Well now, this just looks like 12 kinds of fun right here: Zombie Kickball.

They're holding their 3rd annual game this weekend.

I wish I could find a way to make it to this. You New England folks should take the time, if you like kickball or the walking dead.

One thing that sucks about delivering is that, should the cooks make a mistake in cooking or packing an order, once you deliver said order, you are the one who catches hell for it even though you didn't make it or pack it. And before you ask, no, it is not my job to make sure the order is correct except insofar as I need to assure that I have the items that do not need cooking, e.g. bottles of soda, to take along on the order. And besides, if the order is incorrect to begin with, all the double-checking in the world isn't going to spare me the customer's wrath, even if it's their mumbling or drunken slurring on the phone that's the reason.

Case in point: Saturday night I went to deliver a roast beef club and some fries to a lady that was sweet as candy to me upon arrival. After receiving her goods and checking them out, she came running out after me hollering that there was supposed to be 2 sandwiches. While I explained that the order was incorrectly transcribed, and that no, she had not paid for 2 sandwiches because the order did not specify 2 sandwiches, and that yes, I would put in the order for the 2nd sandwich, this woman, who had tipped me so generously and been so sweet with me not 30 seconds ago, looked at and spoke to me as though I'd killed a cat on her lawn. When I delivered the second sandwich a short time later, I was greeted by the man of the house, who gave me a terse "thank you" then closed the door on me.

I write this not so much to bitch or whine but simply to record this minor episode with a chuckle. Who can honestly get that upset over such a trifle? An inconvenience, sure (though again, not of my making), but to act out like that? God help these folks if they ever encounter a real problem.

Here's a much more upbeat observation. If you listen to the radio constantly over the course of, say, 5 years, you may possibly if you are lucky catch a disc jockey in a zany or "screw them suits, ma-an" sort of a mood one night, and thus get to hear "Breadfan" by Metallica (which was the b-side to "Harvester of Sorrow"). Again, that's a slight possibility, if you pay a lot of attention and happen to come across a d.j. breaking the rules.

Never will you hear "Breadfan" on the radio as performed by the original artist, Budgie, which is what I got to listen to while driving back from a delivery on Sunday. And this is why I pay for my radio. :-D>

So, yeah. George Carlin's dead.

I always find it more than a little disconcerting whenever an entertainer is being roundly hailed as a "hero". George Carlin was a guy who could usually be counted on to be funny on-stage. And that's quite a gift. Unless you're a stand-up comic in your own right, however, elevating Carlin above anything other than "funnyman" is absurd. I found George Carlin to be hilarious at times, but for me to regard him as a hero for it would be a disproportionate response by several orders of magnitude.

It seems the first thing everybody remembers when it comes to George Carlin's comedy is his "The Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television" bit. Like a good many of his contemporaries and successors, Carlin worked blue. Unfortunately (but again much like his peers and contemporaries), he deluded himself into believing that this was something of an empowering and even revolutionary act. It's probably an unavoidable side effect of being arrested for obscenity in a couple of comedy dive bars that a person would come to fancy himself as "stickin' it to the man" or what-have-you just for dropping f-bombs.

It has been remarked upon more than once (including in this obit) that those seven words seem so quaint to be concerned over now. For Carlin's bit part in the coarsening of the culture, he would be rewarded with the task of having to keep pace with the ever-lowering standards of society for the rest of his life simply in order to remain relevant, and not merely wind up as the wacky neighbor in a sitcom or (ahem) appearing in children's programming.

Not that this wasn't a race that Carlin relished. He said in the 2005 documentary The Aristocrats, "I think it is the duty of the comedian to find out where the line is drawn and cross it deliberately." But it can be wearying trying to find new ways to piss off the Establishment when the Establishment is so determined to embrace your postures. How jarring it must be to realize that all the uptight squares and "conservative" business types can all recite "shit piss cunt fuck cocksucker motherfucker and tits" from memory! It didn't help that he spent so much time on pay cable, competing with violence and softcore porn for attention.

The result was that Carlin's routines, in order to keep with the sludge-filled tide and still appear fresh in some way, slowly began to get more cranky, more craggy, more mean. There became less of the "counterculture figure" and more of the foul curmudgeon to his shtick.

