It's hard to come to terms with the possibility that your relatives (or co-religionists) have committed heinous crimes. I suppose it's worse when they claim that they did it because God told them to. The truth hurts. But if there's ever going to be progress in the Middle East, Muslims have to come to terms with the idea that some religiously committed Muslims think it's OK to blow stuff (and people) up. Alas, the CIA isn't to blame for everything.

When you create an account on facebook, myspace, orkut, friendster, or any other of the ego-stroking 'look at all of my totally zomg awesome friends!' websites (and I can't judge too harshly, I have some too), the world does not need the big pronouncement of how low you've fallen, how you've totally caved now and bought into the hype and look at all the same crap you're now hosting on yet another website, obnoxious forwarded messages included, and quite honestly, we don't care, because if we really wanted to find you on one of those sites, we'd either email you asking if you had a profile or do a very simple, very easy search on your name/username/email accounts and check for ourselves.

You're not the first person to have a presence on the internet, you won't be the last, and you know what? There's no bloody prize for joining or abstaining. I don't care if you're there or not, I don't care what your reasons are or aren't, and I don't need to hear all about how awesome you find it, how exciting it is to suddenly find all of these old high school, elementary school, or fellow hooker-ass-cocaine-snorting friends you've suddenly gotten back in touch with after all these years.

I don't care. I seriously doubt the rest of us do either, and if you're so stupid as to put so much of your information online already, then I don't know what to tell you aside from asking for your bank account information so I can share the wealth this Nigerian prince wants me to hide off-shore for him.

Sincerely,
jen x (and yes, that so totally is my real last name, how'd you know?!)

Others say no. These changes are cyclical and blah blah blah the debate drags on. Much hand-wringing ensues. Nobody ever says, "Look, let's just stipulate that egghead scientists are right. Let's start taking some concrete steps to slow global warming, er, global climate change."

Like what? Well, there are millions and millions of gas-slurping, high-pollution SUVs in the USA. Not only that but they help keep us beholden to Arab radicals with their oil. Why does the average suburbanite need to drive one of these monstrosities every day? The answer is they don't. Every once in a while they will pack the family in there for a vacation with every household item they own. Other times it is their turn to haul the soccer team around. On even rarer occasions they might figure out how to activate the 4 wheel drive and actually take the goddamn thing off-road. Most of the time they are alone in there, stuck in trafffic, burning fuel and belching toxins into our air. They could be just as comfortable in a Cooper Mini.

So the government needs to buy up all the existing SUVs and ban future manufacture. If a citizen has a legit need for one as cited above, they can rent one at a subsidized low price. The rest of the time they can scoot around in their Cooper Minis. And if they really need to drive one on a daily basis they can apply for an exemption, wait ten years and be happy.

By then we'll all be dead anyway.

Now, I like men, I really do, and anyone who's been to my 'other' site can attest to this fact. Hell, anyone who's spent any time in person with me for any length of time can also attest to this, and probably wishes I would stop.

However, every now and then I meet guys who make me long for what my mind assumes would be sapphic bliss.

The coworker who told me that, if he had a problem with a behaviour of mine, it was my fault and I had to change, while also telling me that if I had a problem with a behaviour of his, it was just something I was going to have to learn to get used to, is another. Again, much younger, much dumber.

Now, I've dated lots of great guys, and I've had lots of first dates/coffee meetings with some other guys who, while perfectly nice and normal, just aren't my type -- and the fact that they never contacted me for a second date says they weren't into me, either (or they thought I was batshit insane, which would be hilarious if it were the case). But sometimes I meet a guy who makes me shake my head in confusion.

See, I meet people mostly through dating sites, with (as you can tell), varying degrees of success. I met one guy a few months ago who quizzed me throughout the evening: "Where do you see yourself in five years? What goals do you have for yourself? Do you make money from your sites? Why do you write your sites? What religion are you? Is it important to you?" and so on. He also told me that Jewish guys are best in bed (he was Jewish); I replied that I'd heard statistically, they had the biggest dicks, but that doesn't really make a major difference to me (that subject is for another post). I think he was disappointed by the fact that I didn't respond to his fumbling come-ons, and at the end of the evening told me that, while he felt we'd had a good time talking and it had been very easy and so on, we'd connected more on a 'professional' level than on a 'romantic' one.

