How Did I Miss This?

OMG! I have hit the big, pretty, stupid motherload. I sort of had a vague cognizance of this new TV show called America’s Most Smartest Models. But really nothing had triggered a need to explore further. Until now.

Apparently, the first thing these pretty men have to do each day is decipher a code to get access to the bathroom and the fridge. And we’re not talking rocket science, here.

Now, granted, my mind is not running full throttle first thing in the morning. And especially not with urgent bodily evacuation on my mind. But I’m pretty sure I could figure out a complex Roman numeral without too much time a wasted.

Each of the bathrooms has a different code, so there can’t be too much information sharing. And the boys had access to encyclopedias.

Ohh, the beautiful furrowed brows. That look of confusion that replaces the usual vacant stare. It was HEAVEN. Pure Himbo Heaven.

One guy, who looked like an even buff-er Adam Levine, was convinced that he had gotten the number right and the producers had screwed it up. Seems BuffAdam forgot the old chestnut about subtracting when the smaller number precedes the larger. Oh, those wacky Romans!

Then his equally buff, and possibly prettier, roommate walks him through it, eventually figuring it out. They reward each other with high-fives, but Prettier doesn’t let BuffAdam into the bathroom with him (although it appeared that BuffAdam very much wanted to accompany him) and said, “Bra, I get to drop a deuce now.”

BuffAdam replied gleefully, as the door closed, “Dude, you have EARNED that deuce!”

And I learned something from a Most Smartest Model: a new use for the word, “deuce.”


PS: since I still don’t know how to drop a live link in here, you can check out the video yourself at www.hunkdujour.com. The video is at the bottom of page one.

Organic Stupidity

With family in from out of town, we had to go show off the Whole Foods flagship.

As I was pulling into parking garage, I saw that traffic was CHAOTIC. I approached the first of several four-way stops knowing that I might not move through on the regular rotation. Traffic was so heavy that for me to move across the intersection would probably mean I’d block the box, which I am anathema to do.

But I wasn’t alone at that four-way stop. No. I was joined by the passive-aggressive lady in the Honda Civic. Let me break it down for you. Unless I’m mistaken, four-way stops are the grown up version of the kindergarten principle of taking turns. REALLY. NOT. COMPLICATED.

Yet, every time I’m confronted with one, people seem to freak out and not know whether they should go or not. Profoundly irritating.

So, bizzotch in her Civic VIGOROUSLY motions me to go ahead. Now, it was technically her turn. And I really had nowhere to go, since traffic ahead of me was pretty much at a standstill. But mama was VIGOROUS. If her follow-through had been any more pronounced, she would have slapped herself.

So, against my better judgment, I went. And sure as shit, I was hanging out into the intersection. So I attempted to mitigate it by edging to the right, creating a bit more room in the throughway.

And then she honked. AT ME. Fucking cow! OH NO! YOU. DID. NOT. JUST. HONK. AT. ME!!!

I mean, HONESTLY. Why the fuck would you wave someone through, then honk at them? Not surprisingly, my maneuver had left her PLENTY of room to get through, but she had to swerve. Guess mama don’t like to swerve.

Proceeding on into the garage, I found my way blocked by a driver who is attempting to go the wrong way up a lane, in order to get a parking space that’s facing the other way. My turn to honk.

But the joy of the season returned moments later. Parked and walking to the entrance, I see the same driver STILL trying to execute a turn into that space. La la. Hee hee. Ho Ho Ho.

The store is pretty crowded, and there are tons of special displays. Including a gigantic wine display near the cheese. VERY nearby, one of Miss Teen South Carolina's lesser cousins (I believe that Children are our future) has cavalierly tied her heavy coat around her waist creating far more need for navigable ass room than she’s used to.

You know where this is going, right? Thought so.

Her “new ass” knocks not one, but two bottles of wine off the display, sending them crashing to the floor. And when she turns to survey the carnage, she knocks off two more in the other direction. If this girl is majoring in Cluelessness, she'll be Summa Cum Laude, fer sure.

We manage to escape the shrapnel and get the hell out of Dodge. But by this time, I can't help thinking how much I could have used some of that wine about now.

Another Smart One Falls

For the last two days, I’ve been in a bit of a state of shock. Upon awakening yesterday, I learned that Benazir Bhutto had been killed. I have long been a fan of this amazing woman and was very hopeful about the leadership and change she could bring to her beloved country, ripped asunder by the forces of terror and jihad. Before Al Qaeda became part of our vocabulary, there was a particualry treacherous band of idiots called The Taliban.

