Must have ben a helluva “coffee” break.

PRS Operatives were able to be on the scene at a supermarket somewhere near Washington, D.C. when White House Reporter Helen Thomas was shopping for groceries. She appeared to be a bit confused as she slowly shuffled up and down the aisles. Without warning, she stopped in front of the shelves containing jars of apple sauce. She turned directly to the jars of apple sauce and began to speak:

Helen: Do you plan to just sit there while thousands are being killed in Iraq?

Apple Sauce:

Helen: So, you plan to do nothing to end this horrible carnage?

Apple Sauce:

Helen: Well?

Apple Sauce: Move along, lady. You smell like a hamper.

PRS Operatives learned that, due to an unspecified bureaucratic foul-up, Madam Speaker’s government airplane was not available to take her from Washington D.C. to San Francisco. Despite her having made several threats to various federal employees and throwing a couple three hissy fits, nothing could be done.

Her only option was to fly commercial.

PRS managed to obtain access to the video tape taken of Madam Speaker at the security checkpoint:

TSA Agent: Ma’am? Excuse me. You’ll have to place your purse on the conveyor.

Nancy: My purse? You want me to give up my purse and place it on that thing? Do you realize that this is a $4,000 Gucci? Besides, I have all my things in that purse. Why do I have to put it on that dirty conveyor?

TSA: We have to x-ray your bag, Ma’am.

Nancy: Is this something new? Do you x-ray everyone’s bags?

TSA: Yes, ma’am. It is standard procedure.

Nancy: Sounds like some kind of bullshit harassment, if you ask me. What if I refuse? You gonna send me to jail or some shit?

TSA: No, ma’am. If you refuse, you just won’t be permitted to board the aircraft.

Nancy: This is bullshit, and I intend to straighten this out when I return to Washington. I don’t have time to screw around here, so I’ll put my bag on your stupid conveyor.

TSA: Thank you, ma’am. Now, would you kindly remove your shoes and place them on the conveyor.

Nancy: Remove my goddamned shoes? Are you out of your goddamned mind? These are brand-new Manolo Blahniks. Six hundred bucks a pair, asshole. I’ll bet you don’t make that in a week.

TSA: Sorry Ma’am. You’ll have to remove your shoes and place them on the conveyor.

Nancy: You are one annoying bastard. OK, let’s get on with it. I’m going to be late for my flight.

TSA: Thank you. Now, please, step through the metal detector, Ma’am.

Nancy: (steps through) There! Are you satisfied, asshole? Now gimme my stuff and let me be on my way.

TSA: Sorry, Ma’am. The screener has indicated that I should check your purse.

Nancy: Why? Do I look like a goddamned criminal to you?

TSA: It won’t take long. Thank you for your patience.

Nancy: I guess you’re too goddamned stupid to know who you’re dealing with here.

TSA: (removing an item from the purse) Ma’am. You are not permitted to bring this aboard the aircraft. It exceeds the permissible container size for fluids.

Nancy: That’s Cristal, you moron. Three hundred bucks a bottle!

TSA: Sorry, Ma’am. If you wish, you can step out of line and arrange to mail it to yourself, but I cannot allow you to board the aircraft with that.

Nancy: Yeah, like I have time to do that. How about you shove it in your ass?

TSA: (removing an item from the purse) You can’t bring these aboard the aircraft either, Ma’am.

Nancy: Are you crazy? That’s a piece of jewelry!

TSA: They’re handcuffs, Ma’am. Not permitted aboard the aircraft.

Nancy:

TSA: (removing a plastic bag containing vegetable matter from the purse) What is this, Ma’am?

Nancy: Oregano.

TSA: (sniffing bag) Pretty expensive oregano, Ma’am.

Nancy: OK, asshole. Give me back all my stuff. I’m leaving and going back to my office. You’ll pay for this.

TSA: Sorry, Ma’am. I have to notify the police (radios police of a problem). Please take a seat over there, Ma’am. The police are on their way, and I expect you’ll be arrested.

Nancy: Listen to me, you piece of shit. Do you have any idea who I am?

TSA: Sorry, Ma’am. I don’t.

Nancy: Well, look at my face. Go ahead. Look!

TSA: (whispering and speaking directly into her face) You listen to me you miserable bitch. I’m looking at your face. I’m looking real hard, and all I can say is that if you get one more goddamned face lift, your tits are going to wind up somewhere around your ears, Mrs. Pelosi. Have a nice goddamned day.

I’d like to take this opportunity to wish all my Jewish friends a Happy Chanukah. A special Chanukah shout out to my friends Erica and Elisson, two very special and very cool Joos.

* Also spelled Hanukkah.

The other day I was reading Dogette’s site, which for years has become a regular part of my day. I noticed that she blogged about her web host having upgraded her account to include multiple MySQLs.

I thought, ”Yo, Jimbo. What is this SQL thing? If hosting services are offering multiples of them, it must be some good shit.”

I’ve made no secret of my technodoofustry, but my intellectual curiosity remains intact, particularly when I come across something that strikes Dogette as being more blogworthy than dogshit or her continuing squirrel jihad.

