Steve Irwin, known popularly as the Crocodile Hunter, died Monday off the coast of Australia while filming a wildlife documentary. He was stung in the chest by a sting ray, and doctors believe the barb pierced his heart.

Irwin’s death has been falsely reported on several occasions due mainly to his history of dangerous stunts involving wild animals, especially poisonous reptiles. He also achieved a certain infamous notoriety after taking his new born son into a crocodile pen.

If asked, I would not have guessed death-by-stingray as they’re usually docile creatures and rarely attacks unless taunted, cornered or provoked. However, when I heard the news this morning, I was not at all surprised. Irwin has been provoking and mishandling animals for many years now.

By all accounts, Irwin was an incredibly nice man, passionate and caring.

That being said, it is important to note that his handling of dangerous animals should only be replicated by those intent on getting severely hurt. Those people that enjoyed his show, especially children, should be made aware of what happens when you treat nature with careless abandon.

Enthusiasm and a winning personality, it seems, are not adequate protection from blatant stupidity.

I think I’ve just realized something for the first time.

Normally, when i write on this site I write about any number of topics- politics, entertainment, what have you. I’m pretty sure though that I can count the number of times I’ve written about family on one hand.

Think about that. 6 years almost that Wetwired’s been up, and I’ve revealed that little about my real life.

For that matter, I don’t really talk much about my private life on here. For example, I didn’t discuss the recent trip back home that I took, nor did I discuss that once I found out my reunion was later in the month I ended up going to it. I haven’t talked about a lot of things.

I’m kind of okay with that, though. I’m pretty sure that while this site allows me the voice to discuss my life, you’re not really that interested in it.

That leads to a question, I suppose. Do you really care about what happens to us here at Wetwired in real life? I know Pylorns talks about his dating scene every now and then, but are you interested in knowing more about our lives? I know we have stories, and some of us are willing to share more about ourselves. I leave the question to you, dear readers.

Out.

That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is the amount that Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest took in on Friday.

One day. 55 mil.

FUUUUUUCK.

Out.

Tonight was the ten year high school reunion for both Beerslinger and me. The members of our class got together tonight, and many stories were told. People got drunk, and more stories were told.

At least, I’m assuming so. I’m here in Austin, 450 miles away.

The topic of our high school reunion was one that Beerslinger and I discussed several times. He had long ago resolved not to go, what with having no interest whatsoever in seeing the people he didn’t give two-tenths of a shit about during high school. For my sake, I was of two minds on the subject.

One one hand, I’m not ashamed of how my life’s turned out. I had a rough period there, but since then I’m above the base line in the Fortune 50 company I work for, I’ve got something of a social life and I’m not a hermit living in the desert. Things are actually pretty swell for me right now.

On the other, the grand total of people from my high school class I’ve had ANY regular or semi-regular contact with since graduating is… two. One of which writes for this site, and the other I keep up with through Beerslinger. Everyone else, I stopped talking to the night I got thrown up on after graduation. (Another time, another story) Hell, the guy who called me to tell me about the reunion was someone who I hadn’t talked to since Graduation and he apparently had lived within 100 miles of me here in Texas at one point.

I was unsure, until I realized something about this reunion. The only reason I would have gone was to answer these questions:

- Who got fat?
- Who went bald?
- Who got fat AND bald?

Other than that, I really don’t feel that interested in going over my life the last ten years with anyone. If they had really cared, they’d have kept in touch.

The clincher for me was finding out that they were asking $50 a ticket to go to this thing. 50 bucks for three hours of seeing people I wouldn’t pay to see any other time just wasn’t worth it.

Hence, I’m here at home tonight, typing out this post. And y’know what?

I wouldn’t trade it. Well, except for being on a beach with my round little friend somewhere. Course, that’ll probably be later this month.

So, I’ve got that going for me.

Out.

P.S. Spolier Warning

What do these tv shows have in common?

Dynasty
Charmed
Beverly Hills 90210
Daniel Boone
Carter’s Army
The Trackers
Satan’s School for Girls
… and 205 other tv shows?

Well, they were all produced by the same man, the man whom Guinness recognizes as the most prolific television producer of all time. That man was Aaron Spelling.

More than any other person, Aaron Spelling was responsible for most of the televised popular culture for the past 40 years. Whether you enjoyed his shows or not, Spelling’s influence could not be denied.

Aaron Spelling passed away today at the age of 83, following a devastating stroke. I am admittedly not a fan of some of his works of the past few decades, but I have to respect the man’s work ethic and commitment to entertainment. After all, the resume doesn’t lie.

Out.

1 bottle Laphroaig 15 year old Islay scotch, Original Cask Strength: $86

1 Opus X madura cigar: $12

1 Hand cut Russian crystal rocks glass: $22

1 Microtech QD Scarab switchblade: $475

Sitting on your back porch, half naked with a switchblade clipped to your underwear, drinking scotch, smoking a cigar without a care in the world: Fucking Priceless Motherfucker.

Why? Because I can!