I can remember my sweet friend Chick impersonating the sexy way the CNN anchor would say “the Taliban” when reporting on the troubles of the day (was it Amanpour?) I would giggle and life would go on.

Point being, terror has resided in Pakistan for far longer than America has really been paying attention. And Benazir Bhutto represented hope for a people terrorized by their own. Imagine if Fundamentalist Christians like Pat Robertson ran America . . . okay, maybe that’s too close to the truth . . . imagine if Southern Baptists ran America . . . SHOOT! That’s not abstract enough either. Whatever.

But now, Bhutto’s dead. First believed to be felled by a suicide bomber, then the victim of a shooter. Now comes word from the Pakistan Interior Ministry that she died of a skull fracture when she hit her head on the sun roof lever of her Land Rover.

Hunh? That’s the best propaganda you can come up with? Her “assassination” was actually a “slip and fall?” So . . . what now? Should all of her supporters say “oops,” and go home? I'm sure that's exactly what the Pakistani government would like.

I can just hear the conversation in the Interior Ministry (read in bad Hollywood Pakistani accent):

Abdul: Lululululu! There is chaos! Bhutto’s death will martyr her. The government will surely fall now! Whatever will we do?

Mo: We cannot allow her a martyr’s death. Perhaps we could say it was an accident?

Abdul: An ACCIDENT?!?!? There were thousands of witnesses. People heard gunshots. They saw her fall. Then the explosion! There are photos and videos! Are you crazy?

Mo: Crazy? Like a fox, maybe. My cousin has a Land Rover just like Benazir’s. It seems like every time I am hanging out of the sunroom, ululating loudly and firing my assault rifles in praise of the Almighty, I bang my head on that little sunroof lever. Oooh, it hurts so much. It brings tears to my eyes. One time I hit my funny bone and the rifle went off. I almost killed my driver!

Abdul: I do not follow . . .

Mo: What if . . . consider the possibility . . . Benazir merely recoiled from the assault, BANGING her head on the little lever! Surely that would crack the skull of a woman—I mean, really, it hurts!! But isn’t it possible that could have killed her?

Abdul: I don’t think so.

Mo: Karim!! Prepare an official release! Find a doctor who will sign off on it! It was all an accident.

CNN BREAKING NEWS: BHUTTO DIED FROM SKULL FRACTURE SUSTAINED WHEN SHE HIT HER HEAD ON SUNROOF LEVER.



Godspeed Benazir Bhutto! The stupid people are still in charge in Pakistan. May your death be a catalyst for the kind of change you would have brought in life.

Get Off Me Daddy, You’re Smushin’ My Cigarettes

And so the news comes that 16-year old Jamie Lynn Spears is pregnant by her 19-year old LIVE IN boyfriend. For those of you who don’t already know (anyone? anyone?) Jamie Lynn is Britney’s baby sister, and a teen star in her own right.

Now what I find so amazingly delicious in all this is not the pregnancy news, but the announcement by Lynn Spears’ publishing house (Lynn is Mama Spears) that her new book’s publication date will be pushed back indefinitely.

The best part? It’s a book on parenting!!!! Who the fuck would pay Lynn Spears to write a book on parenting? Is the title, “What Not To Do?” It should be called “Not a Fucking Clue.”

Guess it just goes to show that you can take the girls from the bayou, but you can’t make ‘em wear shoes.

These People Need to Watch More Porn

Under the Headline, “Coach Turned Holiday Displays Into Porn” CBS46 in Atlanta reported that a middle school coach took a bunch of kids around rearranging Christmas scenes in Marietta, Georgia (which is impossible to say without sounding like a Southern Belle)

Now, I would guess that a not-insignificant number of gay men clicked through to this one. You put “coach” and “porn” in the same sentence and we’re ready to play ball. But as I read the report, I realized this was just another bunch of repressed stupidity.

The reporter, who apparently also edits her church newsletter, referred to the “lewd Christmas prank” and said, “The group even made several homeowners’ displays X-rated, police said, including placing reindeer in sexual positions.”

(Gasp!) SCANDALOUS!

Are you fucking kidding me? THAT’S what you consider “x-rated??!?!?!?” Animals procreating are now PORN?! As a writer, I would have categorized it as “sophomoric,” but “porn?” I expect that Fred Phelps and His Phreaks will soon be boycotting barnyards everywhere.

