Okay, I must admit to something. I am a grown man who, until yesterday, did not know that that the Pottery Barn does not in fact sell pottery. They are a furniture store. For upscale yuppies. Who knew? Everyone but me, apparently.

This begs a simple question. Why in the name of sweet, satisfying coffee ice cream would you name a store Pottery Barn, and then not sell crockery, or earthenware, or ceramics of some sort? It’s like naming a store “Denim Shack,” and then stocking the shelves with gardening tools or exotic fish.

Then again, Old Navy doesn’t sell used battleships. *sigh*

Dear LBB,
  My boyfriend has been reading “The Secret” — with a highlighter and taking notes! Is he trying to tell me something?
Thanks,
- Jen

Dear Jen,
  Whether he’s trying to or not, you boyfriend is telling you that he’s a credulous, vacuous fucktard. Unless he’s a book reviewer, or he’s taking notes for an article debunking its obviously frivolous claims, your boyfriend is falling hard for the silly notion that the “Law of Attraction” will allow him to acquire things simply by thinking really hard about them.

  You should ask him exactly what he’s trying to attract. If he’s wishing hard for the money to buy you a wedding ring, then he’s telling you he loves you. He’s a credulous, vacuous, romantic fucktard. If he wants the Universe to drop a busty blonde in his lap, then his motives are far more suspect. He’s a credulous, vacuous, unfaithful fucktard. Unless, of course, you’re the busty blonde he’s wishing for. In that case he’s a credulous, vacuous, horny fucktard.

  In other news, I’ve discovered that it is impossible to overuse the word “fucktard.”

  I got to the Huntingdon station on the Market-Frankford line at about 2:10 this afternoon. Typically, I missed the train by about 45 seconds, but that’s a different rant. When I got to the top of the stairs, the booth which usually houses the helpful*, attentive** SEPTA employee was dark and empty. A cardboard sign stuck in the window read “USE BIG GATE TO LEFT,” and included three helpful arrows for riders like myself who, on the verge of heatstroke from walking to the train through the soup that is the summer in Philly, had a little trouble focusing on the words.

  I live and die by the Blue Line, so I’ve observed plenty of SEPTA’s worker drones. I know that they’re usually stuck in a tiny booth by themselves for hours at a time, and I don’t begrudge one of them needing to take a bathroom/snack/smoke break, especially when they leave the gate unlocked so riders who show up while they’re out of the booth can get to the platform. They get to take care of their basic biological functions, and I save a token. However, when I reached the gate area, the newly-returned attendant was berating a man who was having trouble going through the gate. He couldn’t get it to open, and she was rudely directing him to the open gate. Which was on the far right. The best part? Her parting shot at he went through the gate was “that’s what it say on the sign!”

  Apparently, the transit organization can’t even afford to hire people who know which hand makes the “L” when you stick out your thumb. I am suddenly in favor of casinos, if the state will promise to dedicate some of the revenue to ensuring all SEPTA workers have a first grade education.

*unhelpful **inattentive

  CNN.com apparently just noticed that the author of The Secret is getting rich by preying on the fears and desires of the desperate, credulous masses. Seriously, CNN? I was griping about this back in March, and even then it wasn’t particularly breaking news. How are you just getting around to this now?

  On my way home from work yesterday, I spotted a convergence of psychobabble chicanery that I’d previously seen only in unpleasant dreams. At one end of the car, a skinny, semi-professional looking blond woman reading The Secret. At the other end of the car, a rough, badly-used looking older gentleman cracking open a large envelope full of glossy Scientology paraphernalia. I swear I could see a fog bank of stupidity forming where their individual credulities converged.

  I’m sure I’ve beaten you about the head quite enough with my outrage over The Secret, but I don’t think I’ve ever broached the subject of Hollywood’s favorite cult “religion.” (I don’t have a tag for it yet, and until I find an alternate reality where my memory isn’t so porous, I’ll have to trust the silicon overlord.)

  I don’t have the energy to get into it here. The alien warlords and ghosts are almost too ridiculous to comprehend. However, I will make this (not at all insightful) observation; any “religion” that charges you money to learn their teachings is a fucking cult, regardless of what any number of brain-addled celebrities would like you to believe.

  By the way, Scientology is also Hollywood’s most notoriously litigious cult “religion,” so I’ll be sure to post a link to my legal defense fund as soon as I receive the cease and desist letter.

RADIO: “The committee hopes to raise enough money to return the house to its original splendor.”

ME: “What does a crappy artificial sweetener have to do with restoring a historic home?”

The only consolation is that I didn’t say it out loud. Nobody else will know.

  And let me say, for a sprightly lass of 6,010, you’re still looking great. Don’t worry about that slight equatorial bulge. It happens to all of us after our mid-5,000s.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Do you think those people down in Texas really saw a UFO?
- Scott Baio Gave Me Pinkeye

Dear Scott Baio Gave Me Pinkeye,
  I have absolutely no doubt that people in Stephenville, Texas did see several UFOs on the night of January 8th. I am, however, just as certain that they didn’t see a spaceship full of aliens out for a night of “probe the redneck.”

  The key is the U in “UFO.” To belabor the point just a bit, it stands for “unidentified.” I’ll spare you the dictionary definition, but it’s worth pointing out that any object or light in the sky that the viewer can’t place is a UFO. I’d bet that the nearly every person in the industrialized world has, at some point, seen something in the sky and not been quite clear as to what that something was. Yet there has never been any compelling evidence of extraterrestrial visitation.

