...out of the worm-hole, into the fire!

Dear The Worm,

I was recently laid off from my job at National Public Radio. I find I don't miss it one bit. I'm enjoying sleeping in, going to the beach, and watching back to back to back re-runs of NCIS, followed on especially lazy days by a block of House. I feel no burning need to be productive (rather, I am a burned out producer). My concern is that once the unemployment checks run out, I'll have to once again work for The Man (although, in the case of NPR, it was more like The Woman. I would elaborate, but I know this is a family blog). So I'm wondering if you have any advice on what kind of job I might get that won't require a lot of actual work, but might pay well. Flexibility to work beachside is a plus. To help you help me, here is a list of my skills:

-- Clinically obsessive

-- Obsessively clinical

-- No, not really, I'm quite warm with lovely interpersonal skills

-- Can erect a beach umbrella in dry sand so it doesn't blow over in a stiff off-shore breeze
-- Usually.

-- Can recite entirety of Back to the Future

Cheers and ciao,

funemployed


The Worm sez: There are many highly paid positions that require little or no work on the part of the person holding the position (although everybody around the dead weight must usually do their part and then some), and these types of jobs span the gamut of industry. However, The Worm is currently applying for these positions, and so it is loathe to offer you any specific, substantive tips on the subject. Were you a real go-getter, the following bit of general entrepreneurial wisdom might be of good use: when one has trouble getting a job one wants, then one’s job is to create one’s own job. Given your professional background and your interests, The Worm would recommend producing a blockbuster, semi-annual, half-hour reality show about beach bums who dream of traveling back through time to get all tangled up in their respective teenaged mothers’ sex lives. And by “reality”, The Worm means totally unscripted, set-the-mic-on-record-and-go-get-some-lunch. But this advice, The Worm fears, here falls on deaf ears (or, at least, on very sleepy and lazy ears). Thus, The Worm suggests that you try to continue relaxing and to simply enjoy the unemployment checks while they last, without worrying about the future. Bring your mind back from the future, as it were; bury your head in the sand along with your toes and your umbrella pole. The Worm also suggests that you rent the 1980s NBC sitcom Family Ties, in which Meredith Baxter-Birney plays Elyse Keaton, mother of college student and Young Republican, Alex P. Keaton (played by Michael J. Fox). The plots mostly revolve around the erotic tensions among Elyse, a middle-aged ex-hippie who can’t let go of her outdated ideas on free love, Alex, a Reagan-loving conservative who is mortified by his mother’s incestuous overtures, and Alex’ gay best friend, Irwin “Skippy” Handelman (played with bestial intensity by Marc Price). The sexual themes are handled quite subtly and tastefully and there’s no time travel involved, but, still, it’s pretty hot.

********************

So sayeth The Worm.

Laissez-faire

Slam/Poetry

Slammed into a wall made up of what’s wrong with me --
Its hard laid surface built to last, mortared with my bilious shit,
Chronicles of sordid failure graffitied ‘cross each brick.
How could I contrive to turn my back to it,
Hope it wouldn’t come looming long behind me?
Then, of course, still worse, she’d find me.
Thus, I faced it…to embrace it, to confess.
Cowering at the cold base of my daunting edifice,
I wept there, held its mean truths tightly to my breast.
(Knowing that they fit me made them softer when they hit me.)
Baiting, then abating,
Gathering, there, for her to see me…
As if to burst I crouched, daring her to flee me.
Wouldn’t I? And, so, I left.

It’s said music begins to atrophy
As it strays, turned way from the dance.
And, likewise, the fair rhyme of poesy dies
When torn from its song, dear romance.
But if memory’s vessels be heartstrings immortal,
Will serve as a vase to protect,
Pain’s veil won't diminish my love’s gorgeous image
Or rapt, sweetly cast spells’ effect.

can-of-worms award for best: poop machine

goes to...

See more funny videos and Technology Videos at Today's Big Thing.

...out of the worm-hole, into the fire!

Dear The Worm,

I have toiled in anonymity at my job for five years. A co-worker, who works on the same floor as I do, has introduced herself to me in the elevator over 10 times during my time here. Each time, she squeals with delight about the new young people working here. My question to you is this: how do I politely let her know she is most likely suffering from Alzheimer's?

