1) To wallow in self-defeat is to more precisely define oneís scant chances of success. As Clint Eastwood once put it, a manís got to know his limitations.
2) To enhance those slim odds of success, strive to be pure as the driven slush. Stagger around your house buck naked with a bottle of Jack Daniels in your hand.
3) Just because youíve made your bed doesnít mean you have to lie in it. You could just pass out on the couch instead. Itíll still be made in the morning.
4) Itís always best not to wonder how your galís panties wound up on your sonís bedroom floor. Just let it go.
5) The squeaky wheel gets replaced pronto. Everyone hates a complainer just as they do perky people persons and those who draw those inane quotations marks with their fingers.
6) Nothing ventured, nothing ventured. At least in theory, you havenít lost any ground. By way of example, consider that the US government dropped $20 million promoting its latest dollar coin. Have you seen any in circulation?
7) Seek out those on the rebound for cheap and easy sex.
8) Men are driven by an overriding desire to expand their sphere of influence. Meanwhile, women are effortlessly expanding their sphere of influence.
9) Just as shopping, clothes-sharing and shoe-hoarding are uniquely feminine traits. And rest assured, hot chicks would never mud-wrestle over anything let alone cheap American beer. Show me a gal who mud-wrestles and Iíll show you one who knows her way around a truck stop.
10) Practice safe sex sporadically.
11) Preach to the choir.
12) The race is always to the swift. Thatís why thereís no point in running a marathon with Kenyans.
13) Yet there is inherent value in self-delusion. It has the capacity to change such a crushingly depressing reality into a minor annoyance, a vast improvement.
14) Donít follow leaders. Watch your parking meters.
15) When in Rome, do as the Romanians do.
16) Merrily burn your bridges as you go. You wonít be coming back this way, thatís for sure.
17) When you wake up in the middle of the night with a raging hard-on or dampened pussy, donít expect your partner to snap to attention. See that thing at the end of your arm? Use it. If youíre a girl it might even garner his attention. (Doesnít work so well for guys.)
18) Exact revenge. Wage private vendettas. Harbor grudges.
19) For your bitterness is merely confirmation of how unfairly youíve been treated by The System.
20) Adopt ďWhat would Donald Trump do?Ē as your guiding principle.
21) When faced with unspeakable malice, turn the other butt cheek.
22) Always check for dick, especially when dealing with deceptive dwarves.
23) Live in the moment but pick the right moment. Date with an oral surgeon: wrong moment. Detecting dick on a deceptive dwarf: worse moment.
24) Yeah itís about how you play the game alright. If you play well, you win. Otherwise youíre a loser.
25) Place head firmly between legs and kiss your ass goodbye.
I had to go to the hospital last week because it was discovered that I had - drum roll please - congestive heart failure. Yes, that's right. CHF at 35. You really have to try hard to get this at my age.
It is a big, bad thing to have happen, but I should make it through Turkey Day. Thank God my mom doesn't even know how to use salt in her cooking. This should allow me to participate in my favorite holiday at least one more time.
I am not on the brink of death as of this moment. After three days of pissing in the hospital, a slew of tests and getting me a CPAP machine to correct my sleep apnea, it was deternined that I have no permanent damage so far, but I definitely need to take steps to correct this condition. I am indeed lucky that I still have the opportunity to correct it. I was or am down to 25 percent cardiac efficiency, the average person works at 60 percent. I had about 12 liters of water (20 pounds in all) around my heart, in my lungs and in my legs. I was short of breath for a couple of weeks and had one misdiagnosis of bronchitis before my regular doc took an X-ray and saw that my heart was enlarged.
I did largely bring this on myself by being hugely overweight. However, one of the primary culprits behind my weight gain, diabetes and now CHF is that damn sleep apnea. I had a sleep study several months ago and never got the results until was in the hospital 7 months later with a condition that the CPAP machine could have prevented. Yes, I'm pissed. I was under the impression that nothing was wrong and that if it was, the nurse would call me to tell me and schedule another session. Turns out that in the nearly 7 hours I 'slept' during the test, I actually slept 4. I stopped breathing 4 times. I woke up every 2 minutes. I had a limb movement every 45 seconds and basically got no quality sleep. This has been going on since I was at least 18, which means that everything taken into account, my heart got tired of carrying the weight of four people (8 midgets) and working even harder when I was asleep than when I was awake.
The CPAP machine keeps my throat open at night so I can reverse the massive damage that snoring does to my heart and lungs. This will improve oxygenation and energy. The difference is already astounding. Hopefully this will give me some good nights of sleep, increased energy and the will to exercise so I can drop some serious poundage and become the sex machine I was always meant to be.
What gets me most of all is how much self loathing seems to have played into all of this. Kurt Vonnegut once said that he smoked because he didn't have the guts to kill himself quickly. I guess that is the way I feel about dairy products. I swear if it has the word cheese in it, I'm all over it. Cream cheese, cottage cheese, E-Z Cheese, bleu, brie, cheddar, muenster etc.
Fast food is also my bane. Tacos, burgers, pizza and fries. Egg McMuffins, breakfast burritos and hash browns. My favorite place to eat is the car.
I was never hot on sweets though and that's a good thing. Now I have to give up salt. You'd be surprised how much salt you actually eat. Fast food, canned veggies, canned soup, dill pickles, chips. It's crazy. A can of clam chowder has 1800 mg of sodium in it. That is about half the sodium a healthy person should eat in a day.
When all is said in done, people tell me I've been lucky to get this warning, a red flag as it were. I don't know, I feel fucked. Good and fucked. I'm looking for loopholes in the diet. I'm dreading exercise, but hope the CPAP will give me a new lease. God knows, I need a new lease.
A funny thing happened to me on the way to my computer. Actually, several funny things happened. Allow me to elaborate.
I had a girlfriend in the 6th grade named Cindy. I wrote our names in wet concrete, where they remain etched to this day; just as the memories Iím about to impart are in my mind. I also had a best friend named Paul who was quite the ladyís man even at that tender age. Three years later he was sleeping over at my house. Late at night a knock came at the door (I had two bedrooms, one of which opened to the outdoors.) Imagine our surprise to find Cindy and her friend Dana, drunk and giggling. They came in from the cold and it soon became apparent that Cindy had designs on Paul. They retired to bedroom #2.
Much moaning emanated from back there. I naturally assumed that I was expected to pair off with Dana. Wrong. She informed me that she too wanted to lose her virginity to Paul, who was in Muslim heaven. Thus deflowered, Cindy came out looking all disheveled and Dana took her place. Itís hard to imagine a more awkward moment than sitting there in silence with my grade school girlfriend as those same sounds wafted through the paper-thin walls. ďSo how was it,Ē I muttered at last. She just smiled.
Roger paid a visit to Todd, another ladies man of some local renown. The deal at Toddís house was you had to go around back and knock on his bedroom window. He had no phone so you couldnít call ahead. Roger follows the protocol. Imagine his surprise to peer through the window at Todd splayed across his waterbed with Bob kneeling behind him. Now Bob is twice the size of Todd so it looks pretty comical to watch them boo-foo. Eventually Roger raps on the window and amazingly Todd lets him in. After their transaction was completed, Roger goes, ďYou know I saw what you two were doing.Ē Todd vehemently denies it and Roger is like, dude I saw it with my own two eyes. Bob balls up his fist and warns Roger that heíd better not tell anyone about this. So of course the first thing he does is come over to my house and tell me all about in vivid detail.
In high school biology class, Roger, Billy and I were slouched at the lab table in the back of the classroom. We were all high as dental patients. The teacher placed a small rodent skull on the table and instructed us to draw detailed sketches of it. None of us obliged. After a while Billy raised his fist and pulverized the skull. It shattered into several sharp shards, one of which cut his hand. Blood was gushing from the wound. The teacher comes back and says, ďBilly, would you mind telling us what just happened here?Ē Deadpan, Billy says, ďI donít know. I was just looking at the damn thing and it broke.Ē Blood trickled onto the floor. Much laughter erupted. We never saw Billy again.
Rogerís dad hired me to work on his paint crew. Part of my job was to secure the ladders to the truck. One day I failed to do so. You havenít lived until youíve seen how commuters react when a 30 foot extension ladder comes careening onto a six lane highway. And it was a bitch to retrieve it.
Riding back from Tijuana late one night, I got pulled over by the San Diego police. A girl was asleep on my lap. The siren woke her up so her head rose above the seat level just as the officer approached the rental car. He peers at her sleepy ass and says, ďI didnít see her. I guess that explains why you were weaving.Ē Now I am 3000 miles from home and in no mood to tangle with the police. She gets all indignant and shoots back, ďWhat are you implying?Ē He laughs and replies, ďWell, ma-am, you head was buried in his lap. He was weaving all over the road. What else would I think?Ē She launches into this long tirade, the gist of which was that not only was he gravely mistaken, but she has never given head in her life. She considers it demeaning. She was telling the truth. He writes me a ticket for ďlane-straddling.Ē
Months later my company asked for a copy of my driving record. I obtain one and lo and behold, thereís the California ticket. Only it says I was charged with ďdriving on the sidewalk.Ē Since I had a company car, that obviously wouldnít do. I contacted the DMV and insisted that they correct the error. They did, but in the process wiped out two solid pages of serious infractions. I got to keep my company car, which later caught on fire due to lack of oil. I totaled the replacement on the way back from dealership. The company was not amused.
So now you know.
When you read the early entries on this or any other longstanding web log, you get a sense that there was something daring and novel going on. You could tell the writers felt that the possibilities online were limitless. The Internet was going to be our Mecca, where cyber-pilgrims would flock for a plethora of high-minded reasons. As with the microwave oven and washing machines before that, it was going to revolutionize the world.
Obviously, it didnít, anymore than this brand spanking new millennium seems any different that its dreary predecessor. All those venture capital-funded sites went belly-up for lack of interest, leaving investors high and dry. I have read that over a trillion dollars was lost when the dot-com bubble burst, as anyone with any sense had to know it would. Allah only knows where it went. Not into my account, thatís for sure.