Mentally I responded, "Maybe that's because you were interviewing me rather than chatting with me?" and shrugged my shoulders and laughed about it.

That was a minor amusing anecdote compared to the next guy, though.

This guy was a 30-year old tattoo artist (I bring the best guys home to Mom and Dad). Not overly covered in tattoos, seemed fairly intelligent, interesting and so on. During an MSN chat, I mentioned I had two cats; he asked me how old they were, and if they were going to die soon, as he's highly allergic.

Major strike one. But he said he was kidding, so I awkwardly laughed it off and agreed to meet later.

We met for a drink at a martini bar downtown, and the place was empty and gearing up for karaoke night. Oh, how that would have been an improvement over the evening.

Most of the night was spent talking about his work, and tattooing in general, and I was the one asking all of the questions because I was curious, so I didn't overly mind. We also talked about drinking, and I mentioned how I've never thrown up from drinking (true story), and partly it was from my upbringing, and partly it was hearing all the twits in my high school talking about their parties and waking up naked next to strangers, and how I didn't think that sounded like a lot of fun.

Long story short (too late for that), he basically told me he'd been out the night before with his coworkers, drinking to the point of throwing up. At 30. I judged a little, thought 'not so cool, even my 20-year old friends don't do this' and sort of let it pass.

The evening continues, and either he was just this dumb, or he decided he was going to make damn sure I wasn't interested in meeting again, 'cause out of the blue he starts singing -- yes, singing! -- about gonorrhea. He's singing and talking about blood and pus, and about how gonorrhea is his favourite STD because it has blood and pus coming out of your man- or lady-parts, and isn't that awesome? and so on. I'm trying to joke this off, but it's not working, he's still going with the jokes.

Somewhere in there, he also indirectly called me boring, and I was of course, crushed and hurt.

I was even more devastated when he deleted me from his MSN contact list the next day.

I have other tales, including my gruesome worst sex story ever, but I don't know what the locals are up for anymore. I'll share if there's interest, though.

So here goes the guidance from your elders. You take an event in your life, or a tendency or something you've seen, like a strange Arab man loading sundry meats into the trunk of his car. Or even a wacky item plucked from the news. Whatever it is, you make a mockery of it. Adhere to the old Seinfeld mantra, no hugging, no learning. Do not get all political. Title it with a song lyric. Relevance optional. Hit save. Wait an hour while sites are pinged. For example:

But some of them do, especially if you brutally raped and sodomized them back in like 1983. So he apologizes to her and sincerely too, not like with government types who conveniently remove themselves from the wrongdoing by saying, "mistakes were made." (AG Alberto Gonzalez recently used those exact words.) Naturally she forgives him, picks up her cell and calls the police.

Katie S et al, y'all complete the rest below. It's an audition for a defunct blog. And you'll love it LTL, it's a way of life.

And speaking of sucking, I am vacuuming as we speak. Yes my robotic Roomba is zipping around the living room, sucking every last piece of dust from my carpet. It does a more thorough job than the excellent Panasonic upright I gushed about in my very first foray into blog posting. Mainly because no human would devote an hour to vacuuming two modest-sized rooms.

Man, those actual pix are harder to find than the Pam Anderson-Tommy Lee tryst or the Paris Hilton video. Then again maybe it's just me. Everyone else would grin knowingly when those came up on the net. But whenever I tried to take a gander I just wound up in this weird porn maze that threatened to shut my PC down.

You can have all the sex you want with your mutaa, perhaps even some kinkier varieties that the permanent missuses won't permit. Maybe a little anal or analingus or zesty eardrum action. But whatever it is they are not allowed to stain the marital linens. That is where Shiite women draw the line: That little hussy is not coming into by bedroom. And she's not going to bleed all over my sheets.