--Concerned co-worker

The Worm sez: Alzheimer’s Disease – the degenerative and terminal illness so commonly referred to as “old-timers’ disease” despite the fact that it is well known to also afflict newer, younger, more delightful employees – is nasty business, indeed. According to Wikipedia, the average life expectancy of patients diagnosed with Alzheimer’s is approximately seven years (please seehttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alzheimer%27s_disease). An even grimmer picture is presented by Professors Molsa, Marttila, and Rinne of the University of Turku, Finland, in their seminal article, “Survival Prognostications and Mortality Rates in Alzheimer’s Disease and Multi-Infarct Dementia Cases” (published in Acta Neurologica Scandinavica; please seehttp://www3.interscience.wiley.com/journal/121522812/abstract). In their study, widely cited as being conclusive, the professors calculate Alzheimer patients’ mean life expectancy following diagnosis to be a mere 5.7 years. Assuming that you’re a medical doctor trained in neurology, your professional and considered opinion that this co-worker has Alzheimer’s Disease, if expressed on company property during business hours, will constitute a diagnosis. As such, your opinion will start this woman’s medical clock ticking, her alarm set to go off in 5.7 years (seven years at best, if Wikipedia can be trusted). A ruder awakening is difficult to imagine, and the unpleasant news that you’re looking to break cannot be delivered politely. Your assessment would be tantamount to firing a really, really slow bullet straight at her temple. Perhaps a death warrant can be signed with cold civility, but it can never be signed with warmth or grace, so please give up on your attempt to be polite. The best way to try to let her know she is most likely suffering from Alzheimer's is to tell her repeatedly that she probably does not have Alzheimer’s and then hope that she totally forgets what you’ve said.

********************

So sayeth The Worm.

All Is Tautology

“If I bear witness of myself, my witness is not true.

There is another that beareth witness of me; and I know that the witness which he witnesseth of me is true.”

-- Jesus of Nazareth, Book of John 5:31-32


The term “zombie” conjures up a variety of notions, many of them rooted more in prejudice and in superstition than in reality. For example, the stereotype is that the zombie craves brains, but the fact is that almost all zombies will feed on flesh and entrails as well. It has been well documented that many zombies, even when brains are readily available, will choose to dine first on a limb or on one of the intestines. A small but significant minority of zombies even prefers to go straight for bone marrow. Indeed, it is this variation of preference among zombies that allows them to work together so harmoniously and successfully as they swarm in to feed on the kill. Famous, after all, for their stubbornly antisocial tendencies, zombies are creatures rarely given to cooperative teamwork, and feeding frenzies would be forever devolving into outright brawls were each individual zombie always jockeying for access to the brains.

Another commonly held belief is that zombies, while capable of rudimentary reasoning, are emotionally bereft, incapable of such typical human sentiments as those which they all presumably experienced regularly prior to zombification. However, while it is true that zombies’ emotional responses are often dulled by all the senseless killing, it is also true that feelings (e.g., angry, wretched sadness, a burning but vague longing for vengeance) have frequently been observed as motivating factors in zombie behavior (to wit, Day of the Dead, the third installment of Professor Romero’s groundbreaking series of essays in zombie studies).

The sociological and psychological baggage that zombification carries is heavy, to be sure. Moreover, the cultural garb that goes into such baggage derives from many influences, and a comprehensive examination of societal attitudes toward zombies is far too vast and ambitious a project to enter into at present. Suffice it to say that the question of zombie identity and consciousness has as many answers as there are subjects being questioned on the matter.

However, while “zombie”’s connotations may be nebulous and/or complex, its denotation is uncomplicated and can be readily expressed with precision and clarity. From a scientific standpoint, the definition of a zombie is quite simple: a zombie is a human being that has died and whose corpse has been re-animated and whose death and re-animation both are the results of catastrophic human folly (instances of zombie-precipitating poor judgment on humanity’s part commonly include fallout from nuclear explosions and/or germ-warfare experiments gone awry). Of course, spiritual and ethical considerations will inform any thorough understanding of the world and its phenomena, but Jesus -- as a subject seen dispassionately and objectively, through the lens of pure science -- falls squarely within the ambit of “zombie”’s definition. And, scripture notwithstanding, where I come from we don’t worship and adore zombies. We shoot ‘em in the head with a fuckin’ shotgun so they don't start climbin’ in through all the goddamn windows.

...out of the worm-hole, into the fire!

Dear The Worm:
I recently download an addictive game app for my iphone, "Vampires Live". After frittering away hours and hours, I have become extremely depressed, a state I attribute directly to this mindless game. My girlfriend suggested that television is analogous: it is temporarily diverting but ultimately one has nothing to show for it. I took offense; I love TV! Why not make the same complaint about a book? Help me respond to this vicious censure of one of my favorite activities. (I deleted the iPhone app.)

signed,

anonymous tv humper.