The sad-sack Internet weíre left with is a swirling cesspool teeming with inescapable porn sites, prescription drug hustlers, information highwaymen, al Qaeda scum, knee-jerk advocacy, celebrity shrines and crooked casinos. Yet people fritter away hours online, searching high and low for naked pictures of Private Jessica Lynch, video of Paris Hilton proving why top flight porn actresses are paid so well or Tommy Lee giving Pam Anderson a collagen injection. They stock up on placebos from sham pharmacies. They get their identities pilfered as if TVs during the Rodney King riots. Al Qaeda shill al-Jazeera continues to spout its hateful missives. Traditionalist gadfly Bill OíReillyís site conducts polls purported to show that---surprise, surprise---Americans hold traditional views. Pouty tennis bust Anna Kournikova becomes the worldís most downloaded athlete ever. Itís just a matter of time until a racy video of her and Julio Iglesias turns up. Gambling addicts allow casinos to suck up their life savings as surely as Ms. Anderson lapped up Mr. Leeís jism.
Now you donít suppose these sleazy offshore operators might detect what bets have been placed and ensure that another number comes up? If not youíd probably drop your kid off for a sleepover at Neverland Ranch. And heaven forbid you should win some money and have the audacity to cash out. The casinos want your firstborn son before theyíll release any funds.
Indeed, just such a smut-search might have led you to this post. Itís not for nothing that that wily hit-whore MG mentions the slut-socialite Paris Hilton in his tagline, no?
Itís amazing how pervasive the porn has gotten anymore. Once I was on a perfectly legit site at work. I must have clicked the wrong link because out of nowhere this sultry, suggestive voice cooed, ďIf youíd like to video-chat with me, click here.Ē Just then my boss sauntered by, naturally. Bah!
And of course our inboxes are all inundated with emails from ďsexy coedsĒ i.e. decrepit old hags who invite you to appraise them in their ďg-stingsĒ i.e. crusty bloomers via grainy web-cam.
Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is this: Show us some sites that serve a real societal purpose, like Mr. Blankís German orgasm sound site. Or at least sites that are worthwhile if only as a curiosity, such as the ever elusive ClubRecluse.com (where, incidentally, I sent my $19.95 for membership materials that never arrived) or this or that.
Oooohhh yeah. You got it, baby.
Put it here. NoÖokÖright there. Yeah, there. Up a little, uh hunnhh. Better just go right in my mouth.
I just ate a barbeque chicken, panini fried sandwich. Full of grease and cheese and chicken. My stomach has a HUGE erection right now. That was like gastro-intestinal porn.
I ran out with an agenda, and came back with grease marks. Typical.
Today, like any other day recently, I went looking for this cute little art store girl, to see where she was eating. Iíve run into her before at the pizza joint, and the local rah-rah, shi-shi cafť. I checked both today. Nothingís doing. I barely consider this stalking. Iíve checked with my P.O., and he said it probably wouldnít send me back to jail. Thatís pretty re-assuring all told, but when I really stop to think about it, going to jail right now might not be so bad..... what with all of the larger, more virile inmates mostly fretting over making time with Michael Jackson in a few months. Hell I might even take a whack.
You finished yet? Mmmmhhh yeah, I liked that too.
Ok, wipe up and go back to whatever you were doing.
I am not a very good person. No, that isn’t exactly true. I’m a pretty okay person, all things considered. I’m just not a very good friend.
I can hardly explain why, but I’ve got this inability to maintain relationships with people. The greatest friends in all my life, unless they make the (considerable) effort to keep in contact with, I let drift away until its gotten to the point I haven’t spoken to someone for six months. Someone I’ve loved (in many different ways) for as long as I can remember. People who’ve played such an important role in making me the person I am. These are people who’ve laughed at me, with me, and because of me. These are all people who all deserve to have a better friend than I am to them.
I’m not sure why this is and it drives me crazy. While I think about these people every day, wonder how they are, if they are happy, and if they might miss, I’m so socially inept, and so unwilling to accept the consequences for my inaction, that I’d almost rather never speak to these people again than to face the withering reproach that I’ll see in their eyes (or hear in their voice) even if it isn’t there.
As any mother can attest, guilt is a powerful weapon, in this case it is a stun ray that stops me from picking up a phone, writing an email, or stopping by to say “Hi.”
But, I’m finally reaching a point in my life when all the friends I’ve made will far outnumber all the friends I will make. If I can’t hold on, if I don’t make the effort, I will surely be alone. And I don’t think I like alone. I’m pretty sure I hate alone. So, it’s time to take responsibility. It’s time to make effort, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me feel. It’s time to start being an adult. It’s time to start being a friend.
In my neck of the continent winter has now hit. As I look out my window I see new snow, with my little city having accumulated a couple of inches this morning. Overall there has been a few inches of snow over the last few weeks, with the cold having settled in shortly before Halloween, and staying more or less until now. Over that time we've had a few days above freezing, but most have been between 10 to 20 degrees below freezing.
Obviously I live in a place where winter comes. And of course when winter comes I have the urge to get out and try and break some of my bones on the slopes.
With that I've been watching the snow conditions at my favorite resort, Sunshine Village in Banff National Park.
And they look good. 31.5 inches of snow in the past 6 days and 36.6 inches of settled snow. Very nice for early season conditions when more than half the resorts aren't even open yet. With all this snow I've been trying to find time to make that drive. The drive is only about 2 to 2 1/2 hours for me.
Of course I do have some prep first. I have to get my snowboard into the shop to get tuned up, (edges done, and waxed). And I still have to get my Boarding wear out and checked.
I am planning on going to Sunshine at least 3 times this year as I have a savings card that makes it quite affordable. Of course the savings only kick in once you've gone 3 times. If you only go once it's not really worth it.
I'm also hoping to make it to Fernie, and maybe Kimberley this year as well. We'll see how the vacation days and the savings hold out. Of course if I actually do break anything during any one of these excursions, that would more or less end the diversion for some period at least...
The snowboarding here is one of the few things that keep me from having year round envy of those that live in milder climates than I was fortunate enough to have been born in.
Don't worry, when I have made it to the Mountain I'll have a photo entry that should peak some interest...
I'm a little worried about my son. He'll be turning 14 and you know what that means:girls. I worry that he won't develop an interest soon enough and run the risk of being branded as gay by cruel classmates. I worry that he'll develop an interest before he's ready. Those initial flirtations can be so painfully awkward.
Hark back to your earliest fumbling semi-sexual encounters. Maybe you were shooting hoops when some wild women from across the tracks beckoned you into the woods. Perhaps they insisted on protection you didn't have. It's possible you said you'd run to the drugstore but by then the mood had passed. Or maybe you tried to hook up with a best friend's lover but he/she popped up at the worst possible moment.
I wouldn't be surprised if there was lots of moaning and panting in the back of an Olds Cutlass. Willingness to spare, yet precious little knowhow when it came to the logistics involved.
Maybe someone had their period but suggested there were...other things that could be done, but you were too naive to know what they meant. Or maybe that was you with the period, but you were worried about seeming too forward. Either way it was an awkward situation to say the least.
Some frenzied dry-humping skeletons in your closet, perchance? Or possibly some fumbling with bra latches or zippers? Or did a partner swipe your wallet in the throes of passion?
As things progressed to another level, it's likely things got worse long before they got any better. Perhaps you thanked someone inappropriately for certain favors they bestowed upon you. Or maybe, against your better judgment, you coaxed a friend of the opposite sex into doing something you just knew would forever poison your friendship. And sure enough it did.
You might have read a Cosmo article that espoused talking dirty but when you tried to put that advice into action it came out sounding all forced. Or possibly a partner fell asleep despite your frenetic ministrations. Or was that you that passed out? Either way it was an embarrassing moment best forgotten.
Maybe you were involved in a torrid love triangle involving two jealous brothers or sisters. Or else you turned in what you thought was a Meg Ryan-like fake orgasm but it rang about as true as Val Kilmer portraying Jim Morrison. Who knows, perhaps you even found yourself attracted to a newly introduced second cousin but it just felt too icky to consummate. Hell, perhaps your dad set you up with his mistress's daughter and she mentioned it at the wrong moment.
It's like smoking. The first couple times you try it you get all nauseous and cough uncontrollably. But if you keep it up you're soon puffing away like an accomplished pro. Your confidence builds, your technique improves and your repertoire expands. Partners start paying you complements about your prowess. They are humoring you, trust me.
I can't help but wonder if Paris Hilton has viewed that infamous tape of her and that former beau knocking boots. If so, I bet she didn't give herself a very favorable review. I do know I saw her sister Nicky on TV admonishing young lasses not to allow themselves to be filmed in the act;and for good reason, I might add.
Sorry, no links here.
The US Congress is batting around the idea of a constitutional amendment to supersede state laws permitting gay marriages. Just like in that old Seinfeld episode they'll point out that there's nothing wrong with being gay and then proceed to say something derogatory or hurtful to those who choose that lifestyle. They'll also claim to be rushing to the defense of Holy Matrimony. This argument assumes matrimony needs defending. I've been married 15 years and I'm hear to tell you that if every gay alive tied the knot today it wouldn't threaten my or any other marriage one iota. It's homophobic bullshit, plain and simple.
Furthermore, there are myriad arguments in favor of permitting if not encouraging this practice. Gays want access to partners' health insurance, tax breaks and whatnot. But much of that is a chimera. Most gays hold separate jobs i.e. there aren't many stay-at-home gays. And if there were, most large companies already extend health coverage to "domestic partners." As for tax breaks, I'm always hearing about the so-called "marriage penalty." Still, there's no reason to deny anyone these supposed benefits. (But might I suggest that we come up with a better term than "domestic partner" or "significant other." God I hate those designations.)