Never was this transformation more glaringly apparent than when he got on the subject of religion. Whereas Carlin's early riffs on the subject tended to be centered around his Catholic schooling (something every Catholic schoolboy, including myself, could enjoy, because we could relate), his later material consisted of little more than coming up with decreasingly clever ways of calling church-going folk stupid. I can recall with much fondness and much more chuckling Carlin's early stories about baiting the priests at his Catholic school, complete with New Yawk accent ("Hey hey Fadda, if God is all-powa'ful, can He make a rock so big dat He Himself can't lift it? Bra-ha-ha-ha... We got 'im now, boys!"). Nothing he did later that even got near the subject of religion touched this earlier brilliance, largely because it was so vicious. Carlin eventually did a prat-fall into unintentional self-parody when he released a book entitled When Will Jesus Bring The Pork Chops? (which still managed to be a bestseller among the sort of people who just don't get the fuss over Barack Obama's "clinging" comments a couple months back).

He was not much better when it came to politics, sounding like just as big a table-pounder as the average Air America radio host, though to be fair he could at least be a bit more engaging. With all this, he could get other bitterly inclined folks in the seats to clap and whistle, which tended to drown out the few actual laughs he'd get from these bits.

Whenever he was pointing out life's little absurdities -- "Why is everyone driving slower than you an idiot, and everyone driving faster than you a maniac?" -- Carlin was at his playful best. Whenever he got going on what other eulogists are today calling "social commentary" -- a euphemism Carlin himself in his better moments might have gotten around to skewering, since it simply means "person I happen to agree with" -- he was far less enjoyable. When described as a cynic, Carlin would retort that he was more of a "disappointed idealist". And therein lies the problem. A disappointed man can usually only manage to sneer.

George Carlin never stopped having admirers and fans, though. I've enjoyed his better routines (most of which, I think I've made clear, were his older ones) since I was a teenager. My favorite Carlin bit, which Deadspin.com helpfully dug up this morning, concerned the differences between football and baseball. He truly had been great at stand-up comedy.

Carlin was, in fact, so successful at what he did that one need not look hard to find a slew of inadequate imitators. The late Mitch Hedberg spent much of his time on-stage doing a very, very poor impersonation of "Class Clown"-era Carlin. The equally dead and equally poor Bill Hicks ran with many of Carlin's antipathies toward fly-over country and, for a while anyway, exceeded Carlin's bitterness if not his quality. The still living but otherwise poor Lewis Black merely adds a bit of Woody Allen nebbishness to Carlin's later, crankier persona. If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then Carlin died one sincerely flattered dude.

Maybe I mourn his passing out of nostalgia for the good stuff, rather than the stuff aimed to suck in Bill Maher's spillover audience, but I mourn him nonetheless. I thank George Carlin for the laughs. May he rest in peace.

From the Stupidest Item On The Police Blotter Department:

A Whitehall man...was charged with driving while intoxicated after police pulled him over for swerving and driving on the sidewalk on a four-wheeled, motorized cooler known as a "Cruzin Cooler."
Leslie J. "Bomber" Marr, 57, could face felony DWI and aggravated unlicensed operation of a motor vehicle charges because of prior arrests and convictions in drinking-and-driving cases, said Whitehall Police Chief Richard LaChapelle.

The Cruzin Cooler is an utterly silly machine devised for use at large backyard BBQ's, college football tailgates, stock car raceway infields, county fairs, and for zipping around town with a bunch of your favorite beverages. They are totally awesome and I now want one, but forget that for a moment.

We're talking about "pulling over" a guy riding an electric scooter with a top speed of 12 mph on a sidewalk and charging him with drunk driving. This is the sort of absurdity you would perhaps expect to encounter on a sitcom, or the type of situation that might be dreamed up by a satirical writer looking to do a send-up of overeager police officers and overzealous prosecutors. In other words, it's the sort of thing we'd all laugh over... if it were fictional.
Then of course there are those "failure to exhibit" charges that everyone loves so much. Apparently, to ride on an electric cart in Whitehall, you need not just a valid driver's license but insurance:

Marr was charged with misdemeanor counts of DWI and aggravated unlicensed operation of a motor vehicle, and also was cited for operating an uninsured motor vehicle.

Well. By this logic, do geriatrics and people with medical conditions that hinder their mobility now have to call Geico? Will the cops in Whitehall, NY start pulling over Little Rascal Scooters and checking for documents? Why not make this fellow register his Cruzin Cooler with the DMV?