The Worm sez: Relationships – those of a romantic nature, most especially -- are temporarily diverting, but ultimately one has nothing to show for them. Television entertainment, on the other hand, is our lifeblood. When your girlfriend denigrates tv, she is engaging in what network psychologists refer to as “pastime vampirism.” Her offensive suggestions sap your recreational potentiality while simultaneously feeding her need to be amused. This pattern, if left unchecked, will eventually result in her spending countless hours on the couch watching you, enjoying microwaved snacks, and laughing uproariously while you sit slack-jawed, catatonic, and utterly without amusement, an empty shell of a man. My advice: lose the girlfriend and pick yourself up a TiVo.

********************

So sayeth The Worm.

Doves Will Peck In Safeguard Of Their Brood (6gkapn8btr Redux)

That’s the shibboleth, motherfucker,
Word to the wise, my magic number.
This blog’ll flog ya: Worm be the humbler,
Shock ‘em like Hades froze over in summer.

For reals, y’all. Straight up howlin’, comin’ on wild like pitbulls with toothaches and shit, maybe some sparklers all jammed up they ass and whatnot. Fool, I be the predator. Yo, Satan be your creditor; I be like Hell’s attorney, crackin’ style-jackin’ motherfuckers in the head like they wish they was dead. I be all hootin’ and hollerin’ like, “Yo, where’s my check, bitch?!”, cappin’ and cuttin’ chickenheads up...aww shit.

Seriously, bitch, I ain’t playin’. I do like OJ, yo, bum rushin’, decapitatin'. I be like straight for the throat, y'all, ninja-style till your head be danglin’ and bobbin’, all flappin’ around and shit. I slice off your feet with a Ginsu knife, fool, stuff your toes down your neck, drag you all ‘round the town servin’ li’l piggies up out your neckhole like knuckle-flavor Pez, yo. I be tossin’ your ass in a blender, motherfucker, makin’ bitch smoothies; I serve you like Kool-Aid at People’s Temple.

6gkapn8btr…for reals.

...out of the worm-hole, into the fire!

Dear Worm,

The lying liberal media recently claimed that the Pope broke his wrist
in a fall.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/8155372.stm

Obviously, God's right hand man couldn't break his own right hand, or
this would mean the end of all things. What really happened?


The Worm sez: You are correct to point out that God’s right-hand man could not break his own right hand as two such rights would make a wrong. His Holiness’ recent tumble was the result of his slipping in a puddle of Nivea moisturizing cream while performing his daily ablutions, which he has performed with great zeal and pious fervor ever since he reached puberty early while serving as a Hitler Youth during WWII. Incidentally, the Pope suffers from low vision and from acute carpal tunnel syndrome (in both wrists), and his favorite singer is Fergie from the Black-Eyed Peas. She is very lovely!

********************

I am wondering if it bothers you that people sign their emails with the following closings:

"Ciao!"
"Cheers!"

when no drinking is involved, no foreign language being spoken, and the individuals are not English or Italian?


The Worm sez: People who have not been drinking ought to be looking their best and, thus, they ought to be communicating via Skype; therefore, such people should not be signing any emails in any fashion. When The Worm hears/reads a language other than American being spoken/written, it assumes that the speakers/writers are cognitively impaired and that they are speaking/writing gibberish. Finally, The Worm’s policy is to refrain from making any distinctions among people based on their national origin or their fingerprints, dental records, or DNA.

********************

So sayeth The Worm.

Serotonin Reuptake

I have such fun sometimes with my friend Val. She’s a very life affirming person – and, as she’s eight months pregnant, I mean so literally as well as figuratively.

The other day we were driving to her house across the bay, where I was going to spend the weekend. I was complaining about having no ideas to contribute to TWM. On the freeway, at 70 plus mph, she asked, “What’s that bee doin’?” I looked over from my passenger’s seat to her driver’s side rear view mirror, where a bee was clumsily banging itself against the bottom right hand corner of the mirror, right where the glass was connected to the molding that encased it. I had misinterpreted her question as “how is that bee…?”, and I said something about the mirror holder blocking the oncoming wind and creating a pocket of calm in which the bee could hang out as it rode along. “No; what’s it doing? It’s humping the mirror,” she said. “It’s trying to mate with itself in the mirror,” she explained with a smile in her voice. I looked at it closely as it threw itself upon its image. I took into account how a leg or two were right where the plastic molding crimped against the glass, considering how it might be stuck and simply beating against this structure in order to free itself from the thing that was trapping it. But, no…it looked for all the world like it was trying to fuck itself. Hilarious, I thought. Bees flying along the freeway, jumping on their own reflections in the mirrors that drove by, athletic little narcissists. Tiny sex highwaymen, so silly and harmless. “That’s great!” I said, laughing. “That’s a blog entry, right there.” I was delighted; I thought my day was made.

