Harry Shearer dropped a great video clip of Ann Coulter on his blog. Apparently, like many of her frequent targets — Kerry & company — she’s also unfamiliar with how Cameras work.

California geneticists have managed to get working human brain cells in mice.

Geneticist Fred Gage injected embryonic human cells into two-week-old fetal mice as they developed in the womb. When the mice matured, some human stem cells survived and became functional components of the mice’s brains and nervous systems.

The question begs to be asked as to wether these mice now show a propensity to sit on the couch with a remote control and a bag of potato chips.

After having a but too much of the Holiday Spirit (perhaps several of them) and getting too smashed to drive, it seems that a 31-year-old German Civil Servant added insult to injury by proving that he was also entirely too drunk to dial.

On his drive home from one round after another of alcoholic merriment, a 31-year-old German man was befallen by a blow-out. Rather than change the tyre himself, he decided to keep his hands clean and leave the dirty work to the breakdown services.

 

The jolly civil servant, who had a blood alcohol level seven times that of the legally allowed limit, had his license taken away eight years ago, and was driving a borrowed car, dialled what he believed to be the number of roadside assistance, and blurted out his tiddled tale.

 

“My car is broken and I need you to come and fix it,” he said. “And you’d better be quick because I’m really pretty drunk and I don’t have a licence so it wouldn’t be good if the cops drove past.”

 

It wasn’t until he was done with his inebriated rant that he realised he was not talking to a breakdown service at all, but to none other than the police from whom he was so keen to hide.

 

“He wanted us to come quickly, so we did,” said a police spokesman in the western town of Monheim.

Can you Say, “Dummkopf!” Boy and Girls?

I knew you could.

After a week of casual dress, I went to my closet this crisp Monday morning to put on a pair of my usual slacks. They felt entirely too loose, so I went to put on my belt. The belt went all the way to the last hole. I felt triumphant that my spare-tire from the last ten years was finally gone.

But what happened after that is making me wonder if I wasn’t abducted by Aliens who singled me out to perform a useless medical experiment with no value except to make me question my own sanity.

The loose belt was one thing. But as I continued to get dressed, I realized that my slacks were about three inches too short. “Okay, weird.” I thought.

I put on a second pair, similar, a similar style, and they were too short. “That’s just freaking bizarre!” These are from the same set of slacks I purchased three years ago.

“Third time’s the charm,” only, in this case, it wasn’t. “Dammit!”

Five pairs of slacks later, going through all the usual suspects, I finally found a pair that fit — a pair that were at the top of the closet waiting to be altered for my short legs.

Now, I’ve been five-foot-eight for twenty years. I had completely resigned myself to the fact that I would forever be one of those feisty, vertically challenged men who people quietly snicker, making comments like, “Short man’s complex,” whenever the Starbuck’s cashier just won’t get it right.

I pulled out the tape measure and a book — held it vertically so there’s no mistaking it — and what did I find? That I’m suddenly 5’11! Sure enough, I can reach the coffee filters on the top shelf in the kitchen without the step stool!

I Googled and Googled, and came up short (no pun intended). I couldn’t find anything on mid-life growth spurts. Pretty much everyone stops getting taller by the age of twenty-seven, most many years before that.

In the immortal words of Sherlock Holmes, by way of Sir. Arthur Conan Doyle,

“That process,” said I, “starts upon the supposition that when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

In finding no evidence of the scientific possibility that I could have grown three inches over night, my improbable conclusion must be true.
 

I figure it must have happened some time after the local news, and just before the Infomercials started. I was falling asleep on the couch, watching the news, and faded during the last fifteen minutes. I awoke with a fright, checked all the doors, looked out the windows, and went upstairs to bed.

Some time in that foggy fifteen minutes, the Aliens must have shown up, transferred my consciousness into a body of their own making, and left me in exactly the same spot on the couch where I would awaken to another annoying infomercial.

So maybe I’m off-my-rocker. Aliens are the only way that I can explain three inches of growth, all in the legs, when I’m pushing forty.

Damn Aliens. If they were gonna give me a new body, they should have given me some replacement hair to go with it. Or, perhaps they put me back just at the right moment, when the informercial that I so hastily switched off would have shown me a revolutionary hair-regrowth technology.

If they’ve been studying us for five thousand years, surely they know that nobody likes infomercials.

According to a December 9th article at World Science, your average honey bee can be taught to recognize a human face for up to two days. That’s better than some people I know!

The article is rather inspecific and quotes dates in the future (we assume they meant December 15th, 2004, but who can be sure?), so it’s still a little suspicious. However, if true, I can think of literally hundreds of applications for this particular discovery.

Imagine, the perfect home security system which causes anaphylaxis to anyone they don’t recognize.

What an incredible and inexpensive alternative this could be for the costly Biometric Analyzers used at large public events!

How about a new Where’s Waldo? lawn game, with a mail-in certificate for your child’s very first set of bees? Great for cookouts and Family Gatherings!

And maybe they could find Bin Laden.