There was once a time in our society when the town drunk was escorted home by cops, or at worst locked up until he sobered up. Now we throw the book at him. Even considering that this fellow was a prior DWI offender (and I'm assuming, nay, hoping, that the prior offenses were committed with actual cars), there's no reason to impinge upon a man's rights and property solely because he was winding his way up to a crosswalk on a suped-up Igloo.

There was also once a time when DWI laws were enacted and enforced sensibly, based on the very real danger an intoxicated person poses to public safety by operating 3,500 lbs of machinery at high speed. But as narrow interest groups like MADD lobby for ever more draconian laws and enforcement, as police departments continue to write sensible judgment calls out of their operating practices, and as prosecutors continue to claim any and all DWI convictions as evidence that they're "tough on crime", my guess is that we'll see more drunk-driving arrests being made against people on Cruzin Coolers, mobility scooters, Segways, golf carts, electric toy cars...

Sour Patch Kids taste best if they've been allowed to harden up slightly. For some reason, they get more tart if they've sat open for a bit. It helps if the room they're sitting in is not too humid; the hydrophilic properties of the sour/sweet coating make for a delicate balancing act between delicious hardness and aggravating (though still somewhat delicious) stickiness.

Sour Patch Kids, Peeps, and croutons are the only foods that benefit from going stale. :-D>

EDIT: It occurs to me that this is the 2nd appearance of Sour Patch Kids in the "Undeniable Truths" series.

I was shopping at Wal-Mart the other day (that's right, I said Wal-Mart, and spare me the snobbery and populism-on-the-cheap arguments) and got in line at the self-checkout lanes. The fact that there was a line at the self-checkouts to begin with attested to the busyness of the store at that moment, and I and the fellow in front of me had a chuckle at this observation.

Then, I watched the folks ahead of me as they fought with bags, fumbled over their items looking for the UPC's, and slowly made their way through the prompts on their touch screens.

Now I've used self-checkouts many times at several chain groceries and department stores, but this was the first time that a certain, subtle genius of the machines occurred to me. I am of course perfectly willing and in fact inclined to believe that it is an utterly unintentional result of their invention, but it's there nonetheless.

See, people have stood in line during busy moments at big stores for decades, stewing over the wait and wondering what the hold-up was, giving hairy eyeballs and impatient sighs to countless cashiers while they slogged through the purchases of the buyer immediately at the counter and tallied them up. It has often been assumed, even by people who should know better, that the person at the register alone was responsible for such interminable waits, and implicit in this assumption lay the attitude that the toe-tapping consumers could expedite their purchase if merely left to their own devices (especially since, geez, they're only picking up a few items).

Now for the past several years these self-checkout lanes have been available precisely for those, including myself, who would rather do it themselves than wait first for a line to file along and then for a cashier to ring them up. And if you've ever stood and watched an average customer try to scan, bag, and pay for even a few items at a self-checkout, especially when they know there are others just like them staring and waiting for that checkout machine to finally open up, you get a sense that maybe, just maybe, these lanes serve to humble the average uppity patron more than they serve to be a convenience. Lacking the practiced hands and eyes of the cashiers working just a few feet away to the right, the customers working the self-checkout lanes ahead of me looked pained and creaky in comparison.

And once it came to be my turn, and the eyes and the pressure fell on me, and as I flipped my new shirts and boxes of diet cola around to find the bar scans, I could almost hear the collective chortling of clerks past and present, young and old, their mocking refrain accompanying their snickers: It's not so easy, is it?

With the Boston Red Sox having won 2 World Series in the past 4 years -- first ending an 86-year drought and then proving it was not a fluke -- the more hackish of national sportswriters are scrambling to find a new sad-sack storyline in which to settle. With Dan Shaughnessy's "Curse of the Bambino" nonsense no longer available, unimaginative keyboard-pounders are left to search for new tales of citywide woe to chronicle half-heartedly for their next paycheck and, it naturally follows, their next liter of Seagram's 7. A few writers have lighted upon the city of Cleveland for their printed pity-parties, and a couple of others have tut-tutted at the misfortunes of Buffalo.

The more high-profile articles in this vein, though, have been written about the ever-hapless city of Philadelphia. Certain slobs at Sports Illustrated, in particular, have taken to eagerly counting down Philadelphia's milestones of futility.