On the other side of the bay, we stopped for lunch – Thai food, perhaps my favorite, and Val mentioned that lunch would be her treat. Before eating, we parked a half block away at the lot of a baby-stuff store, both for the free parking while we ate and because Val wanted to get some kid's things (for someone else’s baby shower, actually, rather than for the child she was carrying herself) before lunch. She went to look for t-shirts and jumpers and onesies or whatever, and I gravitated toward the kids’ furniture section (the store had lots of furniture, most of it child-scaled, some of it sized for adults). I went to a small wooden table, sat on one of the matching chairs that it came with, and it was fairly comfortable. Being a relatively small person, I could imagine eating an entire meal at this miniature table before tiring of the novelty. I noticed the price tag and how cheap the set was considering the quality of the wood and the build. I moved over to a child-sized easy chair, and when I sat in it I was surprised by how comfortable it was. I imagined whether I’d still be comfortable after sitting through, say, a two-hour movie, and I decided that I would be. I saw that the easy chair, like the table/chairs set, was both of good quality and very reasonably priced. It dawned on me that someone of my size, modest budget, and eccentric taste in interior decorations could outfit an entire apartment in children’s furniture. It would be inexpensive, whimsical, and somewhat practical (though I could already picture my guests complaining). This notion gave me quite a kick; it felt like an epiphany. I wasn’t planning to get any new furniture, but it was nice to know that this option was out there.

Val walked by holding a pile of tiny garments on tiny hangers. “Did you check out the gliders?”, she asked. “You mean, like model planes?” I asked, making a mock launching motion with my right hand, thinking of balsa flyers. “No,” she said, indicating with a nod over toward some chairs behind me, “rockers, rocking chairs.”

I went over to where the “gliders” were, noting from their tags that they were, in fact, called “gliders”. They were essentially rocking chairs but, instead of rocking on rocking-chair style runners or legs, the seats moved back and forth on bases that held moving parts but did not themselves move against the ground. I sat in one, discovering that these gliders, too, were quite comfortable. I tried out another glider, and it also felt great. I felt like Goldilocks but so much easier to please.

I sat gliding, enjoying my perfectly content mood, when it occurred to me that I had not brought my meds with me when I'd left the house that morning. Oh, shit, I thought, trying to remember myself packing my bag earlier, hoping to distinctly recall putting my pills in my bag. No…I had forgotten to pack them. I realized that insisting on going back was too much to ask, that I was going to have to go a couple of days without my Luvox. Damn, I thought, I am so fucking stupid. I rationalized that one’s medication levels build up and that they might remain stable even if one skipped a few days. I knew that I was thinking wishfully, but, still, this sounded like it might well be true. But, then again, not missing a day was certainly better than missing. And it would have been so easy to have just remembered to bring the pills. I felt my contentment, which had been building all morning, dissipate instantly, and I sighed with angry resignation at my sense of fun’s fragility.

Vocational Surnames and Victorian Era Class Barriers in Education

If one having the patronymic MacGyver descended from jailers – and if those named Smith came from smiths and, likewise, Coopers from caskmakers, Potters from ceramists, etc. – then it stands to reason that the ancestors of people named Dolittle[1] were bums. In class-bound Victorian England, which I am assuming is when/where the film Doctor Dolittle is set (I have never seen the film as I loathe musicals), the opportunities were practically nil for those with idlers and hobos in their genealogy, even if many generations back, to penetrate a socio-economic stratum that enjoyed access to advanced academic training. Indeed, during the latter half of the 19th century the vast majority of the English population was illiterate and the middle school graduation rate among those of humble lineage never broke 20 percent[2]. And yet the title of the titular protagonist of this film, a favorite with both the public and the Academy[3], indicates that he is the recipient of a higher degree, presumably in veterinary medicine or zoological linguistics. Having never seen the film, I cannot claim with certainty that it fails to adequately explain this apparent anachronism, but I strongly suspect that Doctor Dolittle is but another of countless instances in which Hollywood has asked its viewers to blindly subscribe to a plot that is based on entirely unrealistic premises and egregiously inaccurate portrayals of history and culture.

