Now that Splashing in the Gene Pool: A Lighthearted Look at Evolution Genetics and Racism is a wrap, I am developing the outline for my new pseudo-scientific opus. It's working title is I Smell a Wet Pussy: A Study of Female Arousal.
I have some possible chapter titles, including Extreme Arousal: Nymphomaniacs and Gang-Bangers. Also, Total Turnoffs and Why Gene Simmons Has Bagged Thousands of Babes. Oh, and Surprise Her While She's Sound Asleep and a Slap in the Face Always Means Yes and Beat Her Up.
Some tongue on that guy. He could catch files with it if he wanted to. Makes even Michael Jordan's seem puny.
Do you think this would pass Barnes and Noble or Amazon.com muster? Or would censors get their panties in a wad?
I've worked for a lot of shitty companies over the years. Companies that didn't give a crap about their employees. The company I'm working for now is different. I can tell how much the company I work for cares about its employees because they buy us quilted toilet paper.
I don't buy the quilted toilet paper at home because I never saw the point. "Toilet paper is toilet paper," I thought. Also because I am cheap. But using the quilted toilet paper in the office john, I think I might have come around on the issue.
When I use the toilet paper at home now, it feels like rubbing sandpaper on engorged hemorrhoids. I can't go back to that after using the good stuff at work. So now, where I used to be pee shy and never wanted to drop a load during working hours, saving it up until I got home, I do the reverse. I plan my dumps for the 9-5, and on the weekends, I cross my legs until Monday morning.
Using the quilted stuff at work is like rubbing a baby on your ass, while using the cheap at home is like having someone with razor stubble perform anilingus on you (please don't ask me how I know how either of those feels).
But be careful, because I don't know how they make toilet paper quilted but however they do it the quilting only ends up making one side softer and the other side not so much. So, the problem is that when using the quilted stuff it's a bit of a crapshoot if you aren't careful. If you wipe with the quilted side up, it's all good. But if you aren't paying attention and wipe with the quilted side down it's like scrapping your ass across a gravel driveway.
Rock n' roll died when Jerry Lee Lewis married his 13 year old cousin. Or it fizzled out when Chuck Berry got entangled in a similar scandal. Or it gasped its last breath when that plane ferrying Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper went down. Or else when they had to knock out Elvis' teeth with a hammer. Or perhaps it was when the Beatles decided to quit touring and go all psychedelic on us in 1966. Or when Ozzie bit off that bat's head. But whichever date you choose, make no mistake: rock n' roll is as dead and docile as skull-fucker Jeffrey Daumer with that shiv between his ribs. Who was going to rush to its rescue, the warden?
Is Britney Spears' insipid "music" rock n' roll? For that matter, when was the last time she even released a CD? How about Christina Aguilera's? Or all those mopey Brits pissing and moaning incessantly about their generalised dissatisfaction with life its ownself?
Rock at its core used to be about anger, specific anger at something. It most certainly was never about some vague angst. And please spare us any lamentation about your freaking "quarter life crisis."
By definition, actual rock was borne of poverty, suffering and blind ambition. Once a musician becomes a "rock star," as featured on MTV's Cribs, it is over. They might as well start writing songs about tax shelter schemes or yacht maintenance. The most absurb thing of all is when millionaire rappers try to pose as ghetto boys dealing crack, swilling Cristal from the bottle while bitch-slapping they hos. These poseurs would never venture within a mile of Harlem or Watts and most likely wouldn't leave the Hamptons or Malibu unless it were aboard their private Lear Jet with the Cristal poured properly into a flute and a starlet wedged hungrily between their thighs.
When asked why he didn't write his own songs, roots-rock pretender George Thorogood observed that it would be pointless since Berry had already wrote them all. And therein lies the inherent problem. Whether you dress it up as emo, psychobilly, rap, electronica or whatnot in the ever-shifting way of sub-genres, rock is simply a variant of basic 12-bar blues. Certain chord progression work within that narrow conceit, as do certain lyrical bents.
Which is why I was so surpised to actually hear an original-sounding song on the radio. The chords sounded different and there was actually a lead part. The bass line hummed along and there was what sounded like a human drummer in the mix. The lyrics were about a guy who gets a call from an ex he still digs. But his current hosebag is in the other room so he has to keep it quiet. The hook is "from the lips of an angel." Nobody rapped in the middle of it. There was none of that weird record on a turntable noise.