So, I popped up Google and figured that, within a minute or two, I would be able to hang with the Geeks of the World and talk some serious SQL Shit.

Here’s what I learned.

SQL (Structured Query Language) is a standard interactive and programming language for getting information from and updating a database. Although SQL is both an ANSI and an ISO standard, many database products support SQL with proprietary extensions to the standard language. Queries take the form of a command language that lets you select, insert, update, find out the location of data, and so forth. There is also a programming interface.

huh?

SQLis a computer language designed for the retrieval and management of data in relational database management systems, database schema creation and modification, and database object access control management.

say what?

An industry-standard language for creating, updating and, querying {relational database management systems}. SQL was developed by {IBM} in the 1970s for use in {System R}. It is the {de facto standard} as well as being an {ISO} and {ANSI} {standard}. It is often embedded in general purpose programming languages. The first SQL standard, in 1986, provided basic language constructs for defining and manipulating {tables} of data; a revision in 1989 added language extensions for {referential integrity} and generalised {integrity} {constraints}. Another revision in 1992 provided facilities for {schema} manipulation and {data administration}, as well as substantial enhancements for data definition and data manipulation. Development is currently underway to enhance SQL into a computationally complete language for the definition and management of {persistent}, complex objects. This includes: generalisation and specialisation hierarchies, {multiple inheritance}, user defined {data types}, {triggers} and {assertions}, support for {knowledge based systems}, {recursive query expressions}, and additional data administration tools. It also includes the specification of {abstract data types} (ADTs), object identifiers, {methods}, {inheritance}, {polymorphism}, {encapsulation}, and all of the other facilities normally associated with object data management. The emerging {SQL3} standard is expected to be complete in 1998. According to Allen G. Taylor, SQL does _not_ stand for “Structured Query Language”. That, like “SEQUEL” (and its pronunciation /see’kw*l/), was just another unofficial name for a precursor of SQL. However, the IBM SQL Reference manual for DB2 and Craig Mullins’s “DB2 Developer’s Guide” say SQL _does_ stand for “Structured Query Language”. {SQL Standards (http://www.jcc.com/sql_stnd.html)}. {An SQL parser (ftp://ftp.uu.net/published/oreilly/nutshell/lexyacc/)} is described in “Lex & Yacc”, by Levine, Mason & Brown published by O’Reilly. {The 1995 SQL Reunion: People, Projects, and Politics (http://www.mcjones.org/System_R/SQL_Reunion_95/)}. [“A Guide to the SQL Standard”, C.J. Date, A-W 1987]. [“SQL for Dummies”, Allen G. Taylor, IDG Books Worldwide]. (2000-07-07)

ooooooooookay.

We got a bit of snow last night, just enough make driving a pain in the ass and to require clearing the sidewalks. Accordingly, I decided to take a pass on this morning’s groundpound and, instead, fire up Mr. Snowblower and clear off everyone’s sidewalks and driveways on the block. It was every bit as invigorating as a walk (maybe more so), but with the snowblower blasting in my ears and my concentrating on the task at hand, I didn’t have a chance to ruminate on anything to write about – other than snowblowing. Duh.

Seems like a good time to finish that silly novel I’m reading until it’s time to head over to the Post to hang with the Usual Suspects.

Winter Wonderland, my ass.

Yes, peeps. It is indeed the Wiseass Jooette’s boitday.

I believe she has done something with her hair. I think she’s trying to be a Jersey Girl.

Go wish her a Happy Boitday, or some kreplach, or whatever.

Great Farookin’ hair by Jimbo
Transplant Artistry by Elisson

RRRRIIIINNNNNNG

Nancy: Uh ….. hello?

Hilly: Pearl, it’s me. Hilly.

Nancy: Oh, hi, Hilly ….

Hilly: Did I wake you up? Shit, Pearl. It’s damned near eleven o’clock.

Nancy: Well, I was sort of … sleeping.

Hilly: What the hell? Are you OK?

Nancy: Be right back, Hill. I gotta go puke.

Hilly:

Nancy: OK, I’m back.

Hilly: What’s up? You got flu, or some shit?

Nancy: No, but I feel like warmed over shit. Sven was over last night, and I got to sleep about two hours ago.

Hilly: Look, this is an emergency. I’m calling from Iowa. Caucus-Schmaukus! If I have to deal with one more dopey bastard who smells like pig shit, I’m gonna lose my mind. Whoa, did you say Sven was over last night? I want details, Sister. I’m dying here in the land of corn.

Nancy: Hilly, please. I gotta go puke again. Can we do this another time?

Hilly: Jesus, Pearl.

Nancy:

Hilly:

Nancy: OK. I’m back.

Hilly: So, how did it go with Sven?

Nancy: OK, but I may have to puke again.

Hilly: Dammit, Pearl. I’m about to become the Commander in Chief of the goddamned Armed Forces, and you’re telling me I have to wait while you puke?

Nancy: Sorry. I think I’ll be alright.

Hilly: So, what went down with Sven?