First, there was last year's article concerning the approach of the Phillies 10,000th loss, complete with a host of somewhat cherry-picked anecdotes to bolster writer Franz Lidz's thesis. Now admittedly, had the Fightin' Phils been a cellar-dweller in 2007, this would have elicited some bitterness and cynicism among their fans. Somewhat ironically, however, the Phillies not only went on to win the division, but they did so by helping the New York Mets complete a late September collapse (7 games up with 17 to play -- 2nd worst collapse all-time according to Baseball Prospectus) that rivals one of the Philadelphia ballclub's truly embarrassing moments (that being their 1964 collapse, the 11th worst collapse according to the same BP article). As ESPN.com's Rob Neyer has made clear, most of this ineptitude occurred between 1918 and 1974 (with the notable exception of the 1950 "Whiz Kids") and for one good reason: piss-poor ownership. At any rate, 10,000 losses for a single franchise is earned as much through longevity as anything else; the Atlanta Braves, Pittsburgh Pirates, and Chicago Cubs will also be crossing the 10,000 loss threshold in the next several years. So aside from giving Lidz and various other hangers-on a quick hit of a story, the overall relevance, meaning, and supposed shame attached to such a milestone amounts to jack squat.

Now, right on cue with the ouster of the Philadelphia Flyers from the Conference Finals of the Stanley Cup Playoffs, SI.com has posted an article by Bryan Armen Graham chronicling "100 Seasons... 100 Heartbreaks". Naturally, he's talking about the full 25 years Philly has gone without a title in any major pro sport (the 76'ers won the NBA title in 1983). Graham is a Philly native, yet he is apparently more inclined to wallow in lowlights than rejoice in the highlights of the past 25 years of Philly sportsdom. This guy wants to dwell on Gregg Jefferies rather than Ryan Howard, Doug Moe rather than Maurice Cheeks, even Chris Boniol rather than David Akers.

Upon reading this piece, you are supposed to feel (depending on your demeanor): 1.) pity/self-pity for Philly fans, or 2.) a depraved sense of schadenfreude toward the "fans who booed Santa Claus" (you can find such dreck in the comments section of Graham's article).

The Flyers' elimination made it 100 consecutive seasons without a title for Philadelphia's four major teams. That's far and away the record for a four-sport town -- a gold standard for civic sports futility.

Philadelphia... has been a major trophy-free zone since 1983. The drought has battered the area's collective psyche, rendering an entire generation of sports fans wounded, disillusioned and emotionally bankrupt. Whether you chalk up the streak to bad players, bad management or just plain bad luck, the hard numbers remain the same: 100 seasons, zero championships...

The scope [of the list] is limited to the four major sports with a couple of obligatory exceptions. While the sheer length of the list might strike an outsider as a tad gratuitous -- an excessive tribute to failure -- there's simply no better way to relate the epic scope of Philly's perpetual heartbreak.

My first quibble: There's more than a "couple" of "obligatory exceptions". While this article is supposed to be about the 4 major pro teams (and kudos at least to Graham and SI.com for still acknowledging the NHL as a major sport), in the midst of listing his "100 Heartbreaks" Graham routinely deviates into college basketball and even horse racing! Hey, why not just add in the losing seasons for Temple football, or the Philadelphia Soul? Maybe, if we try hard enough, we can reach 200 "heartbreaks"!

Some of the things in Graham's list are truly wince-inducing events, particularly once you reach his top 10. Still, quite a bit of this list comes as a result of Graham's distorted mental reflection of good events and calculated moves that didn't work out. This is the work of a lone Philly fan, saddled with a deadline and armed with a hackneyed hook, who is seeing things through a glass, darkly.

( Let's go through Graham's list, and count the ways this silly piece piles on, shall we? )

My wild (some would say wildly irrational) aversion to clams has been proclaimed in this journal several times; it goes without saying that my disgust toward these bivalves holds for the juice you can extract from them.

You will also surely nod your heads in recollection when I remind you of my low opinion of Budweiser, the pretender to an imaginary throne for fermented malt beverages.

Since we're on the subject (and since I am getting somewhere with this -- no, honestly!), I've never particularly understood the appeal of tomato juice. And this is coming from a guy who regularly salts and eats whole tomatoes. Tomato juice (and for that matter tomato soup) has always struck me as more of an ingredient for recipes than a drink in its own right. I'd no sooner drink tomato juice than I would vanilla extract.*

Okie-dokie, Duck. That's all well and good, but what's this all about??

2 words, Gentle Reader: Budweiser Chelada.