Society benefits from gay monogamy by way of less AIDS transmission and a higher likelihood that gays will pool their resources to purchase homes. Most of the US tax code is designed to promote home ownership. And certainly we don't want a return to 80s-style bathhouse bacchanals. Case closed.
But as usual with me, there's a rub. Above you'll find a perfectly logical case made for my position. I'm good that way. A moralist could try to debate me and I'd welcome the opportunity to shred his half-baked reasoning. Yet our gut reaction to visceral stimuli is a different animal altogether. Show me a death penalty proponent who doesn't recoil at the images on botched execution sites and I'll show you a callous a-hole.
What I'm getting at is this: I am not comfortable with public displays of gay affection. It doesn't revolt me, that's way too strong a term. I just feel awkward viewing it. I just wish they wouldn't do it in front of me and honestly, I don't know why. Then again, I myself don't care for PDAs of any sort. I don't like it when hetero couples progress beyond a peck and a hug in my view either. Even the Madonna/Britney lip-lock left me cold, wondering if the Material Hag's breath stunk. As a Swede, I guess I'm a "get a room" kind of guy.
When you take it a step further, it gets even trickier. Who hasn't walked in on a couple going at it? Sure it's embarrassing, but there's an element of voyeuristic fun there too (unless it's your parents---EW!) I myself have never chanced across a gay couple in the act, male or female, but I doubt I'd like it. It's a crying shame we can't force our reactions to certain sights conform to what we know is true---that this is just a natural expression of their love (unless it's Michael Jackson-style action---yuk!)
I realize that scads of guys would disagree when it comes to lipstick lesbians playing Bedroom Twister. Hell, for all I know gals relish seeing guys have at one another.
I have something to admit. Some deep dark secret that has haunted me for years, that I have kept buried deep down inside me, that I have not revealed to anyone, but will now expose to a group of people, most of whom I have never, and will probably never, meet.
This untold secret is that, as a young child, I was molested by Michael Jackson. Well, at least someone named Michael touched me on my no-no spot. And still does so up to, and including, this very morning.
Is anyone surprised that M.J. is being charged with kid touching? Does anyone think he’ll actually spend a day in jail? The question that bugs me is whether he is a kid toucher because he is crazy, or has his craziness always been a diabolical plan to get off, if ever does actually get indicted for the kid touching? Because, seriously, will any jury in the world, looking at that distorted Joker face of his be able to decide that M.J. is sane and able to be held responsible for his actions?
Say what you will about the guy, he had one messed up childhood. During his interview earlier this year Michael spoke about how his dad beat him, and that every time he sees him now, he gets nauseas. Joe Jackson’s response was that he didn’t beat him, he only whipped him with a belt. Hitting him with a stick would have been beating him.
Lets ignore that fact that there is never a reason to beat, I mean whip, a kid. But if that kid is generating millions of dollars a year for the family on his young talent, there should be no transgression great enough to warrant a beating, I mean whipping.
Joe: “Did you brush your teeth?”
Young Michael: “No, but here is $100. Now lets forget this whole thing.”
The point is, I think pedophilia is just about the worst crime imaginable. But there really isn’t going to be justice in this case, because will anyone feel better seeing Jackson do jail time? Or doling out another $12 million to the kid’s family? And even if M.J. spends five days a week, 8 hours a day in therapy, I don’t think there is anyway this guy’s psyche will ever be repaired, much less his face.
To complement homophobia, misogyny, and that whole thing with his mom, rapper Eminem can now add charges of racism to his press bio. The chargers stem from a recording Eminem made back in 1993 (or 1988, depending on who you ask) that has him rapping lyrics like "Blacks and whites they sometimes mix / but black girls only want your money cause they're dumb chicks," and "Black girls are dumb, and white girls are good chicks." I’ve heard the tape in question, and if I were Eminem I’d admit that I was racist before I’d admit that the weak rapper on the tape was me. But, he did admit it. That it was him, not the racist bit.
Eminem admits the tape is him, but that he wrote the lyrics after having broken up with a (black) girlfriend. He was just a kid when he wrote the lyrics, and haven't we all dated a black chick, broken up with her, and then made sweeping generalizations about the entire black race? No, me neither.
What strikes me as most unusual is that Eminem has threatened to kill his ex-wife on numerous songs written in the decade since the black chicks tape was recorded. Perhaps if he’d threatened to put the (black) ex-girlfriend in the trunk of a car and then driven of a bridge, everything would be okay. I’d think calling someone “dumb” would hardly have the same weight as threatening murder, but hey, I also liked Clear Coke.
The racism chargers were leveled at a press conference thrown by Raymond Scott, an owner of Source magazine. Scott, who’s called Eminem the “rap Hitler” has been in a feud with the rapper for a number of years. Scott accuses him of stealing black culture, and mentioned in the press conference that even if Em doesn’t believe that black girls are dumb now, since he rapped about more than a decade ago as a teenager, he must still believe it.
Scott also said, and I’m not making this up, that “we've got to treat this the same way we treated Mike Tyson, Kobe Bryant, O. J. Simpson.” Okay, let me get this straight now because I must be confused, Tyson is a convicted rapist, Kobe is an accused rapist, and Simpson is an accused double-murderer. Eminem should be treated the same way these guys were treated?
All right then, Tyson served an incredibly reduced sentence and is still allowed to earn $20 million per fight in sit in the front row at the World Series without getting pelted with beers by every guy with a sister or mom. Kobe will most likely get off on his rape charge, and is still playing every night and will receive (around) $12 million this year. Kobe will also receive almost $2 million from Nike, despite having been fired for being an accused rapist. And seriously, let’s not even talk about how well O.J. is treated.
So, using this logic, since all Eminem did was write a stupid (a really stupid) song, and these other guys were (accused) criminals, that should mean that if we treat him the same way, Eminem’s next album should sell 50 million copies, and will be voted the next governor of Michigan. Maybe Em is racist, but to use two rapists and a wife-murderer as your examples of black guys who have been treated unfairly is as stupid as Em’s lyrics.
Forgetting what this says about race relations, pop culture, or our modern society, the real lesson to be learned by this is that you should never give up on your dreams, because if Eminem, as bad a rapper he was when this “Black Girls” song was recorded, he is now the biggest selling hip-hop artist of all time. If that poor kid who got dumped by a black girl and then threw up backstage before heading home to watch his mom Kim Bassinger getting tea-bagged by one of his high school classmates, is now so popular he can bang Brittany Murphy, hang out with Elton John and beat up hand puppets with impunity, then there is hope for all of us. Live your dream.
Now that they're all either dead or marginalized, the Beatles have released a new album. Tackily titled Let It Be...Naked, it's a remake of the original stripped of all the lush production values provided by Phil Spector. Maybe Paul McCartney sought to distance the band from Spector due to to those murder allegations, I don't know. But I do own the new version and I'm listening to it now. It rocks.
I remember when they released the original in 1970. Although never a big fan, it had a tremendous impact on me. The year was 1970. I was 11 and coming into adolescence. All that hippy-dippy idealism of the 60s had given way to bitterness, acrimony and mistrust. We of that generation inherited our older siblings' affinity for drug abuse and promiscuity (no desirable virgin graduated from my high school and everybody got high.) But we had no use for all that peace, love and understanding business. We didn't stage sit-ins or march for civil rights. We just nodded out like Chinamen in an opium den. We grew more jaded with each passing year.
Against this mordant backdrop the Fab Four released their contemplative classic. It had two centerpiece tunes, McCartney's title track and John Lennon's Across the Universe, with its oft-repeated refrain, "Nothing's gonna change my world." They both resonated with cautious hopefulness.
Yet both songs spoke volumes about the prevailing mood, which wasn't good. Both foreshadowed the coming retreat into isolation and coccooning. The lads appeared to be saying, hey, there's nothing anyone can do about all this upheaval so why not kick back and enjoy the ride? Why not dwell in your own private Idaho, where nothing's gonna change your world? That's what we did, for longer than I'd care to recall.
My sister had a boyfriend back then. Mark had a yellow Chevy Impala. They'd tear down narrow country roads at breakneck speeds with me in the back amid 600 empty beer cans. The only song he'd ever play was Across the Universe. He'd sing along so loud that it drowned out Lennon's musings. But he'd sing, "Nothing's gonna change my mind" and it pissed me off. It irked me more than the fact that he harmonized worse than Yoko Ono or Linda McCartney.
25 years later he barged back into our lives and married my sister. That was the first thing that popped into my head. It's funny the things you remember, like the time he Marv Alberted my wife on her ass.
Now there's a new song that speaks to me just as forcefully about these times, crawling as they are with terrorists, stalkers and serial killers. It's called The Remedy and it attempts to make some sense of our culture of fear and loathing post-Sept 11. Three lines jump out at me: "The real tragedy is that you're going to spend the rest of your life with the light on." "I won't worry my life away." And: "When it all amounts to nothing in the end."
To me that hits the nail on the head. Screw the Threat Matrix, what can we do about any of that? While you're at it, screw The Matrix, Matrix: Reloaded and Matrix Revolutions too. For it all amounts to nothing in the end, and nothing's gonna change my mind about that.
Police on Friday removed the corpse of a man believed to have hanged himself at least a year ago after builders and students at Budapest's University of Arts had initially mistaken it for a modern sculpture.
The body hung for a whole day in a garden building that had been re-opened for repairs before onlookers realized what it was and called the police, local media said.
"I thought it was some sort of mini, mini-retrospective," commented Depa Vastri, between sobs. "I mean, the first thing to strike you is the diversity of scale, the signature style emulating the American 1980s stock market; it was almost whimsical; I was going to do a sketch of it."
"I pointed the artistís pre-occupation with gesture out to my roomate," said a pale, waxen-faced Raje Singh, a graduate art student. "It seemed rather static, but we attributed that to the materials," he added. "We were amazed what we thought the artist had done -- it holds up as a marvelously concise, dashed-off bit -- like a Chinese character rendering."
