (some of) its passengers and crew compared to those of the Titanic, go and do so. As an incentive, here is a little side dig Steyn gets in about a certain detestable 90’s film on the subject of the latter:
In the centenary year of the most famous of all maritime disasters, we would do well to consider honestly the tale of the Titanic. When James Cameron made his movie, he was interested in everything except what the story was actually about. I confess I have very little memory of the film except for Kate Winslet’s lush full breasts and some tedious sub-Riverdance prancing in the hold, but what I do recall traduced the memory of honorable men: In my book, I cite First Officer William Murdoch. In real life, he threw deckchairs to passengers drowning in the water to give them something to cling to, and then he went down with the ship — the dull, decent thing, all very British, with no fuss. In Cameron’s movie, Murdoch takes a bribe and murders a third-class passenger. The director subsequently apologized to the First Officer’s hometown in Scotland and offered £5,000 toward a memorial, which converted into Hollywood dollars equals rather less than what Cameron and his family paid for dinner after the Oscars.
Now, as they say, go read the rest.
I was noodling on the subject of chivalry yesterday when, as a result of a complicated series of bone-headed maneuvers by my brain-damaged children, I wound up having to give the eldest gel my overcoat and myself freezing on the way to and from Mass. Mrs. R says that I no longer have to play the gentleman to the gels and that if they don’t have the sense to bundle up, that’s their lookout. While I agree with the sentiment, I don’t think I could actually put it into practice were the situation to arise again. Of course it’s a far smaller point than the question of giving up a lifeboat seat, but it’s nonetheless on the same continuum.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
As we were driving to dinner with friends Saturday evening in the ol’ Honda Badonkadonk®, Mrs. R and I were listening to one of the country channels on Sirius. I forget which song it was or who sang it, but the first line of the chorus goes, “I should be sleepin’ ‘stead of keepin’ these long hours that I’m keepin”.
“That’s weak!” I observed.
“Em?” replied Mrs. R.
“Weak! If you’ve got to repeat the same word twice in a line to get it to rhyme, then you’ve got some creativity issues.”
“You ought to be a country writer.”
“I don’t want to be a writer, I want to head up the Lyric Police and have the authority to issue citations for wording that is clunky, shallow, clichéd or otherwise offensive to my sensibilities. Multiple violations could result in substantial fine and/or imprisonment.”
“Um.”
“Seriously, where in Nashville do you think I should send my resume?”
UPDATE: Just to tidy up, the song is, in fact, called “I Should Be Sleeping” and it was sung by Emerson Drive (not a band that I would call A-list Country).
Regular port swillers will know that ol’ Robbo, as a rule, stays off politics in discussions over the decanter here.
Nonetheless, Gingrich’s surprise win in the South Carolina primaries and the bubblings amonst certain blogs and websites which Robbo visits compels him to point out a fact that ought to weigh heavily on those contemplating the chances of reducing our current President to a single term:
There is no way in Heaven or on Earth that Newt can hope to win a general @(#$*&*(@% election.
Please! Learn it, live it.
The man is positively chock-a-block with “Kick Me” signs. You think his enemies on the other side aren’t zeroed in on them? Middle of the road voters would flee him like, Lor lumme, Arthur and his silly English kkkkniggits flew the flying vache. I ask you: Do you really wish to be taunted a second time-ah?
Indeed, certain persons near and dear to me wonder whether ol’Na-GINGA isn’t some kind of fifth column plant. I sometimes wonder myself.
Just.
Sayin’.
The Port Stands At Your Elbow 
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