___________________
[1] Sometimes spelled "Doolittle", an alternate form encountered most frequently in the United States and in various Commonwealth nations outside of the United Kingdom.
[2] Pedagogy, Politics, and Power in the Victorian Age, J. Alfred Poindexter, Simon & Schuster, 1978, p. 438.
[3] 1967 Academy Award for Best Song. Doctor Dolittle was also nominated for Oscars in several other categories, including Best Picture.

Blogger's Block: Perfunctory Daily Musings

The Worm has informed me that I am to post an entry today on TWM, that its followers have expectations, and that I am to enlighten, amuse and inspire. I told The Worm that I’d nothing to say. It didn’t matter.

If you haven’t already seen it, I’d check out “Hitler Plans Burning Man” on youtube. And “Shoes”. Both are very funny.

Did you hear about that guy in Canada about a year ago who cut off the other guy’s head with a bowie knife on the Greyhound bus right in front of everybody? Crazy fuckin’ story, totally worth googling. I think the guy’s name is Vincent Li.

Armin Meiwes, a cannibal, is also worth googling.

Here’s a poem I wrote about six months ago:

Dumb, Impotent

I want to write some verse to show my love
My passions pure and durable, but damn!
Analysis alone, it's mute to prove
What sentiment has wrought inside a man.
In fantasy I dream my art pours out
Like music, sweet, articulate and so
Does banish from my love's mind any doubt.
My clumsy songs, half stiff, are yet sung true.

The poet's craft is honed and can express
Affection 'fore its object's manifest,
But doggerel of brutes can only stand
If vouched for by the muse that did command.
And, so, my love alone can validate
The words for her alone I do create.
My air's obscure, but if she breath it then
My song will flow despite my barren pen.

I would’ve also posted an old crossword puzzle that I made years ago (it was very clever and entertaining!), but it was on paper and I don’t have a scanner.

I had planned on writing a really good blog entry today about a recurring nightmare I have in which I shoot somebody, but I just don’t have any energy and can’t articulate it well enough. I’m at a shooting range that looks like the inside of a very large garage. My shooting lane is set up so that my target is just to the left of an open door, just like a door that might connect a garage to a kitchen in a house. But instead of a kitchen, through the open door is a huge lobby or atrium, like what might be at the center of a giant mall or hotel or museum but even more huge. And the lobby or whatever it is is extremely brightly lit, radiant, and white (the garage is lit dimly, like a typical garage). Far away, in the middle of what I can see of the lobby (I’m 30 plus feet away from the open door, and so my view of the lobby is limited to its center), are some tables, chairs and a couple of diners like it was a really fancy (and very sparsely crowded) food court. There is nothing between the doorway and the diners except the bright, white floor of the lobby, and the diners are so far away that I can just barely make out that they are, in fact, people dining. I think to myself, “This is the stupidest place ever to put a shooting lane…if I were to shoot a few degrees to the right, I’d be shooting through that doorway right at those people…why would they put a shooting range next to a museum…why’s the fucking door open, etc.?” I think to myself that I should switch lanes, but when I look back toward the counter behind me and to my left, where I got the gun and the ammo, the guy who gave me the stuff was gone. I look to my right: to the right of the open doorway are other lanes and other shooters, their backs and shoulders to me, wearing their ear-protecting headphones and loading or aiming, focused on their shooting. Nobody seems to think the open door is a problem. I think to myself that the open door really isn’t a problem so long as I don't shoot through it. I’m not the greatest shot, but I am confident that, even if I were to miss my target completely, I could manage to keep my fire within my own lane. I know for sure that I can avoid shooting through the open doorway. I think about the theoretical possibility that someone could bump into me suddenly or I could have a stroke, something could conceivably cause me to fuck up. But there’s no one around except the shooters to my right, and they couldn’t bump into me because I’d see them coming at me first. I’m not going to have a stroke. The risk is so small that I’d be a coward to not shoot for fear of accidentally shooting through the doorway. I put on my headphones and look down my lane at my target. The wall on which it’s mounted looks like every other wall in the garage/shooting range – that is, made of drywall and two-by-fours. Surely, I think to myself, there is some heavy-duty reinforcing barrier on the other side of that garage-wall looking wall. I don’t understand why the drywall and two-by-fours are even there if there’s concrete or steel or whatever behind the wall, but I look over toward the other shooters and the wall they’re shooting at looks the same as mine (indeed, our parallel lanes all terminate at different sections of the very same wall). I begin shooting and am carried away for a while in fun. I’m shooting well…I can see my bullets’ holes appearing in my target and I’m getting close to bulls-eyes. After a little while, I feel something is wrong and I take off my headphones. I notice that my fellow shooters are gone and that I'm alone in the garage. I see and hear distant commotion in the lobby. I vaguely see people bustling around one of the diners, who looks like he’s slumped over forward in his chair with his head and face on the table and an arm hanging limp. The commotion continues, and I realize that he’s been shot. Panic washes over me. I highly suspect that I have just shot him, and I know for sure that people will think that I just shot him. I look around, once again registering the fact that I’m alone. I think back to the guy at the counter who rented me the gun, where is he? I think back to what he looked like, I realize that I can’t remember his face. He wore a t-shirt, and I think he had longish hair. I look around for an office, any sign of activity, any exit through which people might have gone. Goddamn those morons, I think, I am not going to take the blame for this! Whatever happened, this is their fuck-up, not mine! Those fucking idiots should have never placed me here; I have to find them quickly, put this mess on them. It occurs to me that even when I find them I'm still going to be in a lot of shit. Then it occurs to me that finding them would be the best-case scenario, that right now there’s nobody with whom to even share the blame. My panic is fused with anger; I vibrate, burn with hatred for the range’s owners, employees, whoever was involved in this business, people I can’t punish or even identify. My rage begins to give way to helplessness, I don’t know what to do, and then I wake up.