Osama B. Laden is a Sunni. So he disapproves of the mutaa arrangements. But that didn't stop him from bringing a nubile 17 year old hottie into the fold. This so pissed off his main squeeze and mother of most of his kids that she stomped off in disgust at the old man's lecherous antics. You go, Sabiha.

Under Sad Am, it wasn't much of an issue because he was a Sunni and as such his regime didn't tolerate mutaaism. And by "didn't tolerate" I mean someone caught with a mutaa was liable to be castrated or worse. But now with the Shiite shits in firm control of everything but the Kurds and the US Army, mutaas are crawling out from the shadowy underworld into plain view. Being a mutaa is a good way to work your way through college or earn a little extra spending money. And you get your own carnal needs met as a side-benefit.

Still, Sunnis look down their noses at the practice, pointing out that according to www.mutaa.com, the aforementioned duration of contract can be as short as an hour. That is barely enough time to get her out of her burqa, fuck her and send her out to the store for a pack of smokes. A harrowing journey from which she'll likely never return, sparing him all those late-night lonely phone calls that arouse such suspicion among the perma-wife harem. Quite simply, in their view, mutaaism is just a ruse to cover up prostitution. Worse still, a man needn't fork over a dowery, like a goat or an old car or something, to the mutaa/whore's family. They get squat.

So now you know what our brave men and women and otherwise are fighting and dying for: to defend a Shiite shit's inalienable right to whore around with whomever he chooses.

So here I am alone, as the fuzzy details come back to me in distorted bits and pieces. Actually I am not alone as my son is here. He isn't fighting an overwhelming hangover. He wants to go fly the plane we built over the weekend. In the pouring rain. Argh.

There is something awfully cruel about New Year's Day alone. You want to cuddle up with your loved one under the quilt all day. Maybe give her a Dutch oven. Maybe watch a little TV on the little 13 inch bedroom model. But no. Flick it on and there it is. There it always is, just like Dick Clark's Fucking Rockin' New Years Eve during which you always fall so fast asleep Katrina couldn't roust you.

Yes, it's the 100th Tournament of Roses Parade, hosted by the interminably perky Nancy O'Dell and Billy (a grown man!) Bush, W's cousin. Today the theme is something unbearably exuberant, like "Express Yourself" but only more awful. So much worse I've blotted it from my addled memory card. Perfectly diverse dance quintets are waving their arms and chanting the theme over and over, like monks. The sun is shining and everybody looks like the strongest thing they drank last night was lemonade.

So I start flipping through the channels. End up on HBO. They're running an endless loop of uplifting tales of redemption including Must Love Dogs, The Island and worst of all, The Wedding Date. Every woman in Hollywood has a boob job. Deborah Messing had an elective mastectomy. Click.

And I imagine this is going on in households across the nation, the world even. Except in Australia it is already tomorrow. Or yesterday. Or something.

We all have such shared experiences, like the perfunctory memories they implant into the clones on The Island. Writing our names in wet concrete. Working up the nerve to ask someone out only to be turned down with an incredulous laugh. The last day of school. First fumbling sexual encounter. The way that girl used to swing her leg to and fro in class. Catching your parents knocking boots. Hearing Grandpa sing You scream I scream we all scream for ice cream. Funerals. Weddings. Wakes. Childbirth. Being cheated on. Nervous job interviews. Breast feeding. Gay experimentation. And so on. We might as well be clones.

Which reminds me. I'm soaking in a hot bath hoping to leach some toxins from my body and also hoping my laptop falls into the tub and electrocutes me. There's a newspaper crumpled on the floor with some dirty laundry. I spy a headline. It says, "FDA Says Clones Are Safe to Eat." Yes, but how do they taste? And isn't that technically cannibalism?

A little food for thought is all.

Also from personal experience, a pregnant woman's hormones will cause all sorts of changes in behavior. One of those changes might be a marked increase in sexual appetite. If the emotional state of a woman carrying a normal child can be reminiscent of Sybil, than you have to imagine the emotional state of a woman carrying the child of the creator of the universe would be quite a bit more explosive. Mary may well have been as eager to go as a sorority girl fueled on
Jägermeister, rufinol, and repeated viewings of the pottery wheel scene in Ghost.

