Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Why do people have to use silent letters? Seriously! They should just be eliminated.
- Fonetically Challenged

Dear Fonetically Challenged,
  Silent letters are artifacts from the slapped together, ad hoc conglomeration of words that is the English language. They are the linguistic equivalent of the appendix, glaring evidence that the language just sort of happened, without any conscious (or competent) guidance.

  Ditching silent letters would go a long way toward simplifying a notoriously difficult to learn language. Unfortunately, spelling nerds have opposed every effort. For those of us without any particular physical prowess or intellectual acumen, an obsession with perfect spelling gives us a rare opportunity to feel superior to more gifted individuals. We're not about to give up our secret weapon.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Why do people have to use silent letters? Seriously! They should just be eliminated.
- Fonetically Challenged

Dear Fonetically Challenged,
  Silent letters are artifacts from the slapped together, ad hoc conglomeration of words that is the English language. They are the linguistic equivalent of the appendix, glaring evidence that the language just sort of happened, without any conscious (or competent) guidance.

  Ditching silent letters would go a long way toward simplifying a notoriously difficult to learn language. Unfortunately, spelling nerds have opposed every effort. For those of us without any particular physical prowess or intellectual acumen, an obsession with perfect spelling gives us a rare opportunity to feel superior to more gifted individuals. We're not about to give up our secret weapon.

Stupid Weather Tricks
  Back in June, I groused about how summer heat in Philadelphia is invariably accompanied by horrible, indoor swimming pool level humidity. Yesterday, I was proven wrong. The high was around 90, but the humidity was low. The result was a sky of clear blue instead of hazy grey, a slight but pleasant breeze, and the opportunity for perspiration to actually evaporate.

  Well played, stationary high pressure system. Well played. I see what you did there.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Is this all there is?
- Desperately Seeking Soothing

Dear Desperately Seeking Soothing,
  I like to think so. Who wants to slog through life hoping for a reward after it's over?

  The concept of a post-off-mortal-coil-shuffling reward is one of the oldest tools of religious authority. If the faithful believe that there's a fabulous reward coming later on, they'll shoulder their burdens (or strap on their dynamite corsets) and trudge on until it's their turn as the bug on the cosmic windshield.

  It's tempting, when my faith in human nature is at its lowest ebb, to believe that the concept of a reward in heaven is nothing more than a carrot, meant to keep the masses quiet as they bear the burden of crushing poverty, while their church amasses a sizable (an non-taxable) fortune. But I suspect that the truth is a bit more complicated.

  If people knew that this was the only life on the agenda, they might work a lot harder trying to make this life as good as possible: taking chances, trying new things, helping out their fellow short-timers. If you die and there's no there there, then the journey finally becomes more important than the destination.

  Then again, some of us might use that as an excuse to treat the world and our fellows even more callously, if that's possible. If you're not going to punished in the afterlife, why should you care about whose feelings (or face) you stomp on?

  All of that was a roundabout way of saying yes, this is all there is. You get one life, just like everybody else. Don't wait around expecting to get all the things you want once your body lies mouldering in the grave. Planning for retirement is daunting enough; planning for eternity is impractical and unnecessary. Just try to keep in mind that everyone else is living their one life too, and it's not a zero-sum game.

  I'll ditch the philosophy and get back to the snark next time, I promise.

Someone Needs To Burn Down Bravo

  I don't usually go in for that "celebrity gossip blog" bullshit. As far as I'm concerned, celebrities are either human beings who deserve some modicum of privacy, or camera-fellating attention whores who don't need their already inflated egos stroked by the constant attention. I'm making an exception, however, for Bravo's new voyeurgasm Hey Paula.

  The satellite box was left on Bravo the other night, so when whatever it was that I was watching ended, I wound up right in the middle of en episode of Hey Paula. (I'd tell you what I was watching previously, but the memory of it was completely pounded out of my brain by the sheer horror of the subsequent spectacle.) I know I'm not the first person to observe this, but that woman is a fucking train wreck. She's whiny, hysterical, abusive and dismissive to her small army of personal staff, wildly more self-absorbed than her resume should permit, and she can't get through a sentence without slurring some relatively simple word.

  Anyone who's given even a cursory glance in the direction of American Idol knows that Abdul appears to be drunker than an Irish wake pretty much constantly. On her own show, she defends her behavior with a mantra of complaints about how little sleep she gets. On behalf of America, Ms. Abdul, I'd like to respectfully ask you to shut your fucking cry hole. Take one afternoon out of selling your crappy costume jewelry on QVC and take a nap. You'll either catch up on some sleep, or you'll lay off the hooch for a couple of hours. Either way, you might be able to get through your next public appearance without stumbling about in (a remarkable simulation of) a drunken stupor.

  Unless, of course, you're counting on your dubious behavior for publicity that your far more dubious talent and your appallingly infantile personality could never generate. In that case, keep it up. Just keep your fingers crossed that your fans don't get wise.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Wanna Fanta? Please?
- DoubleThickShake

Dear DoubleThickShake,
  If you're talking about the horrible solution of carbonated water, complex chemical "fruit" flavors and high fructose corn syrup, I'll pass. I'd like my blood sugar to stay below "Immediate Diabetes" for as long as possible.