Lately, when shopping at various liquor stores, I've seen this concoction being sold in individual tall-boy style cans alongside 40's of St. Ides and cans of Sparks alcoholic energy drinks. It is, as you've no doubt already figured out, Budweiser beer mixed with Clamato. And just like that, the misguided souls who gave the world chili beer are no longer the biggest idiots in brewing!

Clamato is, of course, the unholy mixture of clam juice and tomato juice that has no earthly business existing. Mix it with the infernal swill that is Budweiser, and one would think you'd have the perfect blasphemous stand-in for Communion wine to serve at a Satanic mass.

A coworker of mine, who used to be a bartender, told me when I was expressing disbelief about this product that she would occasionally have to serve beer/tomato juice mixes to certain customers -- all of whom I imagine as looking similar to Sloth from The Goonies (it's the only way such behavior makes sense to me). That's bad enough, but apparently, the Venn diagram of Budweiser drinkers and Clamato drinkers shows sufficient overlap that the product development folks at Anheuser-Busch decided it was time to make and distribute Budweiser Chelada.

If that's in fact the case, it means that there are people out there, right now, passing by a display of this... stuff in liquor stores and saying, "Ohh, I gotta try that, I'll bet it's delicious!" They are the piece of the adult beverage-buying market that passeth all understanding.

*I like V8, though. My ways are thoroughly enigmatic.

Over the past several years, I've had the pleasure as a Philly sports fan to have watched John Marzano do post-game wrap-ups for Comcast Sportsnet after Phillies games. While Marzano never played for the Phillies, he was a South Philly native who played Major League ball for 10 years, which made him a natural fit for doing TV analysis of his hometown team. Marzano took to the camera exceedingly well, and he was very enthusiastic and refreshingly candid in his assessments of the Phillies performances. I had actually been a bit miffed that, over the last year or so, he'd had to split air time with Mitch Williams, the goat of the 1993 World Series.

It came as a shock, then, to learn that Marzano was found dead in his home yesterday morning at the far too early age of 45.

Here's Comcast Sportsnet's tribute to John Marzano, care of Bugs & Cranks.

I now present to you the absolute most adorable thing you will ever see in your life.

h/t: some_day_soling

I haven't been writing much of late. I've been reading and commenting, but actual posts of my own have been sporadic. I need to get back in the habit of posting new entries every few days again. Perhaps a survey will get me back to normal around here...

( Let's do that 1-word-only survey that's been floating around. )

I need more deviled eggs in my life.

Every time somebody makes deviled eggs, I say this. Yet, I'll go months between servings.

I need to start making them myself, just every once in a while. They're not hard to make, and I have a couple of recipes that add new wrinkles to the classic design.

If I put my mind to it, my deviled eggs could be as coveted as my wings and my chicken chili. People will clamor for my deviled eggs! They will beg me to bring them to parties and functions! I will serve my deviled eggs to the crowned heads of Europe!

Or even better, I'll just eat them myself. Screw all y'all. :-D>

Happy Guy Valentine's Day, everybody!

link is nsfw

I had already heard the news of William F. Buckley, Jr.'s passing by the time I returned home from work tonight. It had been announced on our local radio station's 12pm news break.

On my kitchen table sat the latest issue of the magazine he founded 52 years ago, National Review, which had arrived by mail earlier this afternoon. Now, I've been a subscriber to NR since I was 19, though I was aware of it for far longer of course. Over the last 5 years or so, Buckley's presence within its pages had shrunk -- owing to age, declining health, and the natural desire to "retire" (though his idea of retirement was always a quaint one, as he never entirely stopped working) -- to the reprints of 3 of his syndicated columns from that particular fortnight. So, I opened up my new issue and flipped to the section where these columns had always run, and found nothing.

The issue had, of course, been printed well before this morning (my father had gotten his copy 2 days ago). I've since found out that Buckley had had a fall a few weeks ago and broken his wrist, which left him unable to type and forced him to suspend his column -- permanently, it turns out. (He actually dictated his last column to a friend in order to meet his deadline.) Still, the omission was jarring to me, particularly in light of today's news that there would never, in fact, be another William F. Buckley column. Considering the mammoth amount of writing he did in his life -- well over 4,000 columns, over 50 books -- that's a huge void to stare into.

Though I am not shocked by his death (the man was, after all, 82 and in poor health), as one of his almost innumerable admirers, I do mourn his passing.