Nancy: I called him up and, as usual, we had to sort out the price. I told him that I wanted him to bring the Viking helmet with him. You know … the one with the horns.

Hilly: I freakin’ love that helmet.

Nancy: Brrrrrrrrp Well, we drank all the Cristal – must have been six bottles – then we smoked a couple handfuls of Panama Red.

Hilly: Sounds normal to me. That made you sick?

Nancy: No. After we finished all the Panama Red, he reached into his back pack and dragged out some Mead.

Hilly: Mead? What the hell is that?

Nancy: I’m not sure. He said it was a Viking drink, or some shit?

Hilly: Was it any good?

Nancy: Shit, Hilly. I don’t remember. I think we drank four bottles of the stuff. He kept saying “Weed and Mead … Perfect together!” I was all screwed up. Next thing I knew we were playing the “Ride ‘em Cowgirl” game.

Hilly: You’re killing me here. Did he leave the helmet on?

Nancy: Is there any other way? You know … with the horns and shit, it was like riding a bull.

Hilly: Oh … my … God… Did he leave his boots on too?

Nancy: Is the Pope Catholic? BRRRRRPPP. Sorry, Hilly. I really gotta puke again.

Hillary:

Nancy: OK. I’m back. So, how are you doing, Hilly? I see on TV that you’re knockin’ your ass out in Iowa. Must be a bitch.

Hilly: I’m dying here, Pearl. Every four years, we have to come out to this shithole and pretend that we give even a rat’s ass about the pig shit covered jerks in this state. Hell, every goddamned place you go, it’s either goddamned corn, or goddamned pig shit.

Nancy: Jeez, sorry to hear that, Hilly. I wish I could help.

Hilly: Actually, I called because I think you can help. Remember when you were in Iowa?

Nancy: Hell, I might have been in Iowa. Damned if I can remember.

Hilly: Yes you were! You told me about it. You said that a couple years ago your limo got a flat tire in Iowa, and some strapping farm boy named Luke fixed your tire. Remember?

Nancy: Really, Hilly, I don’t think I remember. BRRRRRPPP.

Hilly: Sure you do. You said that, after he fixed your flat, you went with him to his truck and drank a shitload of corn whiskey from a jar. Now do you remember?

Nancy: Oh yeah. Now, I remember. Definitely. When he dropped his pants, he showed me what he called his corn cob. He said that if it were covered with niblets, it would have won the blue ribbon at the County Corn Festival. He damned near impaled me on that thing. It was freakin’ awesome.

Hilly: Well, that’s really why I called. I was wondering if you might have gotten Luke’s phone number. I’m clawing the walls here.

Nancy: Jesus, Hilly. I don’t remember. I think I have it somewhere. Sorry. I’ll be right back.

Hilly: What? Another puke?

Nancy: I just shit myself.

Hilly: Jesus, Pearl. That’s freakin’ gross. Text me with Luke’s number, OK?

Nancy:

Hilly: Pearl? Are you there?

Hilly: Bitch!

click

Was damned near finished with a post when it vanished. Entirely my fault. I’m too tired to start all over.

See ya tomorrow.

In describing the October Blogmeet at Eric’s Place, I wrote the following about Jerry from Back Home Again:

Jerry arrived later, and on the following day slipped away just long enough to return dressed in overalls and a “Tractor Supply Company” ball cap. He was carrying a bale of hay in one hand and a bale of straw in the other, just so I could finally learn the difference. He also gifted me with a genuine home-grown ear of corn. It was funny as hell, but I did finally learn the hay-straw distinction. There is no substitute for visual aids, particularly for the farm-challenged. I promised that next year I would show up in overalls. I must have been drunk at the time.

Little did I know that, on that very day, Jerry had already hatched yet another plan.

I learned of his scheme a few days ago when a package, wrapped in plain, brown paper arrived at the House by the Parkway. I recognized the name on the return address and wondered why would Jerry be sending me a package.

I shoulda known.

Inside the box was a collection of things that were as foreign to a Northeast Jersey guy as cow shit, silos and combines.
The first thing that caught my eye was the license plate pictured above. Next, I saw a “Farm Boy” teen shirt, a pair of work gloves and an Indy Tractor Ball Cap. Then I found the clincher – my very own pair of Big Smith denim overalls. The real gottdamn deal.

Oh, and lest I forget, the package also contained a Big Smith bluegrass CD, which will set the mood when I don my new farmer duds.

I think I laughed for ten minutes.

Ol’ Jerry pulled this off with the help of a few co-conspirators in order to get my address and my sizes. They included the Wiseass Jooette, who contacted Ken, my friend and bodyguard, who in turn contacted Mrs. Parkway to find out just how large my waist is and how short my legs are.

Obviously, Jerry intends to hold me to my beer-fueled promise to show up next year in overalls, which I will do, and I will also be sporting my Farm Boy tee shirt, my work gloves and my Indy Tractor cap over my great farookin’ hair.

Maybe I should sell tickets.

A great big thanks to Jerry for his boundless sense of humor, his thoughtfulness and his generosity. I’d also like to thank his co-conspirators for their part in helping to pull it all off.