"When you first approach it, the piece is very symmetrical. But try a side view look and notice how quickly the symmetry disappears," lectured a shaking Professor of second-year Theory. "Next, think about walking underneath it, which is intimidating in the same way a Richard Serra sculpture is. With impossibly large and heavy utilitarian materials the creator successfully achieved a sensibility that also comes off as light and airy. I --" The professor then broke off to race into a cluster of discarded easels from which only dry retching noises could be heard.
Ok, I have officially lost my fucking mind. Why? Iím not even sure I can explain but Iíll try.
Amy and I have been going out for about seven months now and Iím still convinced that she is the woman for me. I have no doubts but I am finding things to be unhappy about. What is up with that? Let me be clearer. Amy has a somewhat promiscuous past, as do I, and I am struggling hard to find a place to put things she has told me about. We were, probably, a little too forthcoming about the details of our pasts to each other when we started hanging out. Neither of us knew that this would become what it has. Now that it has become something serious I wish I didnít know so much. I am having a tough time not thinking about her doing some of the things she did. Whatís even worse than that, I am being a damn hypocrite. I did the same things she did or worse in some respects and I am having trouble with her past? That is ridiculous. Itís the same old double standard that has existed forever. If men are with a lot of women theyíre studs. If women do the same theyíre sluts. I know all of this but I am still having problems with it. I think it stems from my past. I had a period where I didnít respect women at all. I had been hurt by one and that made all of them my enemies, in my screwed up mind. I did things that I am not proud of and the women that let me do these things received no respect from me. I donít want to think of Amy in that way. I donít want to think of her doing the same filthy things I did. Itís the truth though. She did. Arrrrrgh. I donít know why I canít just get past this shit. I love her and want to be with her as long as sheíll have me. I just need to figure out what to do with this information and put it away for good. God I hate myself sometimes. I should be bigger than all of this and she has done nothing to me that I should be thinking of these things anyway. Hell, I didnít even know her when she was running around. Itís probably a good thing. We wouldíve torn each other to pieces. I think it comes down to respect. I donít respect the things she did. But if she was just a friend I would be laughing it up with her and trading stories. Iím so completely fucking confused. Why in the hell canít I just be happy and not fuck things up for myself just this once? I just canít seem to turn off my brain. I have been unintentionally distant from her the last couple of days and she said something about it this morning. I told her I had some things on my mind to sort through and I didnít mean to let it affect her. Thatís true. I would like to bring this up to her but she is already dealing with her past and I donít want to add to the burden. I really just need to get over myself and let the past lie. This is not fair at all. Hereís how big of a freak I am being. Sheís been on Paxil for about two months now while sheís going through therapy for things that happened in her past. This drug has well documented sexual side affects such as losing sex drive and difficulty being able to climax. I know these things but I internalize these symptoms and turn it in to some inadequacy on my end. I know itís not true because everything was fine before she went on this medication. Itís all in my insane freakin brain. I also think ďI bet she didnít have these problems with any of the other guysĒ then I feel ashamed for thinking that way because it has nothing to do with anything. I feel like a damn Neanderthal but Iím just not sure what to do about it yet.
Me: So Osama, what makes you so sure your religion is so much better than others?
Osama: Allah is almighty. Mohammed was his chosen prophet. So martyrdom operations will-
Me: Oh shut up. I'm handling claims for people traumatized in your attack on the Pentagon. They were just trying to earn a living, something a rich scion of an influential family would know nothing about. What would you say the them?
Osama: This was legitimate military target. I declare war on all infidels in 1998. They should have guard it better.
Me: Good point. I've noticed that they've stationed antiaircraft batteries there, though it's a little late now. Have you any nasty pictures of America's Slutheart, Jessica Lynch?
Me: Need some?
Osama: Osama not go in for that sort of thing.
Me: Fair enough. The Saudis revoked your citizenship. They ran you out of Sudan. Then they ran you out of Afghanistan. Where you been hanging lately?
Osama: Still in Afghanistan, just dressed little differently.
Me: So where'd you find this Atta character?
Osama: In Egypt. His family is well-to-do and I know his father; did his mom a few times too. She beat, so I leave burqa on her.
Me: Atta mustn't have been too hard to find, what with that huge noggin and all.
Osama: Heh-heh. Osama get jokes.
Me:Let's talk about your 1st wife and baby-mom Sahiba, shall we?
Osama: That not on approved question list!
Me: She walked out on you, didn't she?
Osama: No, I throw her out. That bitch.
Me: She was livid when you dared to bring a sweet thing half your age into the fold.
Osama: There lots more of them out there. How do you say, plenty of fish in pond.
Osama: See what?
Me: No, sea. It's plenty of fish in the sea.
Me: Guess what. There's a $20 million bounty on your head.
Osama: I know. I listen to al-Jazeera. But who would me foolish enough to rat me out and bring wrath of Allah upon them?
Osama: What's that in your hand?
Me: A loaded 9 mm pistol.
Osama: I've been shot! Call Dr. Zawahiri at once.
Me: It's Donald Rumsfeld. He wants to talk to you.
Osama: I haven't got time for that. I need a doctor.
Me: I'm gonna put your head on a pike. *rips eyeball out and skull-fucks him to death*
Me: There. Now you look more like your one-eyed patsy Mullah Omar. How come there's no decent pics of him on the Net?
Me: Okay Donald, gimme your cell and I'll shoot you a pic of his dead ass. Now when should I expect my check?
Itís Thursday night and the worldís oldest person just died. Again.
Three times in the last three months, stories have circled the world and 'round again, reporting that the newest reigning, oldest person in the entire world has just kicked the bucket. Could it just be that now Iím getting older, and I'm paying more attention? Or is this a noticeable spike in worldy death occurances? I might also add, that this could possibly be the worst honor, ever given with good intentions, in the history of man.
ďCongratulations. Youíll be dead soon.Ē
When one Ďoldest living corpseí dies, thereís a new one lying in wait..... usually in a convalescent home, and sometimes in the very next bed. Itís not so much higher math as succession. Wheel in the next lucky cadaver, present him or her with a bejeweled golden belt to celebrate, and if they can lift it, Iím writing their name down on a little piece of paper torn off the back of my oily bus seat to Vegas, and laying some chips down on the ĎNext to Dieí table for my new sure thing. I take that back. Iíd probably split my betting vote between that person and this guy. I canít lose.
Not just confined to your centenarian Asians and what have you.... plenty of 'young', famous white-folk have bought the farm, pigs and all, in recent days. You know them well.
Johnny Cash? Dead. John Ritter? Dead. The term Ďthe johní from our lexicon? Dead as hobnails.
And not only are the coincidences appalling, but so are some of the images. The pics Iíve seen of some of the recently deceased, were shot when they were alive, but I couldnít tell. Some looked like theyíd been propped up, bones broken into smiles, rouged up like clown-whores, and left to the worms for a week or more. Itís here that I think I should make a plea to you all:
Should my heart still beat, and Iím having clear thoughts, and even if my diaperís not too spoiled.....if you see my nose wandering inward and my skin starts to smell of almonds, please someone end it for me. Then burn me up, and pour my ashes over something important. I donít want to die in vain, but donít let me live to rot. Call this a will.
Eventually all this got me to thinking.... am I gonna go out hog-tied by some cunning Bolivian revolutionaries in a wild kidnapping plot only to fight my way out of the Andes to death and glory, or could it be a flaming motorcycle, some asphalt slick with fallen leaves, and a truck hauling liquid oxygen? Or am I more on par for a used porcelain bed pan, some fusty Ďmeals on wheelsí substitute and countless years of counting the minutes Ďtil the clock runs low on double A's? I needed to know the answer, so I found out. You can too if you like. Itís a weight off.
And if youíre still mad about Robert Palmer pushing little daisies, donít be. He too, like MG and critter nasal porn, is just a click away.
They say a picture's worth a thousand words. That's a lot of words. Most pix are worth 2-300 words tops but that's neither here nor there. I'm here to talk about inner beauty again. To those who'd doubt it still exists in this jaded, youth-obsessed time, I'd submit: Rocker Bruce Springsteen jilted this to take up with her. They're happily married with kids. Tennis ace Andre Aggasi dumped this for marry this lady. They too are raising a family. Prince Charles preferred the frumpy Camilla to sleek Diana. But it's too frightening to even consider what those offspring might look like.
In purely physical terms, this is like abandoning a posh Manhattan penthouse to reside in a seedy tenement in Bed-Stuy.
My guess is these guys found their starter wives attractive but not so much so in the morning. Perhaps the princesses proved high maintenance, superficial or both. We do know that in two of these cases, there were shared interests. But for whatever the reason, all three felt more comfortable with homelier women.
The qualities that constitute inner beauty defy definition. But I don't think you'd get much argument that spunk, a touch of vulnerability, a warm smile and decent hygiene are definite pluses.
There was just such a girl in my high school. She was pint-sized like Linz, had stringy red hair, freckles and was perenially on crutches. Yet there are more candid shots of her than anyone else in my yearbook. All the guys came sniffing around her door but nobody ever scored with her. Maybe that was it, that aura of unavailability.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying beauty is in the eye of the beholder because it isn't. Poll a hundred people from disparate backgrounds and cultures and they'd all agree that this chick is attractive or at least doable. Yet to me, her allure is diminished by the knowledge that Charlie Sheen has done her. This cad kept Heidi Fleiss's brothel afloat by himself. His dick has been down more holes than the groundhog in Caddyshack.
It's like Elvis and Priscilla Presley. He banged her silly until Lisa Marie clawed her way out of mom's womb with that zombyish expression on her baby face. After that he wouldn't touch his wife unless it was a rape (per a TV movie I watched.) The King just didn't care for mothers.
Yet many people claim pregnant ladies exude a certain glow. Except when medical complications leave them bedridden, gals who are preggers walk around on cloud nine and it shows (no pun intended.)
