I got yer doompa-de-do right here!

Friday, Aug. 12, 2005, 1:39 a.m.

I spent my first hour at work listening to the officers and senior enlisted men in the next cubicle discussing Tourette's Syndrome.

Well, less that than just randomly spewing obscene phrases, giggling like strung-out eight-year-old girls, and every now and then dropping in the term "Tourette's Syndrome" so it would look like there was some sort of non-worrisome reasoning behind their outbursts.

I wish I could say that these obscene phrases were at least creative so that I could take pride in sharing them with you as the products of hard-working soldiers.

But sadly, no. All I can offer you is the word "fuck," combined with the words "fucking" and "fucker(s)" in as many permutations as could possibly make some form of sense.

Can we give a cheer for the Leaders of Today's Army?
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I sat down to eat this evening, and was promptly confronted by this flyer, which is not a joke:

Discuss amongst yourselves; I'll be right back.

...

...

...

All righty. The questions which this little sign raised in my mind were as follows:

1) Why do Middle Eastern women do different aerobics than all other women? Did Mohammed give them the Workout Instructions Of Allah? Is the burqa just not conducive to a regular fitness regimen?

2) Why would anybody who is not from the Middle East want to learn this workout? Middle Eastern women are not particularly known for their svelte figures. Not to say that large, shapeless clothing indicates fat-ass-ness, but we certainly have no testimonial to base this on.

3) Isn't it interesting that I got to read this as I sat down for a nice, hefty meal of rib-eye steak and mushrooms? I sure didn't feel like a large chunk o' nasty after that, no sirree!

4) What exactly are these "popular Middle Eastern tunes," and how do I know that they will truly make me want to get my fit on?

Please -- ponder.
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I finally saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, thanks to the Bootleg Fairy, and my initial reaction really needs its own paragraph.

It SUCKED.

Johnny. Darling. You realize that I now am forced to love you in spite of this movie rather than because of it, right? For it did indeed eat chunks of vomit.

There was one main reason for the vomit-chunk-eating quality of the film.

That reason was not the fact that Willy Wonka was written as a Jacko-ish, psychologically-warped, child-hating dumbass who seemed unable to function on his own.

That reason was not the absence of "I've Got A Golden Ticket," or any of the songs I'd come to know and love -- except for "Cheer Up, Charlie," which, frankly, was too long and boring, and which I always fast-forwarded through.

That reason was not even the way the other grandparents seemed to dominate Grandpa Joe, who didn't even get a chance to make Charlie try the fizzy-lifting drink, seeing as how THERE WAS NO FIZZY-LIFTING DRINK.

No, although these aspects did contribute to the general suckitude of the film, the clincher was simply ... and oh, God, how I hate to say this ... the Oompa Loompas and their gayer-than-Richard-Simmons SONGS.

Come on, now! The Oompa Loompas are supposed to have orange faces and green hair, and sing endearing little rhyming songs while doing cute squatty dances because they are so grateful to Willy for saving them from the Vermicious Knids of Loompa Land.

They are NOT supposed to wear shiny pleather suits and eat bugs and attempt to RAP and be otherwise Gangster. They are NOT supposed to talk like they have been sucking on helium. They are NOT supposed to have synthesizers.

And above all, they are NOT supposed to make me want to SHOOT THEM.

I am very disappointed, and I have to go recover.