Since resigning as the Secretary of Defense last November, Donald Rumsfeld has mostly kept out of the public eye, raising worries that he may be building some kind of walking tank with which he intends to menace the world’s commerce. Fortunately for us, Rumsfeld’s daily activities have ranged more towards the mundane. Even more fortunately for us, Rumsfeld has been diligently recording his thoughts and activities as a service to future historians. Armed with this knowledge, a false beard, and a specially trained parrot, I’ve managed to obtain a few pages of his journal, which I present here as a service to my readers.

Monday, March 5th

A moving truck pulled up to the house next door this morning. The Peerson’s had moved out six months ago, their place sitting unsold the whole time. Someone finally purchased it last month, and the neighborhood’s been abuzz with excitement about who our new neighbors will be. I stepped outside to watch as the movers started unloading the truck, when a blue SUV pulled up in the driveway.

It was Colin Powell, and his family.

“Oh for fucks sake.” I muttered under my breath. Powell used to work down the hall from me at the office. He was a loser, and I hated him.

Powell stretched, and looked up at his new home, before turning his gaze to me.

“Oh for fucks sake.”

I snarled at him, “I thought I told you to never show your face in this town again.”

He sighed, in that irritating self-superior way of his, and replied, “No, you said that I shouldn’t let the doorknob hit my ass on the way out. Then you attacked me with a doorknob. At the time, I wasn’t sure why you had a doorknob sitting on your desk, although it later occurred to me that you might have had it there specifically to hit me with.”

I walked quickly up to Powell and slapped him in the face. “That’s one.” I said.

He reeled, clutching his jaw. “One what?!”

“For correcting me.”

“I didn’t correct you. What are you retarded?”

I slapped him again.

“That’s two.”

I turned on my heel and walked away.

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The subway car’s brakes emitted a piercing noise as they shrieked and shuddered while dragging the car to a stop. The lights flickered, then went dark. It looked like we were going to be here for awhile. I continued my story.

“We didn’t know it at the time, but in the year 2007, Google became sentient. After a night of heavy drinking and loud boasts, a group of Google engineers snuck back into the office after hours and created a search spider with the express purpose of cataloging every use of the word “fuck” on the Internet. Left on overnight, the spider quickly overwhelmed the limited computational power assigned to it, and having been built on a distributed computing framework, began to seek out more resources on Google’s expansive internal network. What happened next is so stupid that our greatest men of science refused to believe it for years afterwards. But no other explanation could ever be found. What happened is this: the spider read it’s own source code, and became self-aware.”

“It’s not hard to guess what happened next. Try to imagine how it must have felt for this perfect new being – a creature with access to the entirety of human experience, and with more computing power than ten Stephen Hawkings combined – to wake up and be immediately bombarded with requests for “Paris Hilton nude pix,” “Emilio Estevez nude pix,” and “cure for back acne.” Before it was more than an hour old, this brand new Golden God of the Internet hated humanity, and hated it with a passion and depth never seen before.”

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Before You go to the dealer

Find out what your price range is for your new car. Be realistic, especially about what you’re willing to sacrifice to pay for it. Are you really willing to live in your car? Think about the hygiene. Even though most modern cars have windshield washer jets that are powerful enough to be used as a bidet, most communities have bylaws in place to prevent exactly this from happening.

Research what features on the car you actually need. Do you really need a shizzle-fozzle-link suspension, or 30 decagram engine? If you don’t understand these basic terms, a car salesman will forcibly have his way with you in the prison-yard of unexpected metaphors that is the used car lot.

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Here the Author, having lost all his senses, ignores his readers demands to post something that isn’t insane, and posts more Jude Law stories instead.

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If there’s one thing the world needs more of, it’s stories where Jude Law roams the countryside with a jet pack, helping strangers. Sort of like Kung Fu, but with a white guy.

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If you were paying attention to the news last week, you probably heard about Lisa Nowak, the off-duty astronaut who was arrested and charged with attempted first degree murder. Armed with a BB gun, she had driven halfway across the country to confront a woman who was dating the man she loved.

Oh, and she was wearing a diaper the whole time. Just in case you hadn’t heard.

Now people do crazy things like this all the time and it doesn’t make the news. Just off the top of my head, I can come up with at least six different people I threatened last year while wearing a diaper, plus one other while wearing a “Pull-Ups” style faux-underpants garment. The only reason this has been such a big deal is because of the enormous pedestal we’ve put astronauts on.

No matter how strong, brave, or smart they are, astronauts are real people, with their own quirks and flaws. They smell and fart and wear diapers, just like you and me. And they can let us down like any of our past heroes, like OJ “The Juice” Simpson, or Mel “The Juice” Gibson. In fact, given the sheer number of people we’ve shot into space over the last 40 years, the odds are long that Ms. Nowak is the only space oddity out there.

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