I always laugh at those commercials that say, "women who are pregnant or who could become pregnant should not use this medication." Who does that exclude, aside from nuns, exclusive lesbians and gals who've undergone hysterectomies? And nuns or lesbians could conceivably become pregnant via rape or a drunken encounter with a dude.
Insert your own closing wittism here. Ideally it should relate to the original subject matter, unifying this whole meandering mess.
Or whatever. Never mind.
I’ve got this feeling that some time in the future I’m going to have serious back problems. The reason I have this feeling is because I occasionally, and much more frequently in the past several years, get these bouts of insane back spasms. I’m not really sure what brings on the pain, only that I know it recurs every once in a while, and I see no reason to believe that it wont continue to occur, and to continue to get worse.
The worst of bout came last summer (or crap, I suppose that was two years ago!) when I somehow managed to hurt myself, and then spent the next three days unable to get off the floor. I crawled to and from the bathroom, until I realized it’d be easier just to stay in the bathroom, which I did until I remembered that I didn’t have a TV in the bathroom, so went back to crawling to and fro.
It was almost a week before I was able to comfortably get up and walk around. Luckily, I didn’t have a job or any other responsibilities so I could lie on the floor for a week and not have it make any sort of difference in my life. Also, luckily at the time, my mom let me have some painkillers (Hydrocodone) and muscle relaxants (Baclofen). I never felt like they were making a difference, as far as reducing pain or relaxing muscles, but since I didn’t die, which I really thought I was going to (and for a couple minutes hoped I would) I suppose they must have helped me a little.
If it isn’t obvious, I’m currently suffering through a little bit of another spell of back pain, and I decided to try the meds again to see if they’d have any effect. Boy, have they had an effect.
I can honestly say that I’m about as high as I have been in five years. Being as that five years ago was the last time I got high, period, I suppose it makes sense that today I’m as high as I’ve been since then. Anyway, this time, and that time, make up two of the five top spots as far as the times when I’ve been the highest in my life.
The last time my roommates decided to make some cookies made with hash butter, which none of us had tried before, which is an important piece of information. Since we’d never tried them before, we didn’t know the proper dosage, or how long it would be before they’d take effect. We had two or three each, and after half an hour with no effect, we decided to eat a couple more. Not more than five minutes later, the first ones hit, and half an hour later, I was so far gone that I seem to remember being able to teleport from one location to another. I’m not much for drugs, smoking pot just makes me insanely paranoid, but I certainly have no problem with cookies.
I’m not sure what the point is, other than to say I’m feeling really good right now, and since I haven’t done drunken-blogging in a while, I thought I’d try stoned blogging.
note: inspired by Lajoie's post referring to the "indespensible" employee getting fired.
Over the past 2- 3 years my life has changed dramatically. I've went from being unhappy in private practice to being happy in Public service. I've also gone from happily married to unhappily married, to seperated to divorced to unhappily single, to happily single to happily involved.
In short my life has been a bit of a roller coaster. Through it all I've had one particular smug happily married buddy who seemed to smirk at my troubles through my time of need. Not my best friend by any measure. Well recently the tides have turned and I have seen him go through some interesting shit as well.
My buddy had the fortune a few years back, while attending university, of meeting a nice girl who seemed to come from a well off family. Nice, somewhat oveindulged by her parents, but otherwise real decent girl. My buddy, who had always been a bit of an ass with women, really seemed to hit it off with this girl.
I have to admit, I thought he was being a gold digger, but it appears that later events have proved me wrong.
Anyway, my buddy eventually married said girl, in a lavish ceremony paid by her parents (at least 20K, at least). And among their wedding gifts/ gifts given to "help them start out" was a new house, a new jeep, and a jaguar. Yep, a jag. My buddy took all this in stride, and seemed to have no problem accepting the gifts. Just his wife's parent's being generous with their money.
Oops, I guess it wasn't their money after all... her father got busted about two years into their marriage. He'd been stealing money from the bank he was a branch manager with. Millions. One of those schemes where a manager authorizes millions in demand loans to fictious people, and puts the money in accounts he controls. Of course since he's the manager, he never calls the loans, and he's off to the races. Leading a complete double life, with several women, several houses, and lots of expensive toys.
After the whole thing unravelled, and the authoriities got involved, my buddy found himself sued by the bank, and his house and vehicles seized. He and his wife were out on their asses, and obviously a little estranged from her parents. The saga continues as the lawsuit continues and the father-in-law's criminal troubles wind their way through the court system.
Personally I think its his bad karma catching up to him. I certainly thought it couldn't have happened to a more deserving person. Given his smugness and I told you soes when my marriage went down the crapper. But to his credit, his now poor wife is still his wife, and he's showing himself to be a stand up man for her in helping her deal with all of this.
Oh, in case you're wondering how this ties in with Lajoie's post... The father in law never took vacations. Never. He was at that bank day in and day out, making sure that nobody could question any of his funny loans when he wasn't around to answer the questions, and smooth things over. An indespensible employee who made himself dispensible...
Early on a stunning, cloud-threaded morning, thereís precious little as visually arresting as seeing the urban night-folk, just full of blood and ready for bed. We normals manage to get to sleep at night, and wake up fresh after dawn with the joie de vivre as they say, and all the potential of the new day as seen through dream crusted eyes. But thereís another element, local & seedier, that flips this tired schedule on its ear, and for good measure.... washes it down with a little Steel Reserve. Call it comfort food.
To put it in a way once overheard, ďNothing like a little 8am Ďthrow-me-downíĒ.
*opens can, guzzles*
By my estimation, itís only taken some of these sly lurkers an average of thirty years to undo 200,000 years of selective breeding against nocturnalism. Not yet completely removed from this world, apparently they still know a thing or two about applying pressure to fresh facial wounds. Yeah thatís right.
So this morning, I rounded my corner with a head full of steam and a laundry bag full of dirty articles, to get nearly wiped out by a fast moving, snake-bitten man. He had been in a fight (perhaps with a woman given all the scratches) and his caving nose looked like salsa. He was rushing on the perpendicular and we narrowly avoided direct contact or, as Iím even more wont to whisper.... fluid smearing. Iíd say that this was the dayís stiff shake from a dead nap, or the cold shower flushed upon you by unsuspecting others, except for that fact that things just got worse later on. Not with this un-homely figure mind you. Most of these encounters pass with little social interplay, and this one was no different, with nary a word exchanged to accompany our blanched gazes. No, this was truly the high point of what was originally a ripe and promising day.
Fast forward to Sunday afternoon.
Thereís usually an unfortunate lack of really powerful info that can toss you down, and slap the piss from your cheeks. And thatís mostly a good thing. So as I sat to tally the story above, certainly with different intentions in mind, I was made aware to a little job gossip. One of, if not THE most indispensable persons here at work, just got fired. This is scary news. I thought things were pretty hunky.... if not a little dory. Whatís worse, Iíve been noticeably less effective at doing my job over the last month, and thatís expected to continue for the next few. To explain, Iíve been putting a lot of my energies into applying to go back to school, and itís been eating into my hours at work a bit. As a result, everything sags. I had been counting on the additive effects of a cushion of goodwill I like to think Iíve built up working here for almost four years, the sympathy of bosses who know the real reason why Iím here at night and on weekends, and the fact that Iím something of a key drone on several projects here in the office, to save my job. But this throws all of that into the crapper. So this is my way of saying, from me to you dear readers, that if I disappear for a little while, one of two things has happened: I have either gotten shit-canned, and subsequently reacquainted with an irrepressible lech named Johnny Walker..... or I am busy-beeing my way into someoneís good graces and thusly another paycheck. For now, the latter is about as good as one can hope for, but I will say that having the creative license, and unavoidable excuse that unemployment provides to get drunk in the early afternoons, is a tempting prospect. Letís see now.... I should probably get back to doing something for the greater good, which in this case suddenly means ďmeĒ. Wish the greater good some luck.
So. If you read this, you must answer each question either true or false. No N/A allowed. Do these statements apply to you or not?
1) Who needs to douche?
2) The worst STD Iíve ever transmitted was a case of the crabs. Oh wait, is syphilis considered an STD?
3) I can always tell when my partners are faking orgasms. There are certain telltale signs you learn to spot after a while.
4) I absolutely did not lop off Nicole Brown Simpsonís head. That was O.J., dammit.
5) I'll only do anal with someone I know really, really well. Iíve known the first name of all my anal partners except one and I was plastered that time.
6) I would never steal painkillers from my dying dad unless I was really desperate, like jonesing.
7) Just because I attended every Lillith Fare, it doesnít necessarily mean Iím gay.
8) When I beat my SO senseless, I do it in such a way that the welts donít show.
9) I havenít abused any helpless elders...today.
10) I think Iím like, way smarter than George W. Bush. Iím certainly the better public speaker. Duh.
11) Iíve got principles. I will dance for no one.
12) I donít fantasize about hoochie-coochie mama Charo (or Fabio) so much anymore.
13) Iím glad my íhood is overrun with foreigners. Likewise, Iíve got nothing against mulattos.
14) Itís possible for one person to consume a 1.5 liter bottle of wine in an hour without peeing once. I would know.
15) Since I gave up Olestra, anal leakage is no longer a problem for me.
16) Nobody has ever caught me masturbating. I am so sneaky that way. Well, there was that one time but Iíve blotted that out of my memory. See #5, #6 and #14. (Rox, I hope you have too.)
17) I never forget a face Iíve slathered in my bodily fluids.
18) After I take a steamy dump, I donít dote on the toilet contents for long. And I wipe pretty thoroughly. There's something to be said for that.
19) I donít care for the taste of cum. Too salty.
20) Iím no stalker. Nosiree, no stalking for me. Really. I swear.
Coming Attraction: A Dead Serious Post from me about like, government policy or something.
Just when I was all prepared to hate Jessica Lynch, American hero, I heard some interesting comments about her rescue ... from her ... that changed my mind.
