Master Sun said:

War is
A grave affair of state;
It is a place
Of life and death,
A road
To survival and extinction,
A matter
To be pondered carefully.

el Jefe said:

Microsoft Server Management System is
a piece of poop;
It's installation is
pissing me off;
I do not intend,
to read 10 chapters on preplanning
or hire 6 other IT dudes;
Bill Gates may eat,
my farts;
I should have been,
a %#$@ dentist;

Time for a few laughs
 
I've decided to go on a political hiatus.  Rather than continuing down the same old rage/frustration spiral everytime I turn on the news, I've decided to just have some fun.  You know, mess with people. 
 
I hate conversations where everyone nods or shakes their heads in unison.  We've all had them.  Boorish in my opinion.  I like to argue.  In high school I was on the debate team.  The cool thing about debate [yeah, piss off] is that we always argued both sides of an argument.  Even the stupid ones, like "handicapped people shouldn't be allowed to play sports."  That's no joke.  Believe me when I say it truly sucks having to convince people that some poor, armless schlub shouldn't be allowed to play little league.  That kind of challenge results in two types of debators, those who research and become learned, and those that just learn how to mess with people.  How they view the world.  Up is down, sour is sweet.  You know, use Clearly a lot.  Just shake up their perspective enough so that you end up on top. 
 
I chose to become the latter variety of debator, it was more suited to my slacker lifestyle.  I mean I may have been in debate, but I wasn't a wanker.  Yep, it was a heady time.  At my height, I was a true bastard.  Like most BS debators, I only ever did middling well in competitions.  Unless it was in the backwoods.  I crushed bumpkins like you wouldn't believe.  I could almost smell earnest.  I even made a girl cry once.  Still makes me chuckle.  
 
In real life though, I quickly realized that that sort of behavior would just earn you a punch in the face.  So after a few near misses, I decided to hang up the gloves so to speak.
 
Now though, I think I'll start swimming against the tide again.  You know spice up the debate a bit.
 
the inevitable conversation
 
some dude: "Can you believe what that bastard Bush has done now? blah,blah,blah.... blah!  I hate that fucking blah, blah!"
 
jefe: "Yeah I know right?  [Raises glass] Four more years!"
 
dude: "Exac... whawha? 
 
jefe: "slurp.. slurp... ahh"

A moment of silence will ensue.  They'll give me odd looks as they chew that over and try to find the sarcasm or irony.  I'll happily push on.
 
jefe [with squinting of eyes and sage nod] :"I mean I don't really follow politics, who has time to read these days right?, but I find voting for the incumbent is generally the best course.  I mean I'm doing all right...   Things seem fine, so how bad a job could they really be doing?  If it comes up, if I'm pressed on the subject, I'll just say "Four more years!"  You know, just go with the flow." 
 
The trick, as ever, will be to avoid punches in the face and kicks to the craw.  Padding might not be a bad idea.
 
It'll be hilarious
el Jefe

Must not drink on a Monday


Just back from a Vacation in the lovely Pacific NW...
Lush greenery, tall mountains, majestic oceans, Lectures.

I had a great time with the folks, a couple of old friends, and hanging out in the Greater Seattle area. Had a few beers, a few laughs, saw a couple of flicks. Good times. Then about three fourths of the way through the tenor changed somewhat. It was apparently time for some tough love.

Ya see in the movies, when the drill instructor asks for volunteers everyone takes a step back so that it appears that the company rube has volunteered. I didn't realize it at the time, but it would appear that I am now that Rube.

Why you ask? What gives? Believe me when I say that that has been a source of some thought for a rather bewildered el jefe lately. Apparently now that both my siblings are either married with kids or in a serious relationship, the fact that I'm completely hopeless with the opposite sex has been outlined in stark relief. What was once a source of fun and laughter for everyone it now seems is a serious issue. "What's going to happen to the jefe?", they ask. "What will become of him?"

Yep, the harsh high-beam lights of parental concern are now firmly fixed on yours truly.