So, we've got Joseph's interest, and Mary's interest, now add to that sex without fear of pregnancy. You'd have to imagine that would be quite a concern for Mary and Joseph in this situation. I mean if I were Joseph, and my wife could be made "with child" without even having sex, I probably wouldn't want to blow her a kiss from across a room for fear of knocking her up. But if she is pregnant already, there probably isn't much you could do to make her "with-er child."

If we still refer her to as the "Virgin Mary" then I'd like to be referred to as the "Virgin MG." And I'll expect my kids to introduce me to their friends that way. Merry Christmas.

Hello, she is a 21 year old girl. What would you expect her to do in NY, sew booties? And I love the whole innocent Kentucky gal seduced by the Big Apple thing. She comes from a state with the highest per capita abuse of OxyContin around. She knew her way around a drug den long before alighting at LaGuardia.

Miss USA gets to compete for the presumptuously named Miss Universe title. The hottest gal in the whole damn universe, right here on planet Earth. How about that? Except one thing, she is always some obscurely ethnic looking chick from India or Indonesia or Puerto Rico. This is the prettiest gal bar none? I don't think so.

The whole concept of beauty contests strikes me as so outdated. Okay strut the stage in your evening gowns. Then the unlikely high heels n' swimsuit ensemble (bikini for USA one piece for America.) And lastly, the lap dance competition!

Always with the shoes and swimsuit. From car mag covers to men's magazines, you see it. Models trying to act like it's totally normal to be dressed in such a ridiculous getup.

But it better than nude. Nothing is more boring than stark naked. It leaves nothing to the imagination and thus stifles it. There may even be a Miss Nude USA. But if there is you can bet nobody tunes in. And the contestants are probably sows, like the people you see in nudist colonies. The wrong people are always getting naked or wearing thongs at the beach. Nothing like ass dental floss disappearing into the crack of a Rosie look-alike.

I suppose one could liken the difference between the two contestants as the difference between the wholesome tasteful nudity of Playboy to the beaver shots in Hustler. Two sides of the same sexy coin.

Sexist. The word is sexist not sexy.

So now, predictably, for Tara Conner it's off to rehab just like Lindsey Lohan, who hasn't had a drink in two days. 21 is too young for rehab. 21 is time to enjoy the drinking, drugging and bathroom stall debauchery. Rehab is the thing you do when you're 45 going on deathbed, when 12 drinks just puts you to sleep in the recliner. Rehab time.

And schizos are often seen muttering to themselves or even carrying on spirited debates with themselves. With the advent of those earphone wireless phones, one can make sport of trying to tell the crazy dangerous people from those who are just getting the grocery list from their shrew of a wife. Whereas communicaion betweeen multiple personalities is verboten. Half the time they don't even know about each other. Locally one guy who got charged with murder was aided by a therapist/attorney who uncovered one of his alter egos. To wit a demonic dog to pin the rap on. Too bad Son of Sam thought that one up years before. He is now some convict's bitch, bent over a dingy toilet.

Then again we all have our macabre little quirks. Myself I use my days off to get really clean. I wash those places we often miss in the harried morning rush to scrub just the parts that stink. Such as my eyelids, behind my ears, between my toes and my taint. You know, that little strip of skin that taint ass and taint your balls or the base of your pussy? It's filthy! Feel it. Now taste your finger. Ew!

I also floss for hours, use conditioner on my hair and take a toothbrush to my tongue and the roof of my mouth. It comes out stuck with bacteria-laden gunk clinging to it like barnacles to the hull of a ship.

Try it sometime. It's pretty gross. And it is the reason nobody wants to French-kiss you anymore. Assuming they every did. Like fisting, what a sickening concept that is: Oh my darling significant other, shove your nasty tongue in my mouth so I can suck it like a dick that's just been up somebody's butt. Ugh.