"There was no reason to film my rescue or to rescue me in such a dramatic fashion except to try and boost support for the war back home."
Apparently, Ms. Lynch doesn't even by the government's line of shit on her rescue. She doesn't claim to have been raped either. Meanwhile, this jerk-off movie about her heroic rescue is coming out this weekend and we are all supposed to sit around the god damn TV and weep about how fucking awesome she was to get captured and rescued when the Iraqi CIVILIANS who took care of her apparently did a hell of good job, treated her great and told us to come and get her.
It is against the law to use propaganda against the American public but apparently no one told ABC or the Bush administration. I resent it. Jessica Lynch resents it. The Iraqis who helped her, oh yeah, they resent it. It's sickening. It's obvious. And yet it seems that because it is so obvious Ė man it's the fucking elephant in the room Ė it's almost like magic that no one can notice it.
It's like this woman I knew who walked in on her husband actually fucking another woman. Rather than say "This isn't what it looks like!" or "Let me explain" or "OOPS!" he got up and said "What's wrong?" It floored her. I think she actually schismed at that point because half of the brain doesn't want to believe it is seeing what it is seeing and will actually make you think you are insane rather than believe a reality that shitty.
The Jessica Lynch rescue was such a blatant mindfuck that no one can believe it.
What she SHOULD do, is pose for Playboy, that would fuck everything up.
ABC has inked a deal with one Jessica Simpson. She will star in an upcoming sitcom. Now as far as I know, she isn't a professional actress. Unless I'm mistaken, she's one of many buff blonde Britney-style bimbo singers who emerged like maggots breeding on a rotting corpse as the 90s meandered to its desultory close. I couldn't name a single song she sung. Her show should be a smash hit.
In the last year she has proven that Homer isn't the only dimwitted Simpson. Her Chicken of the Sea gaffe has become the stuff of legend. She won't eat Buffalo wings because she doesn't eat buffalo. Or beefalo. Or what-ever.
If you hung her in your closet, it would be a waste of a perfectly good hanger.
She and husband Nick seemed prefectly comfortable with MTV camera crews trailing them around throughout their first year of wedded bliss. Both of them are famous for something or other, which means they're probably rich. So why would they subject themselves to this degradation?
The younger generation is oblivious to camera lenses because they've grown up under constant surveillance. They don't get all flustered and awkward when they realize a camera is trained on them. In day care, their images were broadcast over the Net so working mom could ensure that no one was fondling them. At gas stations and ATMs, a camera hovers overhead. There's a monitor so they can make funny faces and watch themselves. As they do so someone else in the line is transmitting their image via picture-phone. They know this, but they don't care.
In fact, today's youth will go out of its way to get others to peer at them in various stages of undress. Every day I get emails from self-described "hot coeds in g-strings." Seems they've finally got their web-cams up and running so they invite me to take a look. I don't, but somebody must.
Web-cams are set up in some of the damndest places. Hence you just never know when a herky-jerky image of you picking your nose or scratching your crotch might turn up on some Taiwanese boy's monitor. Just as you never know when the Girls Gone Wild crew might saunter up and offer to trade a skimpy tank top for a glimpse of your boobs. (Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and that GGN infomercial will be on. It's all about boob-flashing but when they finally persuade a gal to do it, that electric tape thing covers up their nipples. It's an exercise in self-defeat.)
It's not just the surveillance, of course. The goddamn Osbornes have been around long enough to wear out their already tenuous welcome. Liza Minelli and her beleaguered husband David were going to do the same thing. (Would that have been a show, or what? I would've paid good money to watch her kick his sissified ass.) We've watched bachelors and bachelorettes profess their undying ardor for one another in hot pursuit of nookie, cash prizes and most importantly, a shot at fleeting Survivor 16: Orlando-style fame. Is it over for Survivor, or what?
I find all this most unnerving. It's like The Truman Show come to life. Won't be long before some obscure cable station starts broadcasting 24-7 from the homes of average Joes and Jos like you and me. Hey look honey, Ezy's going to clean his gun again.
Their visit to the House of Anna would be a ratings catastrophe. Nothing ever happens here. We just exist for existence's sake. Every once in a while we'll cast a furtive glance out the window. There's a cat lounging in the yard. It is licking its paw without a care in the world, like Jessica Simpson. It's probably thinking about a can of chicken.
Somehow I get the feeling there will never be a made-for-TV movie called The Zeros. Why would anyone even bother?
I had a fantastic weekend a couple of weeks ago. I went down to my Dadís house and had forgotten how tranquil and therapeutic that area could be. The weather was nearly perfect and the leaves were beginning to turn. Amy and I went up on the Blue Ridge Parkway and, without a destination, just drove for miles. We stopped at overlooks, when we wanted, and just took in the beauty. I also got to spend some quality time with my Dad, sister, and an old friend. It was a very relaxing weekend and I feel great for having gone though I did notice one thing that bothered me quite a bit.
The area I am from hasnít, collectively, changed much from the racially charged sixties. There are more people and a bit more diversity but some people there still act like it is 1963 instead of 2003. I was in a restaurant and overheard a conversation going on beside us. I must have heard the word nigger ten times during the five minutes they were seated, until they left. I wanted to say something but didnít for some reason. I think the reason is that I am now an outsider. My father and friend, who were with me, have to live there. I donít. The funny thing was that my father and friend never even noticed it was going on. I know I would never hear anything even remotely similar come from either one of their mouths but it seems as though they have become impervious to hearing it. I canít really remember but I may have been the same at some point. I probably was. What I wanted to do is get up and ask those men how many of them had been to another country, in uniform, to protect our ideals. I have. I have also had some really good friends, who just happened to be black, watch my back in some dicey situations. I trusted those guys with my life and was never disappointed. They took care of me and I did the same for them. It makes you wonder if these people even watch TV. As important as patriotism is, where I am from, I canít see how you could miss that there are African Americans fighting and dying for our country every day. Itís on the news every night. Does that not matter at all? That aside itís hard for me to believe that, at this time in history, you could hold on to such an antiquated and thoroughly ignorant way of thinking. Yea, I know that you are a product of your environment but it isnít like you donít get any outside stimulus. They have to see the news and read the newspapers. Well, the literate do in any case. I donít think I was prepared for the anger this caused within me or how I feel about myself for not standing up and saying something. What if I wouldíve been with one of my black friends? Iím sure I wouldíve stood up then. Why would I be prepared to do it then but not in the circumstance I found myself in? Right is right isnít it? In my estimation I am no better than those asswipes. Letting that kind of ignorant thinking go unchallenged is part of what once tore our country apart. Granted, I am being a bit dramatic but it comes down to the same thing. When we let bigots, of both races, spread their poison unchecked and without challenge we arenít any better than they are.
I love where I am from. I like the people there. Itís so much different from where I live now. Back home there is a real sense of community and a kind of honor from stoic people who have endured and prospered in the mountains. Times arenít as tough there now but most of the people who populate that areaís families have been there for several generations. Life was hard there and the people had to rely on their neighbors and friends to make it. A side note for those who donít know, my town was chosen as the home for the national D-Day memorial. We lost more soldiers, per capita, than any other place in the United States. The stories about these men were as courageous as they were patriotic. Most died while rushing machine gun nests and trying to pull friends from harmís way. As proud as I am to be from there, I am also ashamed sometimes when I witness things like that. I am also ashamed at myself for having a voice and not using it. Iíll never let a comment or string of comments like that pass again without standing up for what I know is right. This sucks.
Over the last 3 years of working, first as a defence lawyer, and now as a prosecutor, Iíve learnt a number of interesting and useful things that I canít use. Mostly I canít use them because they are illegal, and Iím especially not allowed to do things that are illegal (as opposed to normal people), and some of them just havenít come up.
Some of these things are quite amusing though. Most speak to both the idiocy of criminals and their cleverness. The criminal network, as loose and informal as it is, does have a uncanny way of passing along information that is useful to other criminals, ... to those other criminals.
Then there are those things that just make me step back and ask... Is this person really from the same gene pool as me?
1. A particular car manufacturer is especially kind to their customers, and include a spare ignition key in a pocket in the owners manual. That same manufacturer doesnít seem to bother to let their customers know the key is there, although the criminal network does. Hence that brand of car is on the most stolen list.
2. You can get a brand new (somewhat hot) $60K truck for a gram and a half of cocaine. Provided the guy who has the truck is a coke addict of course.
3. The vast majority of vehicles stolen have the keys in the ignition. Many are idling (cold Canadian winters and all) when stolen.
4. If you brag to your cellmate about how many things that you did that you never got caught for, you may get a new cellmate. The new cellmate is almost certainly a police officer. Do not brag to your new cellmate.
5. Do not stick steak knifes down the front and back of your pants if youíre driving a stolen car. When you get in a chase with the police and end up crashing, you might cut yourself. In a place you donít want to cut yourself. Or two places.
6. Do not stand next to a guy that has a sawed off shotgun pointed at his chest. Barrels move. Shorter barrels move quicker than longer barrels. At least a 12 gauge to your chest usually kills you before you hit the ground. Not much pain that way.
7. The majority of ďescortsĒ are drug addicts. Its no safer ordering one out of the phone book than it is picking one up off the street corner.
8. Do not hold up a restaurant with a fake (plastic) gun. When the patrons catch up to you, you may be beaten senseless with said gun.
9. If youíre drunk and canít find any deer to shoot, leave the farmers cows alone. Shooting said cows will get you many months in jail. If you do feel the urge to shoot some cows, do it by yourself. If someone else is there, they might just get mad at you (see below).
10. If your 28 and dating a 16 year old, try not to get in drunken fight with her father (over shooting cows for instance). He will almost certainly turn you in to the police and sing like a canary. You may still be in jail when the baby is born.