Rainbows Are Stupid And Boring

I know a non-verbal, autistic boy named Bernie who signs "I'm sorry" right before he tries to hit you in the face. People make fun of Bernie; they claim that the unorthodox timing of his apologies reveals not only his confusion but also his lack of sincerity. But I always appreciate his silent expressions of empathy, and not merely because they're so useful in helping one to brace for/defend against the outburst to come. Indeed, to me it is post-trespass contrition that seems so facile.

New Things

Mission Statement

Turning Worm Manifesto (hereafter, “TWM”) is a platform from which voices of uncommon wisdom and sobriety may critique artificial paradigms and collapse factitious distinctions. Although TWM respects the inherent validity of all opinions, it does not seek to dignify or perpetuate viewpoints involving bullshit, bilious humor or humbuggery of any sort. Such viewpoints may be published from time to time but only for the purpose of exposing them to public scorn and ridicule. TWM is strong like ox and smart like tractor but humbled by its own towering greatness. TWM is guided by the following principles:

First, for purposes of playing Reauchambeau (aka “rock/scissors/paper”), Chevy El Camino is to Ford Ranchero as Ford Ranchero is to GMC Caballero as GMC Caballero is to Chevy El Camino.

Second, lies are metaphors for the truth.

Third, when applying condiments to sandwich bread, it's worth the extra time and trouble to make sure that the condiment is spread evenly across the entire surface of the slice of bread (thus ensuring that the condiment’s flavor will be tasted in every bite of the sandwich).

Fourth, math is okay but science is total bullshit.

Fifth, there are six and only six categories of human faces: the bird face, the horse face, the muffin face, the bird/horse hybrid, the horse/muffin hybrid, and the muffin/bird hybrid.

Sixth, neither the Freemasons, the Illuminati, the Rosicrucians, the Gnomes of Zurich, the Rotarians, nor the Amish exist and so there's no point in blaming anything on them or inquiring into their activities any further.

Seventh, although the cliché inheres to its being said again and again, the proof is rarely in the pudding.

Eighth, the most bling-bling name is “RoLexus,” yo, and the most street name is “Dirty Dawgg.”

Ninth, delusions of adequacy can be every bit as pleasant as delusions of grandeur.

Tenth, while corporate entities should retain their economic speech rights, they should be denied the right to free political speech (and the concomitant right to contribute money to political causes and candidates); moreover, such an approach would be consistent with existing jurisprudence.

In sum, TWM is dedicated to calling the citizenry’s attention to this most stern and universal of judgments:

“Yea, as the worm turneth, so must shall ye reap!”,

a warning found not only in the Bible and the Koran but in the holy books of all peoples. Let humanity take note lest our fate become irrevocable, our hope irretrievable. Let us take heed before it’s too late.

-- posted by TWM editorial board (hereafter, “The Worm”), with the approval of both the Thomastic Committee and the Gregorian Council and the ratification of the Cyberpress Society of Rotenberg, on this twelfth day of July, 2009.

6gkapn8btr