If you google search "fisting" you will be led to the harrowingly sleazy netherword of the net post haste. But you wouldn't expect that if you were just seeking a bargain on a spa treatment for a gift and you used keyword "facial." Trust me, you should. And you can get trapped in there with no way out except control/alt/delete or turning the damn thing off. Bah!

My point? Well, you know Ivory is made by Proctor and Gamble and you also know there's this little trend called globalization. P&G operates all over the world. Presumably people in countries other than France, the US and Britain do wash occasionally. How come their languages aren't included? For that matter why aren't all the langauages on there?

Maybe they use different formulas. Perhaps Germans need different chemicals to cleanse the awful stench of bratwurst and beer from their pores. Possibly Mexicans use different soaps to rid themselves of the rank burrito odor from under their arms and crotches. Same goes for Japanese and their day-old sushi stink. (What is the difference between a geisha and a whore? A geisha is Japanese.)

Maybe in Sweden and Norway, people never get dirty. It is so cold they never sweat. What about Israel? Are Jews too niggardly to spring for body wash, as Mel Gibson believes? Does P&G only market its bar version there? Iraq? Maybe you don't need to worry about getting clean there. If you're there it's just a matter of time before you're dead.

How about all the African nations that are always changing names? It is real hot there and people work hard just to survive and stave off the AIDS virus wafting around. And from what I've seen on infomercials they let flies crawl all over them. Flies are dirty. Africans need body wash.

But if they get their hands on a bottle of fresh snow/neige fraiche with the little ^ over the i, they won't be able to read the instructions. Which read: Directions for daily use in shower or bath: Squeeze a small amount of product onto wet puff. Lather and rinse. Or: Mode d'emploi our une utilization quotidienne la douce ou dans la baignoire: Deposer une petite quantite with an accent grace over the e, de gel sur une eponge with an accent grave over the second e mouillee with an accent grace over the second e. Faire mousser puis rinser.

Might as well mosey down to the filthy polluted river and drown yourself.

Now, a lot of stuff is bad. For instance, this is bad. We can stipulate that so is this. And of course this is the absolute worst. Can you believe that Sevigney really fucked that scuzbag on film? Career suicide. Now she's gonna play a nun or something.

So anyway Poo Tin is pissed cuz this guy keeps saying that the Russian government torched some occupied apartment buildings and blamed it on Chechyens as an excuse to genocide them. Poo Tin denies the allegations as well as having offed his critic.

But everyone was saying the poison was something unique to the Russian government, so Poo Tin must have been behind it, right? Stands to reason: Silence critic with this totally lethal stuff that only you have and send a brutally clear message to anybody who might be thinking about leveling similar allegations against the new Tsar, nyeh?

It turns out that isn't true.

And that is what is piquing G-Hod's curiosity. How much do you get for $69 + S/H? How do you get it into an infidel without killing yourself? Oh that's right, it doesn't matter. You can infect 72 virgins with this stuff. What a deal?

So one Friday evening she invites me up to her place, where I'd never been. She mooned about Tony, how he'd played football in HS and loved to hunt. She showed me a picture of him, with a mean scowl and an intimidating black pony tail to boot. One drink leads to another and before long a romp ensues. I am thinking about the lovelorn Rob down below, listening and brooding. Right after that she tells me I should get going as Tony was expected any minute!

As I was going down the stairs he was coming up with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, no doubt stuffed with his hunting rifles. We nodded ascent and I scurried into my place. Rob was glaring at me. We heard a fierce argument from above. It sounded like furniture and lamps were being thrown around and there were loud voices and screams; inexplicably followed by contented moaning. I'm thinking it's bad enough when someone makes you sleep in the wet spot when it's of your own making.

There is a knock on the door. It is Tony. He storms in and commences to rough up Rob. Rob is a big guy who's been in the Army but the fight is a mismatch from the start. Seems Maria had fingered him as the culprit behind the mussed sheets and said wet spot.

Or at least that is what she told me the next day. She related this story with a black eye and a swollen, split lip. Tony was nowhere to be seen. In a perverse twist she said his jealous rage had turned her on. The police dutifully took a report.

Talk about mixed feelings.