As Effenheimer noted, people on blogs like to be worshipped. I’m certainly no exception, which is why I’m taking this opportunity to point out that the “ratings” here on BadSam had been in a bit of a slump over the past couple months. In fact, August and September were the two slowest months in more than a year.
On my “return” in early October, however, hits jumped more than 5,000 over the previous month. Comments have also increased noticeably, and while some of that can be attributed to me, personally, even I don’t visit the site enough to explain an average increase of more than 160 visits a day. So, yeah, worship me and stuff.
As you’ve probably noticed (or will shortly, when you scan down the page), there are a couple of new faces around here. Well, not new, but you know. There also might be one more added to the mix, and, of course, I’m always willing to try out new pieces for this puzzle (if interested, drop me an email).
Despite my huge ego, I can also give credit where credit is due. The people who write here are amazing. During my time “away” I didn’t read any weblogs but this one. Not because I felt like I had to (because I was paying for it, and if I’m anything at all it’s a cheap bastard), but because I enjoy reading about you people’s lives. In a very overcrowded community of blogs, I think the level of storytelling here is quite exceptional.
Speaking of exceptional, Eviltom ran (and completed) the New York City Marathon over the weekend. Please stand up in your cubicles and give him a nice round of applause for that. He finished in just under five hours. Which, now that I think of it, is about 40 minutes behind Puff Daddy’s time. It’s also close to 30 minutes behind Oprah Winfrey’s marathon time. In fact, Tom even finished behind most of the wheelchair division.
So, apparently I do still have some difficulty giving credit where credit is due.
In other news: due to the lackluster responses I get whenever I post (non-nude) photography, and my feeling the need to branch out a bit, I decided to start up a Photoblog over on my newly acquired experimentation domain. So, if you’d like, please point your browsers over to fotofon, thusly named because it’s all photographs taken with a cell phone. Duh.
Besides the obvious ones like Britney Spears racks and J. Lo butts, there are certain traits a guy might notice about a gal. Take that gap at the top of her legs, right under her 'taint. Not all gals have that but those who do sure get a thorough looking-over at the beach. Another is something I saw today, the ability to cross one's legs twice, once at thigh level and again down at the ankles. Truly amazing and eye-catching too, like pursed lips that never quite close.
Speaking of legs, some girls cross theirs and then start pumping the top one to and fro. I don't know if it's a nervous habit or a subtle form of stimulation or an overt attempt to attract attention but if it's the latter, it is working like a charm.
It's akin to that swiveling walk you see sometimes. It seems like it consumes an inordinate amount of energy to simply get from point A to point B. Given that, there must be another reason women cultivate such an exaggerated gait.
I'd submit that most married women don't strut that way. Their walk is more a means of ambulation than some tacky burlesque show. Then there are women who do strut but you wish they didn't, like majorly plus size broads in clingy frocks. Seeing that is like walking in on your parents---not an enticing sight.
A girl says, "Pass the catsup." She keeps her hands to herself. It hardly registers. A girl locks eyes with a guy and lightly touches his wrist and "Pass the catsup" turns into an erotically charged request. Likewise, I don't know who invented pantyhose but you can bet it wasn't a man. We've always preferred garters and nylons no matter what a hassle they may be to remove.
When it comes to alluring girl names, I think it's important that you include some characters other than letters. An accent mark or that two dot thing or even a hyphen will do in a pinch. Call it the Charlize Theron rule. (Add you own accent as I don't know how in MT.)
Lastly, gals who want to be hit on should eat hot dogs, ice cream cones or bananas and do so seductively. They shouldn't eat sensible salads. They should dance with each other. They shouldn't dance on tables. They should wear lipstick. They shouldn't wear t-shirts that read, "Fat chicks try harder in bed."
I had some stuff written up about guys but I'll leave that to y'all. All I will say is that guys on the make should not wear cologne.
Strong, heady language?
Exposure to freshly rendered tallow for the purposes of scarification?
Ritual ass-hammering with the Delta Tau Bad Sam paddle?
Jumping over flaming pots of donkey tripe?
Climbing a wicked long, gas-soaked rope?
So far Iím crossing whatís left of my fingers, hoping that I passed the initial (five) disquieting tests for bad samaritanism, and would like my nifty membership pin forwarded to a P.O. box in Provo, UtahÖ. perhaps somewhere near the old Greyhound bus station. As such, Iíd like to thank you all for the rigorous & ritualistic application of the above tasks, with a special thanks to you MG (who I can only assume was beneath the purple hood and faded robes). Iíd just like to take a moment to mention that your tender wielding of the thumbtack-riddled, wand of supplication didnít go unnoticed by me and your attention to detail bordered on.....flattering.
Iíve written a few select words about myself on that really long, Russian food line of an authorís page, if any of you feel the pressing urge to know me better. Iím located directly in between Linz & Jesus, and will try pretty hard to ignore the potential symbolism of that fact. On that note, Iíd like to add that I once bit a kid on the neck, have never had perfect attendance (though I came close one year), and that I can run pretty fast when screamed at. I drink more caffeine than any right thinking mammal ever should, and have been known to participate in the borrowing and re-use of items in the public way such as traffic cones, those porno leaflet bins, and the odd "for rent" advertisement. MG suggested that I show, and not tell though, so perhaps a story to kick things off would be in order...
I stole something today. It was neither of great value, nor importance, but my filthy hands jacked some ill-gotten fruit from the company fridge. It was a just a wee little fruit cup, and I almost ate the damn thing last week. I wouldnít panic if I were you though. What I did was a gesture of good will to my fellow workers, and will keep company productivity humming at itís usual fevered pace. You see, the fruit I speak of was clearly going bad. This I confirmed upon the first bite into the delicious, but fermenting, chunk of pineapple. The cantaloupe? A little tangy, but scrumptious all the same. The lone grape was as slimy as it was mouth watering. When I finished my treat, I looked around for passers by. There being none, I quietly opened the trash bin, and gently placed the vessel of my iniquity below some other stuff, so as not to alert the whole world to my crime. I really never do this...but today was more special than your average day. Today I became a man.
I look forward to posting with all of you in the future.
And I barely mean that in a Hugh Hefnerish kind of way.
I have now been given the privilege of upgrading my status from long time lurker and occasional commenter to Author. This immense privilege being the result of a request to MG by myself a couple of weeks ago.
MG suggested that I try and write a semi-introductory type of 1st post so that those people (and I would guess that would be the majority) who havenít noticed those comments where I reveal portions of my life, would have a sense of who I am.
So in that vein, here goes. I am a Lawyer, and have been for 3 years now. Iíve spent the last year and a half working as a Prosecutor, and I will likely spend the next 20+ years as a Prosecutor. Itís definitely my chosen vocation / calling. Besides, Iíve done the defence lawyer thing, and I definitely prefer my current side of the fence.
Iím also Canadian, so those of you with spelling fetishes may note the odd ďmisspellingĒ or extra letter here and there. Canadian English varies from US English from place to place, so donít rag on me too much, Ok?
The cases I prosecute vary greatly, and often leave me with interesting stupid criminal stories, and I expect I will share them from time to time.
Last week I had the pleasure of prosecuting one of the stupidest criminals that I have seen in awhile. Letís call him Joe Schmo. Joe is a fellow who is on permanent social assistance (welfare), because he is ďslowĒ and incapable of holding down a job. Well, apparently he got tired of living on $855 a month and decided to take a little road trip.
His first stop was a local gas station a few miles from his home. He parked in front, entered, produced a knife, and demanded money and his brand of cigarettes. The clerk produced same, and let him on his way. The clerk then phoned the police and told them that he had been robbed by Joe Schmo (giving his actual name to the police). The clerk knew Joe, as Joe had shopped at the store for years.
Joe then continued down the Highway to the next town and robs another convenience store at knifepoint, (for money and his brand of cigarettes, again) and this time parked right outside the store, where the clerk saw his car, and, since he was nice enough to park nice and close, and at the right angle, the clerk wrote down his license plate and passed that onto the Police as well as a description.
Joe was arrested about a half hour later, with all of the stolen money and cigarettes in his car. He pled guilty to both robberies. I almost felt sorry for him, almost. He got 3 years. He probably would have gotten less, but he did essentially the same thing about 6 years ago, and got 2 years then. I would guess I might see him another 6 years, when heís forgotten what prison is like (again).
He was much more pleasant to deal with than the multitude of drug addicts I deal with from day to day. But more on those people later Ö
Yesterday I was watching the Sunday morning news shows and began to wonder when did politics get so political? Why aren’t Bill Clinton and Gary Condit still in office, those guys sure new how to sex up the news. Current events have gotten so boring, what with the budgets, and issues, and elections, and blah blah blah.
What will it take to hold the attention of the American people these days? I mean, there are more car bombings in Baghdad each day than after a Detroit Pistons championship win, and no on seems to notice. And then I realized, America’s love affair with the Reality TV is a sure-fire way to get people to care about the news. Because, really, the Clinton impeachment was a $40 million immunity challenge, but even though Bill lost, he somehow managed to stay in office. That was one twist we never could have expected!
Speaking of Baghdad, the U.S. “plan” in Iraq, from all evidence, is not going nearly as well as, er, planned. Sure, the administration has always maintained that we’d be over there for a while, but, come on, didn’t we all expect, especially after the speed of the actual war, that we’d have a new government in place over there before there would ever be an Austrian B-Actor in place as governor over here? This seems the perfect timing for “Who Wants to be the Iraqi President.”
As disorganized as the U.S. government is, we all know how efficient Reality TV is at marrying people to millionaires, seeing who can outwit, outlast, and out survive, and, finding out what happens when people stop being polite, and start being real. Just looking at the track record of successfully marrying off bachelors and bachelorettes, it’s pretty obvious that Reality TV producers sure know how to make things happen, so why not give them a shot at picking the next Iraqi president? Throw a couple Shiites, Sunnis, Baaths, Kurds, and of course, the obligatory homosexual, into a house together, and whoever wins, without being assassinated, gets to be president.