Well, that chest cold turned out to be the flu, so last week was a nightmare. I had chills, fevers as high as 101 degrees, headaches, and of course coughing like crazy. I spent last weekend and Monday wrapped up in blankets.
Tuesday, I crawled into work and did my level best to not look like I was about to keel over. Wednesday and Thursday were comparatively better, but by that time the illness decided to invade my sinuses, and as anyone who has ever talked to me when I've had a head cold can tell you, that means I lost my voice. It's quite a chore to take food orders over the phone when you sound like Froggy from The Little Rascals.
I finally began feeling better yesterday. My appetite, ambition, and libido all crawled out of the influenza shelter they were hiding in, and began to party like the Ewoks at the end of Return of the Jedi. Suffice to say that Friday was a very good day.

Today wasn't bad, either. I got bills paid and grocery shopping done. I also ordered some wings from the wing place down the road (lest you think me a traitor, we ate food from the deli last night, and as good as the food is there, I've eaten enough of it this week), and the chil'ens and I had our fill. Now I sit, sipping a Dogfish Head 90 Minute Imperial IPA and waiting for my bride to call and tell me she's done work so that we can pick her up. Ahh, the (healthy) bourgeois life.

*BUZZZZZZZZZZZZ*

Oh, that's the horn! Time's up on the lyrics quiz; let's see how you all did!

( Answers and results coming up behind the cut. But first, promotional consideration paid for by the following: Gas-X -- gets rid of the bloat! Rice-A-Roni, The San Francisco Treat! (And try Rice-A-Roni's new line of Asian flavors like Teriyaki and Sweet 'n' Sour Chicken!) And finally the 8 pound Oreck vacuum cleaner! Call today for your free 30-day in-home trial! )

It would appear that, much like dying, simply coming down with a chest cold has its stages. I have been sailing through them today.

First, of course, was Denial. This isn't a cough, I was over at my parents' house last night and they smoke. My bronchial tubes are just irritated... even though I've never felt that way after a visit before, and secondhand smoking is a bunch of baloney anyhow. Besides, it's morning. Doesn't everyone have a little phlegm in the morning? *COUGH*

Soon came the Anger. Fuck! I can't afford this right now! I'm going to be delivering pies while coughing on them all week now! That son of a bitch at work had to show up all week with his chest cold, didn't he? And of course this has to happen on President's Day weekend, so that if this gets as bad as my last chest cold, I won't be able to see my doctor until Tuesday! When I work again!! *COUGH COUGH* Damn it! Damn it to *COUGH HACK* Hell!

Then came the Bargaining with the microbes that have invaded me. C'mon, man, if you could just hold off for a little while... maybe come back with a tickle in my chest on Wednesday... get good and revved up on Thursday night, I'll take being sick next weekend... could we maybe just *COUGH COUGH* Oh, please... Just don't be as bad as my last *COUGH COUGH HACK COUGH LUNGS BURNING*

This led to me sitting around being Depressed. Oh, man, why me? Why now? This sucks. My life sucks. I feel like sh-*HACK HACK COUGH COUGH WHEEZE OW MY RIBS*

All of this leads, inevitably, to Acceptance. I'm off to get some Formula 44E.

Hey! (Hey!)
You! (You!)
I don't like your failure to take my lyrics quiz!


...What? What'd you think I was going to say there? Stop looking at me like that.

If you haven't done so yet, follow the above link to get to my quiz, read the instructions, and answer (or just guess) in the (screened) comments on that post.

I'll be announcing the results Sunday.

Let's do a lyrics quiz, shall we?

Guess the title and artist of the song where these lines are found, and get one point for each. That's two possible points per song.
There's 15 lyrics, so that makes for at least 30 points to be had. (That's right, I said "at least". That means there's the possibility, but not the certainty, that extra credit can be earned. If you know something extra about a song, I suggest you mention it in your answers. Don't bother with mere trivia, though -- saying, "this song's about drugs" earns you nothing.)

Whoever gets the most points wins. What do they win? Why, the undying admiration of their peers, of course! Also, the right to gloat about their victory.

Comment to this post with your answers, which will be screened, of course. Oh, and be honest -- don't go Googling the lyrics for the answers. Remember Ezekiel 25:17*.

( The lyrics lay underneath this cut. Have fun and good luck! )

I'll remind once, maybe twice throughout the week, and I'll announce winners this weekend, most likely Sunday.

*I would love to read the particular Bible translation that Tarantino cribbed his passage from. It makes the King James Version look spartan in its prose.