I’m off to Amsterdam and Brussels for a vaction. See you when I see you.

Wetwired, for all your Naked Midget Wrestling needs.

Just email us with a detailed discription of your Naked Midget Wrestling fantasy (remember details are important) and we will make it come true.

Wetwired, we’re here to make your Naked Midget Wrestling dreams a reality, and we don’t mind debasing other human beings to do it.

Good times, Midget Wrestling.

We have all heard the epitaph from Palahniuk that says “On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero”. Never have truer words been spoken. We are all going to die, every single one of us. That’s the God’s honest truth and we all know it. We’ve known it in one form or another since we were children.

Unfortunately it’s not the whole story.

Death cannot be foregone, but it is also ugly and horrible and it’s stalking every one of us. Death is simply the name we give the end of our lives, but what it really is, is the destruction of our lives.

For a few of us, a very lucky few, we die in an instant when a drunk driver hits us out of nowhere on the day of our graduation or the birth of our children. Instant, painless death at a high point is the best anyone of us could ever beg for.

You see, they lie to us from the beginning. When they toilet train us, they don’t bother to tell us that in a hand full of years we will be crapping ourselves again, but at that time no one is going to think it’s cute. No one will dotter over us, or make happy little jokes about how our “little poopie stinky winkies”. When you’re 78 and you shit your diaper, the underpaid nurse just bends you over the bed, and cleans you, and wishes she had stayed in school or learned to type.

For your part you just stay there on the bed and try to think of more pleasant things than the woman sanitizing your ass and her cold, cold hands.

If you think any of this is funny, you wait for the punch line, its coming.

You see, the loss of control of one sphincter or another is really the least of the things you need to worry about at our age. Honestly the dehumanizing embarrassment of having a woman (who you would never even have over for dinner ten years ago) buff your rectum until it shines isn’t even the worst part.

The Pain is what you want to worry about.

The Pain that precedes our death is waiting for us all. It is waiting for all of us, and unlike death, it doesn’t even bother to stalk us in the night. We walk up to it and it embraces us, the only consolation being that it never discriminates. It holds everyone the same. A lucky few, a blessed few step out of line before they buy the ticket for that show.

Degenerative illness is a creation of 20th century medicine. They have figured out how to prolong our lives longer than they can make us comfortable. The drugs fail, we develop a tolerance and then all we do is wait. Sickness is ugly. Illness is degenerative. Life is degenerative. When it gets really bad, you look at death as Christmas. Only by then it never comes in time. By then it’s too late.

The reason it’s too late is that The Pain strippes us of all we have and all we ever were. It makes us see life for the truth that things will never be as good as they used to be again. Never, not ever or ever. The pain can get so bad that you beg for death and when all the begging and pleading that is left inside of you is gone, there is nothing to do but wait for death to take it’s slow ass time getting around to you.

You think that those people that commit suicide after being diagnosed with a major disease are weak?

Do you believe that euthanasia is wrong?

The very first time the medicine breaks down and you loose your voice because your body was never meant to scream that long, look me in the eyes and tell me that suicide is wrong. Tell me that doctors who intentionally overdose their patients are going to burn in a hell worse than anything we experience on earth.

I have seen doctors celebrate the “miracle” that will keep a patient alive for another two weeks, even though they know that there is no way to control The Pain.

Remember earlier when I mentioned a punch line? The Pain is waiting for you too. It’s waiting patiently for all of us. And the chances are that our death is going to be longer, and uglier and more debasing than anything that our parents or grandparents could imagine. Advances in medicine will keep us alive longer, but the odds are they will not improve the quality of our lives enough to make it worth the trouble.

There is this poem that has haunted me for years. It’s by Yeats and talks about the end of the world and the second coming of Christ. It says “Things fall apart, the center cannot hold”.

“On a long enough time line the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.” But for most of us, long before the time line runs out, we will be stripped of everything that made life worth living. We will be dehumanized, tortured by modern medicine and our own bodies until all that is left is a sack of warm meat that bears no resemblance to what we were, and can no longer beg for an ending that will never get here soon enough.

Feel free to start laughing anytime you like.

I went to this great little strip club with a friend of mine the other night. You know the kind of place, too loud, too dark and way too loose on the rules. Anyway, I’m sitting there and enjoying my third or fourth beer and watching the girls gyrate in various stages of undress and intoxication. In other words I was having a pretty good time of it.

Now for the most part I view strippers the way a well fed man views a decent steak, nice but completely interchangeable. However, and you know what I’m talking about guys, there comes along this one stripper that catches your eye. Skinny, but still with curves. Great, pert c/b cup breasts and just the right combination of too many drinks and too few morals to catch your eye.

Now, this is the kind of girl that you start to watch. You watch the way she dances and the way she works the customers, then if every thing is just right…you buy the lap dance.

