I've seen Avatar six times. I like it fine. I'm giving it four stars, the highest rating I've given a film since Return of The King (for which I gave ten stars). To be honest, every time I walk out of the theaters, I'm a little depressed, (I feel like one and a half stars). Once you see the world in 3D, it's hard to go back...The film inspired me to build my own Avatar (I'm abandoning Iron Man suit plans - damn thing won't fly).

Had I been on Pandora instead of Jake Sully, I would have done things differently. First of all, my legs work. Secondly, I would have seduced Princess Neytiri earlier on; it wouldn't take two hours of film for us to consummate. And thirdly, the movie would have had a good ending (the film's biggest flaw). Had I been among the Na'vi people, we would have gotten the unobtainium - all of it. I would have led the military to Tree of Souls, and as it burned, I would chant the Na'vi prayer over a bullhorn, "Oel ngati kameie, ma Tsmukan, ulte ngaru seiyi ireiyo. Ngari hu Eywa saleu tìrea, tokx 'ì'awn slu Na'viyä hapxì! I SEE YOU!!"

I feel like I'm overexposed. I'm writing a diabolical blog (and executing a diabolical plan), have a regular column in the Dunder Mifflin Scranton Newsletter, am an avid poster on the demolition derby forum wecrash.com, write letters to the editor several times a day, and maintain this web log. I'm spending too much time typing, and not nearly enough time doing (farm work, women, speed-typing competitions, etc). So I'm resolved to slow down and get in touch with my Zen side. I'll be painting on rice paper, contemplating the snow on top of my outhouse, tending to my gravel driveway rock garden, and unburdening my soul through Haiku.

"Deere John"
Cuts so very deep.
Green and yellow, blades glimmer.
Thumb gone, toe will do.

"The Well"
Deep, dark, and tempting.
Signs, fake snakes, threats do nothing.
Mose will never learn.

"My Awesome Car"
American Made.
Loud and really fast, vroom-vroom.
Total chick magnet.

Haiku is art and few have what it takes to write it. Do you?

Thanksgiving at the Schrutes is probably no different than the Thanksgivings you have at your home. On Thursday morning, Mose and I will go into the woods, not to return until we've killed a wild turkey. By the time we make our way back, the butterball we bought at the store should have defrosted. This year most of our extended family won't be able to make it, so there'll only be around forty Manheims and Schrutes over for the holiday.

While the women prepare our meal in the kitchen, the males of the family have the tradition of playing a good old fashioned, all American game of eck balle (corner ball). Then, like the rest of the country, we sit around the table and say what we're thankful for (for me, it's my new John Deere 345-HP 8R series tractor, my ability to hold my breath for long periods of time, my sexual stamina, and DDT). Around 4 in the afternoon, we feast on a five-course meal of turkey, goose, hog, venison, and buffalo. Later (4:15) we enjoy coffee and dessert (a choice of whooping pie or shoo fly pie) while Mose and Uncle Amos play dueling jugs. As dusk settles, we say our goodbyes as everyone piles into their cars and buggies to head home. Just a typical Thanksgiving. 

Dwight Schrute was born to serve, defend, and fight in an organized militia, so, naturally, I joined the neighborhood watch.  Unfortunately the other vigilantes of the group don't share my enthusiasm for the post.  They refuse to hide out in ditches, dumpsters, and under cars.  The ski masks and tasers I've given them are not utilized; instead they insist on arming themselves with just mobile phones and whistles.  How are they going to disarm a criminal using a whistle?  I know how to, but I strongly doubt they do.  Most frustrating, they won't let me light my flashbangs; that really pisses me off - I spent $800 on those!  

Last week, those morons asked me not to participate in the neighborhood watch anymore (they're still upset about the tear gas incident).  Well good riddance, they never appreciated all that I've done.  The streets will never be safe without me.  Kids will be free to speed down their streets, break curfew, and blanket their houses in toilet paper.  It's going to be total anarchy!  I'm just grateful I don't live in that neighborhood.

We live in a culture of fear, but are we sufficiently afraid? I think not. Sure, our parents and the media have taught us to properly fear rogue ninjas who don't abide by the samurai code and others who overtly wish us harm, but when it comes to danger, most people only seem to pay attention to the loudest of warning signs (as evidenced by the dramatic increase in newspaper deliverymen getting run over by silent hybrid vehicles). Although the average Joe seldom pays attention, there are all manner of "silent killers" lurking around every corner, wishing us harm every moment of every day.

Of the many silent killers, perhaps none is more deadly than the sun. In our heliocentric universe, the sun insists on being the center of attention, so when people choose to ignore its awesome power, it punishes them with burns, melanomas, and poisonous overdoses of Vitamin D. I value my life, so every morning I massage my bare flesh with a homemade sunblock (a combination of zinc oxide, titanium dioxide, shredded beeswax, coconut oil, and just a touch of whatever cured meat I have laying around to give it a pleasant aroma). Once the ointment is thoroughly rubbed in, I put on my polarized sunglasses, step outside, and stare death in the face - not in a taunting way, just in a "hello old friend, I realize that you have the ability to boil my skin and I respect that, but I'm not going to hide from you, because I've already had rickets once and I'd prefer not to go through that again," sort of way.

As impressive as the sun is, if I were going to be a silent killer, I'd definitely be a mute, employed as an assassin. My so-called handicap would actually provide me with a deadly advantage - a chip on my shoulder that compels me to prove to the world I can do anything and everything as well as a regular person, especially murder. If they ever brought me in for questioning, I can guarantee you, no matter how hard they interrogated me, I'd never say a word. Best of all, if I were the first mute assasin, they'd pretty much have to give me the most rock and roll nickname of all-time: "The Silent Killer!" And long after I'd hung up my killing shoes, I could live out the remainder of my days as a symbol of hope, not just to other mutes, but for all the physically disadvantaged.