I’m no TV producer myself, but I can imagine what some of the immunity challenges might be: who can divert the most money from humanitarian aid to numbered Swiss bank accounts, who can hide the most WMDs from U.N. weapon inspectors, who can torture losing Olympic athletes until they scream the loudest, and who can stone a woman, who accidentally showed her wrist, to death the quickest.
America’s love affair with Elizabeth Smart proves what I’ve known all along, Mormon girls are hot. But now that the rest of the country agrees, it seems like the perfect time for “Who Wants to Marry a Homeless Prophet?” Twenty adolescent girls will be kidnapped from their homes, and forced to compete for the affections of a homeless, abusive prophet. But, unlike other reality dating shows, where the idea is to whittle down the number of contestants until a perfect couple is achieved, since the show will be filmed in Utah, every single one of the girls on the show can be a winner!
The Yankees haven’t won a World Series in three whole years. Which means George Steinbrenner is likely fuming with anger, and there’ll be more heads rolling than on Derek Jeter bobblehead night. What a perfect chance for Survivor: The Bronx? One way or another, we’ll be seeing a lot of familiar faces stripped of their pinstripes come the start of next season, so what a better way to do so than through a serious of rigorous physical challenges, eating cow testicles, and memory quizzes. It won’t matter how anyone actually does on those challenges, since George will pretty much pick the heroes and the goats based on whatever bizarre logic drives that strange man’s thought process. Besides, the Bronx is certainly more dangerous than the Outback, Africa, or Marquesas (wherever the hell that is).
During November sweeps CBS will be running a miniseries on Ronald and Nancy Reagan, which the writers have already admitted is more fiction than fact. Since this miniseries and the whole Clinton administration proved that the private lives of presidents are now open for public consumption, why not make a reality series based around following the real lives of the world’s most powerful man. We’ll get to see Laura Bush frustrated with George because he thinks Chicken of the Sea Tuna is really chicken, how he wont negotiate with Turkey because he is thinking about becoming vegetarian, and still believes that Saddam Hussein was behind the 9/11 attacks.
I once sent some asshole an anonymous email from my computer at the Iowa State Daily. He sent a reply with one line. That line identified the computer I was sitting at. Boy, did my cheeks burn with shame when I realized that even if this asshole didn't know it was me, he could have very easily. This is a story about fucking with people only this time, I am not the fucker, but the fuckee who turned the table.
The Internet is a crazy place. I've been on it for about as a long as any civilian. My aerospace engineering roommate Ed Humble got me started way the fuck back in 1990 when all there was to do online was send e-mail, download "binaries," play MUDs (or Xtrek) and cruise newsgroups. Back then, we called anybody who left their computer on "just in case" they got an e-mail "a squid." Today, of course, we call that person the typical Internet user.
I recall the first time I was "flamed." It was on some meaningless web site called alt.ketchup. I was flamed for not talking about ketchup in spite of the fact that no one EVER posted anything about ketchup to that site. Today there are ovcer 5,000 posts there, all about ketchup I'm sure.
People have always enjoyed the anonymity of the Internet. So powerless are we in our daily lives that getting our ya-yas out by acting irrationally in some make believe realm is pretty tempting. I, on the other hand, am not one of those people who is without a forum. Neither is a local attorney who recently sent some anonymous "criticism" about a column I did on Rush Limbaugh to our web site under a false name. The editor didn't run it, but passed it on to me because she likes it when I get one or two email trashing me to counter balance the dozens and dozens that say things like "You are the only reason I read the paper," "Thanks for saying all the things I wish I could say" and "I love you." Read on.
Here is an Opinon/love letter to the Web site I'm not posting. -editor
Shame on you. Don't you have any compassion? Your ad hominem attack tells us more about YOU than it does about Mr. Limbaugh. By the way, your concern over the quality of public discourse is interesting, given your contributions to various blogs I have seen on the internet the last few years. By the way, how is your stripper girlfriend? I suppose she is fat and sweaty these days as well.
Now, here is the interesting part for me. I share this kind of stuff (obviously) because when people hate you, it is almost as much of a compliment as when they love you. Love is temporary, a fad. The one who loves you today can go cold on you tomorrow, but the asshole who hates you, will likely hate you forever and that is a reader you can count on. Plus it's funny as fuck to watch these amateurs try and hurt my feelings as though those weren't killed off years ago.
So I showed this to the office. Well, the cop reporter recognized the name as a fictional character in a book that is being written by our FORMER COUNTY ATTORNEY about a steely-eyed county attorney, no less. He started writing the book in 2000 and copies of the thing have been circulating for months. It's a real piece of shit.
Now, in my experience, no one hates writers like us more than writers who suck and wish they had some forum where they could contribute and be worshipped, not unlike the people of this BLOG. But let's walk through this. The guy is an attorney. He is a former county attorney and technically a respected member of the community and he is out there hatin' on me anonymously. He looks me up on the internet and finds me here because someone once used my name or I did. My picture is there anyway. He really thinks he's digging into my secret life, like he followed me one night and found me hanging out at a gay cabaret wearing assless chaps smearing vaseline on some dude's ass. So of course he has to make a little allusion to his secret knowledge as though he is out there in the world watching me, studying me, lurking, waiting for his moment to strike at the heart of me. What a weak-ass punk.
"Gosh, maybe I shouldn't crack on Rush Limbagh any more lest this anonymous stranger call me sweaty and fat again..... NAHHHHH!"
So I sent "Judson Parker" an email:
"That's funny, Judson Parker is the name of a character in former Pott. County attorney **** *****'s horrible crime story about a steely-eyed county attorney in Woodbury. If I were you, I'd hang back, wait until he self-publishes the lurid piece of crap, then sue him. You know what I mean?"
The subject line was the attorney's name, the last thing an anonymous squid wants to see when flinging poo from the security of his false identity. It's like, "Fuck, I guess I'm not as smart as I thought." I am pretty sure I hit the nail on the head since this dude never emailed me back to tell me i was wrong and besides, I'm right.
I hate people who fuck with me. I mean I REALLY hate them. I still bear a grudge against my kindergarten teacher for threatening to beat me with a yard stick.. the fucking bitch.
Now since smart boy crossed the line AND he seems to think he can get the goods on me "and my fat and sweaty stripper girlfriend as well" by reading this blog AND since I like to beat people who fuck with me into a fine pink mist, I've decided dipshit is probably out there reading this and needs a caution.
He should take careful note that I have not revealed his true identity. However, he should also note that I can and not just here but in "the real world." And I mean in a column the city - including every attorney and judge in town - will read. I'll run the "book" line by line with a running commentary by a real writer ripping the shit out of it. So don't fuck with me.
Not to horn in on Doyceís turf, but I had to share this little ditty with yíall. Seems a known sexual predator had been exposing himself outside a Catholic girlsí school. The gals took exception. 20 of them chased the asshole down the street, tackled him and pummeled him into submission. He sustained sufficient injuries to require hospital treatment. When docs released him, Phillyís finest swooped in. Heís charged with multiple counts to include corrupting the morals of a minor. No word on whether assault charges were leveled against the violent mob of Catholic girls. Shades of that heroic throng of fliers that set upon Richard Reid, forcibly sedated the would-be shoe-bomber and tied him up with their belts---bully for them.
Thereís nothing more pathetic than a peeping Tom. Itís like theyíre deviants who lack the moxie to be any more than passive deviants. Then again, theyíre relatively harmless.
That being said, I canít get past the imagery of these chicks hurtling down the street in their primly starched white blouses, dental floss thongs and pleated plaid skirts hot on the heels of this pervert. It slays me. I donít know what is a more titillating mental picture, that or them straddling this no doubt bewildered lecher on the ground. Yet you canít help but wonder if he found this to be a highly erotic experience. Catholic schoolgirls in their coquettish uniforms rank right up there with French maids in fishnet stockings, naughty nurses and the bookish librarian who doffs her glasses and shakes her mane free from its constrictive bun, after all. (Could one of those unspecified maladies that landed him in the hospital be an acute case of blue balls?)
Now when it comes to language, I prefer clarity and precision. Thatís why the term ďsexual predatorĒ is way too vague for my liking. It could encompass everything from an aggressive pickup artist to a peeping Tom to a Kobe-type he said she said deal to a pre-GHB rapist laying in wait behind a garbage can. Although one thing is for sure---they are the most widely reviled of criminals. When that Boston pedophile priest bought it in prison, who didnít suppress a self-satisfied snicker? Or at least itís safe to say no one outside NAMBLA mourned his loss.
And just how do you suppose a murderer with a known animosity toward gays found himself alone with this boy-buggering man of the cloth? Because guards set the priest up, thatís how. Both killer and victim were supposed to remain separated from the general inmate population for their own protection. But they obviously werenít, because the former had time to beat the sickly old man to death with his bare hands. And he wonít pay any price for his misdeed. Hurray!
I wouldnít call him a fanatic but one of my associates holds some pretty extremist views. He laments that what were once considered sinful behaviors are now just alternate lifestyles or pastimes. What was once adultery is now carefree swinging, hooking up replaces commitment and all that reactionary rot. He thinks the time will come when pedophilia joins gaiety, casual blowjobs, wife-swapping and drive-thru sex-changes as acceptable practices. Iím not so sure though, particularly when you consider that some of these lechers lust after infants---yes, infants .
Speaking of babies, both my stepdaughters are pregnant. The one I used to vacuum around has hardly gained any weight, isnít poring over child-rearing books and has continued to smoke albeit much less than before. Overall sheís taken a blase approach to her pregnancy. Thus this life-changing event didnít seem even remotely real until todayís baby shower. Now it seems all too real. I am going to be a step-grandpa and yes, Iím ecstatic. But Iím sure as hell not going to attend any baby shower. Men do not belong at showers unless itís at the gym.
And yeah I know thereís a difference between homosexuality and same-sex child molestation so please, donít even start in with me.