Invariably her name is Rocket, or Diamond, or Mercedes, or Moonbeam, but it couldn’t matter less. Because, part of the joy of strippers is sexual stimulation without the burden of connection. On second thought, that’s not part of the joy of strippers, it’s the whole package. I don’t have to care if her grandmother is in the hospital, or if her boyfriend is cheating on her or even if she’s flunking out of remedial math at the community college. These things aren’t of any concern to me, nor should they be.

But the other side of it is even better. She doesn’t care about me, at all. I could live forever in perfect happiness or die right there in complete misery and she doesn’t care.

If you can think of a more deliciously nihilistic way to spend $35, then let me know. Have me paged. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.

I digress, let’s cut back to the lap dance…

So, I pay my money to Ms. Rainbow and she leads me back to a louder darker room divided by cubicle walls. She pushes me down on a worn, dirty vinyl couch and takes off her clothing. She was smooth shaven and her nipples were that perfect color of dusty rose against heavy cream colored skin. She turned around and began rubbing herself against my lap, and I let my hands begin to wonder. She kept me away from the most private of private areas but other than that I had free run of the amusement park.

No attachment, no connection, just drunk hands on drunk skin and a blissfully thought free moment.

Then I felt it. As I squeezed her deliciously plump right breast I felt a lump. It was hard and large and located an inch above the nipple. And in that one instant the whole illusion came crashing down around me. Suddenly she was a real person and she had a real name and real parents and she had one VERY REAL problem growing north east of her heart.

Only, she didn’t stop dancing. She had no idea what I had just felt and to her the illusion was still perfect.

Intact.

Whole.

Then the song ended and she climbed off, put her clothes back on and turned to leave after a hollow meaningless kiss on my cheek.

And there was the great white whale of morality glaring me right in the eyes and daring me to choose. Screaming for me to decide. Not just to decide, but to clarify my humanity with that decision.

Do I stop her and tell her what I felt, or do I let her walk off and catch another customer. Hoping that she already knew, or would find it herself, or maybe just hoping I could drink enough not to care, or even better not to remember.

I know what I did, but I want to know what you would have done.

Fill in a comment and let me know. But be honest.

So, I’m going to have to support Sarah MacLachlan, Avril Lavigne and the Barenaked Ladies from now on.

See, they’re part of the group fo Canadian musicians behind this. It seems some of the artists being “represented” by the music industry have pretty much come out and said “Hey, can you greedy-ass pricks stop suing the people that buy our music, mmkay?” That, naturally, is an idea that I can get behind and as such I want to support these artists.

Then again… damn. Does mean I’ll have to start listening to Gordon Lightfoot if he signs with these folks too?

Out.

Apparently, it just doesn’t pay to be Cynthia McKinney.

See, it seems that the Democratic representative from Georgia punched a cop recently on Capitol Hill, and the entire incident may have indeed been caught on tape. Plus, the cops are going to wait until Congress adjourns… and THEN they’ll arrest her.

Now mind you, I’ve never liked this woman. She’s an arrogant, self-righteous piece of crap who has long abused the powers she has been “granted” by the people of Georgia. Now though, she may have finally screwed up too much.

I’m just hoping we can get footage of her arrest, so we can see that smug look on her face get wiped away by the phrase “You have the right to remain silent.”

Out.

With the next presidential election right around the corner, I would like us all to consider the merits of 24’s Jack Bauer for president. Here is a short list of reasons I’ve come up with for making Jack Commander in Chief.

1) Terrorist would weep.

2) The secret service could retire. Nobody fucks with Jack Bauer.

3) Under new powers afforded the police by the Constitution, they would be able to torture jay walkers for information.

4) John Kerry “I voted for the bill, then I voted against it, but I came out in the media for it, but funded lobbyists to fight it.”
Jack Bauer: “I killed congress.”

5) Jack Bauer would eradicate the influenza virus. (Kim Bauer had the flu once, and its payback time.)

6) Jack Bauer does not play the saxophone.

7) Jack Bauer would not really have to run for president, he would simply assume office. Jack runs for no one.
The United Nations would be drafted into active military service.

9) If Jack Bauer has to strong-arm China over trade negotiations, it wouldn’t be a metaphor.

10) The liberal-ass-commie-pinko-whiners among us would be integral in his plan to conquer the Middle East known as “The first wave of expendables”.

11) It would pucker the French so badly they might not be able to shit for months.

12) Member nations of OPEC would be “annexed” into the United States, and no, Jack Bauer dosen’t really care if they like it or not.

13) The celebrations surrounding “National Anti-Terrorism Day” would include human sacrifice and candy treats for the kiddies.

14) On the day Usama Bin Laden is finally caught, President Jack Bauer would personally torture him for information on prime time television. I hear 8:00 p.m. Monday nights is a good time slot for that sort of thing…

(NOTE: This is a very personal post for me. It’s not a rant, and it’s not really meant for everyone to read in some ways. It goes into some things that can be difficult to discuss, and because of that I have decided to post it after the leap. It involves some things I’ve wanted to say for a while and needed to get out of my head and onto the screen. Bear this in mind, should you decide to read it.)

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