  It’s a pet peeve of mine that “unidentified” has become popular shorthand for “alien.” Despite the squawking of true believers, nobody has ever produced evidence for alien origin of UFOs. Read up on any major UFO sighting, and you’ll find a perfectly rational, and entirely mundane, explanation. Lo and behold, the Air Force Reserve has confirmed that ten F-16 fighter jets from the 301st Fighter Wing at the Naval Air Station Fort Worth Joint Reserve were conducting training flights over North Central Texas that night.

  It’s unfortunate that the Air Force Reserve initially disclaimed any military aircraft activity in the area. Doubtless the conspiracy theorists will seize on this revision as “evidence” that the government is covering up something it doesn’t want us to know about. This might seem odd to you, the rational reader, but I promise it will happen. It takes a special kind of crazy to believe in a government conspiracy to cover up the truth about alien visitors. National governments are large, unwieldy organizations. They employ multitudes of personnel who rate at all levels of incompetence. The idea that even the most ruthlessly efficient national government could successfully suppress such a sensational revelation is just silly. The idea that the same government which brought you Watergate, Filegate and countless other -gate suffixed scandals could keep a lid on such big news is unfathomably absurd.

  Supposed extraterrestrial hijinks always make a little sad, and a lot purple-faced with rage. I’m a sci-fi geeeeek. I want so hard for intelligent alien life to be real, and for interstellar travel to be practical. To my continued frustration, we’ve found no evidence to suggest that either of these things is true. Whenever I read about a kerfluffle involving odd lights in the sky, a small part of me dares to hope that this will be the time when it turns out to be something truly exciting. ‘Tis a small hope, repeatedly dashed. It’s annoying that credulous assbaskets can’t stop setting me up for disappointment. It’s infuriating that paranoid nutbags retreat to insane theories about covert shenanigans, rather than dealing with the woe like the rest of us. I can only hope that, if the aliens ever show up and start handing out anal probes, they start with this guy.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Can you tell me how to make crystal meth?
- Every Third Visitor to This Blog

Dear Every Third Visitor to This Blog,
  I know you’re out there. My sensitive scalp - and my StatCounter service - tell me that approximately one in three of the people who wander past this site wind up here because I once made a sarcastic reference comparing my skill at making crystal meth with the competence of the Emmy voters. Thanks to Google, I’m now some kind of creepy, deserted side street on the pilgrimage to chemical entrepreneurship, right after “Here’s A Good Idea,” and just before “I’m The Prom Queen of Cellblock D!”

  Until a catastrophic event wipes out the Internet, and sends us all back to drawing cleverly captioned pictures of cats on the walls of caves, I’ll be stuck with my status as a false lead for wannabe drug kingpins. In hopes of hastening the LOLpocalypse just a tad, I offer you my 100% foolproof recipe for making crystal meth. Please note that making, taking, selling, and probably even thinking about meth are all extremely dangerous and very illegal. Don’t expect me to bail you out or pitch in for your hospital bill if you screw something up.

  Please be sure to read instructions completely before proceeding.

Ingredients
  In order to make drugs of heart-stoppingly high quality, you will need the following items:
* 1 bottle anhydrous ammonia
* 14 boxes pseudoephedrine-based decongestant
* 1 bottle drain cleaner (sulphuric acid)
* 2 cannisters camping fuel or propane
* box wooden matches
* cigarette lighter
* box unbleached coffee filters
* Hammer
* Mortar and pestle
* Duct tape
* 1 five-gallon plastic bucket
* 1 wooden spoon
* scissors

Preparation
  Place all ingredients on a sturdy table in a sealed room, preferably with no windows. Use duct tape to seal any cracks or spaces which might allow suspicious fumes to escape.

  Using scissors, remove heads from entire box of wooden matches. Place match heads in stainless steel bowl. Dispose of match sticks.

  Using mortar and pestle, grind decongestant pills into a coarse powder.

  Pour ammonia into bucket. Add drain cleaner, pouring slowly.

  Using wooden spoon, stir powdered decongestant into liquid mixture.

  Slowly pour match heads onto mixture. Try to distribute them in an even layer on top of the mixture.

  Using hammer, remove valves from fuel cannisters. Allow cannisters to drain until hissing sound stops.

  Using cigarette lighter, ignite the layer of match heads in the bucket.

  The resulting explosion should neatly remove you from the gene pool, and will hopefully serve as a warning to your dumbass friends that running an illegal drug lab full of volatile chemicals is a suicidally stupid idea.
YOU’RE WELCOME.

  Political wonks will no doubt already know that President Bush has spent a little more than a third of his presidency on vacation. He’s surpassed the previous record for personal travel by a sitting president, held by modern republican messiah Ronald Reagan.

  Take a minute to think about all of the stupid, appalling, ridiculous, evil shit that has gone on under the current administration. President Bush has managed to accomplish all of that with less time spent in the White House than any president in history. The man is either amazingly, ruthlessly efficient, or he’s got an unbelievably motivated cadre of henchpersons. Either way, I think it’s obvious that he’s some kind of undercover supervillain. I doubt that even Voldemort could do better.