Who knows (or cares) what band did the song. Radio stations long ago abandoned the idea of identifying them for those of us unhip enough to not know. Maybe the White Stripes or the Killers or Radiohead, or any number of supposed saviors who were going to revive the restless spirit of rock n roll as embodied by Marlon Brando in The Wild Ones:
Star-struck Girl: What are you guys rebelling against?
Brando as leader of an outlaw biker gang terrorizing her small town: I don't know. Whaddaya got?
Or maybe it was the Hendrix-Morrison-Joplin death trifecta. How pathetic is it that the wildman Morrison passed passively in a Paris... bathtub, all bloated bearded and burned out?
As I lay there on the griddle-hot sands of Wildwood (downa sho-ah to you Jersy-ites) savoring my 3rd Margarita, it came to me. I am the one who can save the world, or at least solve the stupid "war on terror" conundrum. The way we're waging it now isn't working because trying to fight shadowy terrrorists with conventional armies is like trying to hold water in your fingers. Oh, and I can bring peace to the mideast without any "peace process."
Just what do these scumbags O-sama and Doc Zawahiri want from us anyway? 1) All Western troops out of Muslim lands for good. 2) No pernicious American culture in the Muslim world. 3) Cessation of our $3 billion annual subsidy to Israel. 4) Stop propping up Arab tyrants. 4) A worldwide Muslim caliphate with Osama as the emir.
1) Done 2) Not a problem. Most of it sucks anyway. 3) Israel is on its own from here on out. I have a hunch they'll fare ok. 4) Fine. They're on their own too. 5) No can do.
Of course us caving to their demands comes with a few teensy caveats. All non-citizen Arabs and Persians out of the US and EU. No more work visas, student visas, no visas period. No diplomatic relations either. And no trade between the two separate but equal worlds. We'll use ethanol like Brazilians, or hybrids, drive Cooper Minis or get what oil we do need from Nigeria, Venezuala Mexico and Russia. Or drill in the Alaskan wilderness areas. Hell, we'll walk if we have to. As Steven Wright pointed out, everywhere is within walking distance if you have enough time.
Only time will tell who thrives and who whithers on the vine. In the short term at least, Muslimville can sell their oil to the Chinese. As for oil-lacking nations like Jordan, Egypt and Syria, I don't know what to tell you. Go rob the Saudis for all we care.
What about the Palestinians? Again, who cares. If they can cobble together a nation of sorts without any help from their neighbors who only want to employ them as nannies or maids or landscapers, good for them. If not, F 'em. They can stay in their refugee camps as they've done for generations. I don't want to use the N word, but they are that of the middle east, which is why they continue to live in such abject misery.
Most importantly they must agree to police their own belligerents. They must weed them out and cut their heads off with Saudi-style swords. If ever again a 9/11 or Madrid or London or shoe or shampoo bombers should arise, look out. We are talking a major indiscriminate conflagration that will make Hiroshima look like a grease fire. Allah can sort 'em out and mete out the fumbling virgins as She sees fit.
There were many reasons for leaving New York City, and I don't regret it for one moment.
Well, no, that isn't quite accurate. I don't think it was the wrong decision, but there are some minutes, some brief but urgent moments, where I wish I was back in the city. Most of the time I realize how good and necessary this move was. But every once in awhile there is a pang of doubt that hits like a stitch in the side while running.
And that is exactly what it feels like, I'll be in the middle of doing something else and then "Wham!" this sharp ache for "home" when I realize I miss New York.
I miss New York when I realize that for all I've seen of most Chicagoans, I can't be entirely sure that anyone in this city has legs. In New York I walked. I love to walk. For the year and a half before I moved I was commuting out of the city and doing it in a car. But I would still take every opportunity to walk around the city. It didn't matter where I was walking to or from, just that I was moving. Here, I've not had any opportunity to walk any distance further than from the furthest parking spot away from the front door of Costco (which is pretty far, but still). And for all that time in the car, the most I've seen of Chicagoans is from the shoulders up.
For all I know half the population is really a population of halves.
I miss New York when I realize I have no friends here. I didn't really have many friends there either, but I had a few. If I threw a "Big Game" party (not to be confused with the Superbowl) in New York, at least a couple people would have shown up. If I threw a "Big Game" party (not to be confused with the Superbowl) party this year, I'd have to split a keg and 30 wings with the wife and a two year old. Quite a super f'ing party.