"I just want you to be happy"

A lovely sentiment. Truly. Every son or daughter should hope that their parents want the same thing. Just as every American should want John Ashcroft defending Liberty or George Bush championing Freedom. They want me to be happy and they're prepared to kick quite a bit of ass towards that theoretical end, God bless 'em. Unfortunately it would appear that like many Americans today such sentiment merely triggers a feeling of inexplicable dread at the base of my stomach. Odd really. Something of a failing on my part.

So now I'm back in NC, armed with many tips for personal grooming, fashion, etc. Among other things on my To-do list, I need to start shaving on a more regular basis, join the church choir, start cooking, and for god's sake dress a little better. It was also suggested quite strongly that I should seriously consider moving back to the Seattle area.

The road to success seems clear.

Unfortunately, once I pulled myself together this morning after a few too many beers and no dinner the night before, I really didn't feel like shaving. Just showered, threw on some quasi-clean clothes, squeezed in a few wistfull thoughts about breakfast, and left.

heh..

I'm a work in progress?

Don't go changin'
El Jefe

Title.
A thing of beauty, physics gone awry
or
1 ball, 4 walls, and 1 pocket the J-fulche story.

The Scene
Bailey's Pub.
A chintzy place complete with dozens of mounted televisions, fake memorabilia, and constant music. Tired looking waitresses in skimpy outfits hustle around with strained smiles. We are led to believe that their midriff-baring/tight-pant outfits are simply an indication of a care-free joy de'vive, but only the simple are fooled by such devices. or the Desparate. The crowd, mostly men, vary in their economy, their station, and in the way they eye their waitresses. Its the kind of place that fools fools with illusions of class. The only thing going for this place are the twenty or so pool tables kept in good condition. Fulche-dog and el Jefe can attest that the tables and cues are quality and that the beer works. The rest is fuzzy details.

J-Fulche and jefe are average pool players. They've got the right idea, but their execution is often flawed. Every once in a while though, there's a stroke of fucking genius. This is the story of that day.

It was a lunch outing, which means Sweet-tea and something from the plastic-encased menu. Ostensibly that afternoon was a good one for the jefe. Not to put it too delicately, but I was mopping the freaking floor with J. It wasn't pretty.

You see reader, it is my sad confession to admit that when pitted against a close friend in friendly combat, jefe is a fearful mocker. Not only that but the jefe has been known to stoop to all manner of idignities in order to break a players concentration. A laugh, a smile, a flicker of the eye, all introduce havoc into the delicate physics of the pool table. Many such have been inflicted to elicit the misfire. How you ask? By what means? We'll keep that under wraps for dignity's sake. Suffice it to say that when I'm in the right frame, jack-assery poses no limit. On this day, however, Jefe hadn't been drinking. He played his game like a gentleman. Sorta.

back to the story

Last game of the day. J-fulche is down 5-0. Redemption is the only prize, Mocking is failure's sure reward. J has a shot ahead of him that to the jefe's practiced eye will yield him little. Jefe leans casually on a stool and patiently watches Jfulche line up his shot. After careful consideration, JF pulled back his cue and snapped a solid hit against the cue ball.

What happens next exists in only in the memory of those assembled.

Thump, crack, thump,thump,thump.

An improbable and unexpected series of events that led to the pocketing of the intended ball and the subsequent perfect placement of the cue ball.

A hush settles, jefe leaps to his feet.

jefe:[yelling] "HOt God Damn! That's some freaking Pool right there!"

Jfulche:[in a level tone] "God damn right!"

Breaking from his reverie, a kind of zen like concentration, JF notices the room. He slowly raised his hands and looked around at a hushed room. Who would make eye contact? Who would dare?

JF: "Who else? Who wants a God-Damn Piece? What's up? ya toothless Bastards.."

Nothing. And reader, I can't blame them.

After an embarrassed moment, wherein each man examined his own worth and found himself insufficient, Fulche realized his victory was complete. After one final look around at what he obviously gaged a truly sorry assembly, he casually tossed his cue at a gape-mouthed waitress

JF: "Bronze this damnit."

The men start to sidle away, and I crouched under the pool table, pool cue across my knees, eyes unfocused as the articles of female clothing started to fly at one J-fulche, who for that moment was King of Bailey's Pub and Grill.

True Story.
El Jefe