  If you're using "Fanta" as a euphemism for some sort of shameful sexual act, the answer is still no. Also, you desperately need to think up a better come-on, or give up your last fleeting hopes of ever scoring.

  [click picture to embiggen]

Impending Experiment

  I'm thinking I might try illustrating a question and answer every now and again. I worked up a picture for the Fanta question, and I'm going to post it tomorrow morning. I'd appreciate hearing if anyone has trouble with feeds or other displays; feedback about the picture itself is also welcome.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Is you is or is you ain't my baby?
- veemer098

Dear veemer098,
  Yes. Yes I am. Feed me, clothe me, grind away at a job you hate to keep me in health insurance, save diligently for my college education, and then sit by the phone broken-hearted because I never call. In about 20 years, we'll discuss nursing homes.

For The Love Of Astronauts!
  For the love of astronauts, DO NOT wear flip-flops to work and then complain about injury or discomfort of your feet. That's what they make shoes for. You're basically wearing a dry sponge held on by a rubber thong. Of course it's going to be uncomfortable. By choosing to wear such impractical (and onomatopoeic) footwear in a professional environment, you've forfeited your right to complain about the state of your feet.

For The Love Of Astronauts...
  I've decided that, in situations where a believer would invoke an omnipresent deity, I'm going to start swearing to astronauts.* After all, astronauts are the only beings that I know for sure have been smiling down on us from above the clouds.

*For purposes of this exercise, "astronauts" will include Russian cosmonauts, Chinese taikonauts, and any whatever-nauts from future manned space programs. My admiration for those who've flown in space is not bound by anything so silly as nationality.

Tales From The Blue Line

  On my way home from work yesterday, I spotted a convergence of psychobabble chicanery that I'd previously seen only in unpleasant dreams. At one end of the car, a skinny, semi-professional looking blond woman reading The Secret. At the other end of the car, a rough, badly-used looking older gentleman cracking open a large envelope full of glossy Scientology paraphernalia. I swear I could see a fog bank of stupidity forming where their individual credulities converged.

  I'm sure I've beaten you about the head quite enough with my outrage over The Secret, but I don't think I've ever broached the subject of Hollywood's favorite cult "religion." (I don't have a tag for it yet, and until I find an alternate reality where my memory isn't so porous, I'll have to trust the silicon overlord.)

  I don't have the energy to get into it here. The alien warlords and ghosts are almost too ridiculous to comprehend. However, I will make this (not at all insightful) observation; any "religion" that charges you money to learn their teachings is a fucking cult, regardless of what any number of brain-addled celebrities would like you to believe.

  By the way, Scientology is also Hollywood's most notoriously litigious cult "religion," so I'll be sure to post a link to my legal defense fund as soon as I receive the cease and desist letter.

New Comics, Part 1

  I've added some new comics to my reading schedule as well my links list, and I thought I'd share. Because it's my blog, damn it.

Bad Gods: Lore Sjöberg is a venerable Internet humorist, inspiring belly laughs as one of the Brunching Shuttlecocks, as the creator of Table of Malcontents, and as the author of the Alt Text blog for Wired. Bad Gods started as a weekly Flash animation, went dormant for awhile, and recently resurfaced as a non-animated meta Internet observational humor sort of thing. I'm not quite sure where this new incarnation is going, but I've kept it in my RSS reader despite a year-long dearth of updates. Lore is the kind of funny I aspire to, before I devolve into fart jokes and incessant profanity. Updates M&W.

Gunnerkrigg Court: Gunnerkrigg Court concerns the supernatural goings-on at the spooky titular boarding school. It has a very graphic novel kind of feel, with interesting panel layouts and a rich color palette. Author/artist Tom Siddell writes convincing dialog for children, which is rare. Better yet, he knows when it's appropriate to drop the "blah blah" and let the visuals tell the story, which is nearly unheard of in a lot of online cartooning. The serialized story isn't comedy necessarily, but it does observe richly emotional and comic moments between the players (human and otherwise). Updates M,W&F.

Monday Ends In "Why?"

  Why does a bluegrass cover of Gin and Juice make me so happy?

CNN.com: Late To The Party

  CNN.com apparently just noticed that the author of The Secret is getting rich by preying on the fears and desires of the desperate, credulous masses. Seriously, CNN? I was griping about this back in March, and even then it wasn't particularly breaking news. How are you just getting around to this now?

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  I heard you were in law school. How can you be that AND be such a slacker?
- Genevieve

Dear Genevieve,

Typical Answer: Thanks to secret alien time-travel technology, I was able to compete all three years of studying during one epic night on the toilet in 1963. Every Saturday night, I fire up the machine and pop back to pick up my completed assignments for the following week. This leaves my weeknights free for choking my liver with cheap vodka and posting angry screeds in random Livejournal communities.

"Aw, Snap!" Answer: The same way you find time to be such a bitch.

"Your Mom" Answer: My schedule is pretty open now that I've finally stopped banging your mom every night.

Passive Aggressive Answer: I have a lot more free time since I stopped hanging out in dank alleys, blowing strange men for crack. You should try it.

  That clicking sound you just heard was Genevieve deleting me from her bookmarks. Pretty soon, my readership number will actually be negative.