I miss New York whenever a movie or TV show that is shot in New York comes on and I can say "I know exactly where that is" within 5 seconds. I miss New York more whenever a movie or TV show that is shot in Chicago comes on and I don't notice. For example, it took me an hour an a half to notice that the musical Chicago is about Chicago. Who knew?
I miss New York when I realize the used bookstore that it took me 5 years to figure out their first crazy, but now familiar, organizational system, and the same 5 years to feel comfortable enough to sit in it all day without feeling guilty, is now 1000 miles away with at least 11,000 Barnes and Nobles and Starbucks between us.
I miss New York when I think about heading out to the local watering hole and realizing that even though I reside in the same zip code as all of my neighbors, I still won't be a local to anyone else in the place. I'm too old to get "beat in" to a new bar, the spleen just doesn't grow back like it used to.
I miss New York when my Time Out magazine arrives and I can't call it "TONY." I mean, what the hell kind of name is TOC? It doesn't exactly roll of the tongue.
I miss New York whenever I listen to a weather report and all of the temperatures are paired with neighborhoods and cities that are as foreign to me as talk of Kirkuk and Fallujah. In Mundelein today is there a 40% chance of a car bombing or snow?
I'm sure that as I learn to appreciate pizza with a thick crust, hot dogs draped in lettuce and tomato instead of dirty water, political corruption that would make the French blush, John Hughes and John Cusack as native Hollywood sons instead of Marty Scorsese and Robert De Niro, Frank Sinatra singing "My Kind of Town" instead of "New York, New York," I'll start to feel more comfortable in my new home.
But it hasn't happened yet.
First off, what is the deal with valuing inexperienced, fumbling virgins who only bleed all over your crisp linen sheets. Why are Muslims willing to blow themselve up to cavort with 72 of these losers?
Second, Derek Jeter is gay. Just kidding. But you've got to know that while Lima was away on exotic photo shoots he was balling every Puerto Rican in New York. He probably didn't have a drop left to spare her.
Thirdly, while her story seems implausible at best, it is at least possible. If so I wonder whether it ws one of those technicality deals like in elementary school these days. You know, anal/oral virgins and such. These girls have been hammered more times than a railroad spike but just not... down there. Maybe that was the case with the Jeter-Lima Affair. Perhaps she'd walk out of his mansion dripping from mouth and ass but with her hymen happily intact.
Does it make any more sense now?
Every girl I ever dated put out within a couple weeks. But back then it ws the other actions that were reserved for special occasions or for guys you were seriously dating, which meant you'd seen the inside of their homes. My how times have changed.
Once I posted something and one Jaded Ju commented thusly: "This is so wrong, on so many levels, that I don't even know where to begin." My son and I still use that line frequently, as when watching America's Got Talent. See if you can ID the quadruple-insult in the passage below.
Heaping mounds of evidence to bolster Darwin's theory of evolution have failed to dissuade many people from stubbornly clinging to those quaint Adam and Eve notions known and decried in snooty, insular scientific circles as "creationism." Such respectable pollsters as Pew and Gallup have been grilling folks for years about their views on the origin of the species. For 20 years, attitudes have scarcely wavered a whit. 40-50 percent of the American public would agree that God created humans in pretty much their present form within the last 10,000 years. A slightly higher percentage believes that humans evolved from lesser species over untold eons. The rest readily admit their ignorance.
One might liken non-scientists' attitude toward evolution to the disconcerting knowledge of that uniquely American legacy of lynching. From history lessons we're aware that in the dark days following our oxymoronic Civil War, freemen suspected of splitting demure Southern belles in two were hustled to the outskirts of town and strung up from sycamore trees. Just as wives know deep in their hearts that hidden somewhere within their home is a cache of nasty porn, to which their husbands jerk off regularly. Oh it's factual alright. But there are some tawdry matters we'd rather not ponder let alone grasp. This would include great-great-great-great... grandpa being a raucous, shit-hurling... monkey. Ignorance is indeed bliss. The less one learns, the less unpleasant reality one must face.
The big news this week was Lethal Weapon star Mel Gibson's arrest in Malibu, California for driving under the influence. But it wasn't just the drunken driving that was the story, but his drunken ramblings while getting arrested that has captured all the headlines. Gibson threatened the arresting officer, and made a number of anti-Semitic comments, including his belief that "the Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world."
Gibson's remarks about the Jews starting all the wars in the world captured even more headlines this week than the actual war that the Jews have started.
At first, the comments seem completely nonsensical and ignorant. But on closer inspection, the guy's got a point, and if anyone knows something about war, it's Mel. Gibson has been in a lot of war movies. In fact, of the 40+ movies on his IMDB filmography, nearly 1/4 are about war. Gibson knows what he's talking about. Let's take a closer look at some of Gibson's career-long research into the wars the Jews have started.
In Braveheart Gibson played William Wallacestein, a 13th century Jew who started a war against the English king to free his homeland of Scotland. In one famous scene, Wallace and his compatriots taunt the English soldiers by painting themselves blue, lifting their kilts and exposing their circumcision scars. In another scene Wallace gives a rousing speech to encourage his troops right before a battle. He ends the speech with this iconic line: "…they may take our lives, but they'll never take... OUR FREE GUM!” Those Jews are just so cheap they'd be willing to kill and die for a good deal.
In The Patriot Gibson played a farmer who was just minding his own business when he is forced to go into battle when some rowdy Northeastern Jews start a war, again with England. These Founding No-Foreskin Fathers dumped some tea into Boston Harbor, to protest taxation without representation. Again the Jews and money - anyone seeing a pattern here?
In We Were Soldiers Mel Gibson finally didn't go to war against England, this time playing an American Colonel in Vietnam. As we all know, the Vietnam War was started after the Jews insatiable need for Chinese food depleted all the food stocks on the mainland and their lusty desires moved on to Korea (a couple decades earlier) and then on into Vietnam. If it weren't for the brave and noble Khmer Rouge, they'd all be speaking Hebrew now in Asia.
In The Passion Of The Christ Gibson plays a Jewish carpenter whose followers would go on to start most of the major wars in the world for the next two millenia.
In a post-apocalyptic world (though never explicitly revealed in the movie, it should be obvious to everyone that the Jews started the apocalypse), Tina Turner is a Jewess with the hardest working legs in show-biz. In Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome Turner rules over a bunch of misfits in the titular city, while Gibson plays the titular character and defender of a group of orphaned children who Turner wants to make into Matzo ball soup.
If anyone would know about history and war, it's someone who has made a career of playing fictional characters in movies about things that didn't really happen. Maybe Gibson has a point after all?
Short pants romance learn to dance please her please him 20 years of schooling and they put you on the day shift
At the beginning our minds are just blank slates. We don't even know we exist. We have no sense of identity. Gradually we become aware of who our mothers are. Unless we live in some ghetto where dads flit from mom to mom as if bees pollinating flowers we might also gain some passing familiarity with dad.
Then we learn how to toddle and walk and talk and how to know it is time to run to the toilet before we soil our Big Boy training pants. Before we know it is off to school to learn our ABCs and how 49 divided by 6 =, well, whatever it equals. Then it's middle school and a whole new skill set must be mastered. How to undo a bra strap. How to wedge yourself between a guy's legs and the back of a PG moviehouse seat and still be able to pull down a zipper ans start slobbering without making too much noise.
High School. How to fit in. Complicated equations. Memorizing politics of ancient history. College. Being indoctinated in the oxymoronic belief system known as "situational ethics" while being hazed by frats and sororities.
Then your first pathetic stabs at Real Adulthood. Balancing checkbooks. Car payments. Repo men. Foreclosed mortgages. Fired from jobs. Shoplifting. Prison. Becoming your cellmate's bitch. Release. Parole. Adjusting to life on the outside. Real job. Office politics. Jealously. Marriage. Divorce. Fix the lawn mower. Take a nap. Consider going to battle with the swarm of hornets who've colonized the railroad tie outside your front door, making you deathly afraid to go outside. Think better of it. Call from county about grass. Hermithood.
Before long you're elderly and a whole new set of concerns besets you, once again replacing the layer of grey matter and neurons that made up the previous ones. Now it's when you last took a dump. Did you remember to take your meds? What about shuffleboard? Did you eat enough fiber? Dentures soaking. Mislaid bones. Sweety-pie, have you seen my fibula? It was right here. Wopner at five. Wheel of Fortune... And just before you die, it occurs to you: I am about to die. None of this matters for shit. It never did.
Not that any of that's ever happened to moi. Nosiree Bob.
As Mark Twain once said, "Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."