Having grown up in the country, no one ever thought it odd when animals went at it. It was usually a source of a childish giggle, or an opportunity to explain the facts of life to the young ‘uns without having to whip your own junk out.

Apparently, the times they are a changin’.

Look, Georgians, if you want to have a fucked up, repressed point of view about human sexuality, knock yourself out. I mean, it doesn’t seem to have hurt you so far. Except for your astonishingly high poverty rate and astonishingly low literacy rate and your tendency to fuck your cousins. And pretend it’s still the mid 1800s. Other than that, YOU KEEP ON KEEPIN’ ON, CRACKER!

But I think we ought to take a page out of the animal playbook and accept the fact that sexuality is as human as breathing and eating—or in Georgia’s case, belching, praying and farting.

So come one people! Don’t you think it’s time we let poor Rudolph join in the reindeer games.

H is for Humbug, B is for Booger

From the “are you fucking kidding me” department.

Had to make a trip to the mall. Now, I’m not fond of the mall on regular days, but during the holiday madness, it’s a fucking stupid convention. People stop at the top of escalators, looking for stores they’ve been to a million times. People ooh and aah over some of the scariest shit ever sold. There’s a fat guy in a Santa suit smoking out back somewhere, while his “elves” “try” to placate the waiting hordes.

I thought that if I entered through JC Penney it would be less crowded. My logic? Middle and lower-middle class folk are working today, therefore there should fewer people. (ed. Note: bloggers are their own socioeconomic class. Somewhere between fast food worker and Green Peace petition signature getter.)

Boy, was I wrong. Either there have been a lot of layoffs at the plant this year, or a whole bunch of white trash called in sick, because Penney’s was HOPPING.

I took care of my business, stopped by for a quick Chik-fil-a sandwich (my own little bit of white trash heaven—with extra pickles) and headed back through the JCP to my car.

And what’s the last thing I see, before escaping the mall completely? An older woman (maybe in her 60’s) with that witchie-poo hair I’m so fond of, wearing a pink acrylic sweater set with those old people jeans that look like they’re made of synthetic denim. She was talking on a customer service phone and picking her nose like she’d lost the Hope Diamond up in there. We’re talking double-knuckle digging here people. I managed to slip out the door before she was able to reveal the fruit of her labors.

But suddenly I wished I hadn’t ordered the extra pickles.

Whoa Means Woe

Oy, what a weekend. As you might imagine, bloggers are a bit attached to their computers. On Saturday morning, however, my computer decided it wasn't attached to me. I suffered a catastrophic hard drive failure. And probably lost everything. To make matters worse, it was completely avoidable. I actually own an external hard drive solely for back-up purposes.

But, apparently I'm better at being a smartass than a smartie, so I hadn't backed my files up since March. Yep. That's right. March. So I'll be spending the next few days (and not an insubstantial number of dollars) in data recovery mode. Hopefully, one of these specialist will be able to cure me.

Meanwhile, I probably won't be blogging much. But as soon as I can get my shit together, or some stupid person pulls a gigantically bone-headed stung, I'll be back. More likely this week than next.

Peace.

The Intersection of Stupid and Stupider

Are the stupid people gathering? Is there a major offensive planned against the smart?

Because the last few days have been one stupid thing after another. Pedestrians crossing against the light, causing traffic snarls. WTF? Did your mom teach you to look both ways before crossing, but left out the part about, “oh, yeah, when you look both ways, if there are cars, DON’T FUCKING WALK!“

This happened THREE times this week.

Then there was the cyclist, also running the red, causing traffic to snarl so that he and his unwashed hair could get there THAT MUCH FASTER. And what really pisses me off is he’s probably one of the activist cyclists who want cars to be more respectful of bikes. Well, if you obeyed traffic laws, like you’re supposed to, it might be a good first step toward détente. Or—just a thought—you might use the fucking hike and bike trail, located EXACTLY 20 feet to your right, running parallel to this major artery for, oh, the NEXT TWO MILES!!! Wonder why they put that there?

Or the lovely lady in the mini van. The one with the WitchyPoo hair. The one behind me at the red light. Who honked at me. Because SHE wanted to turn right. I, on the other hand, was going forward. In the appropriate lane, I might add. But she had to honk. And give me the "WTF? palms up" gesture.

Let me tell you, smart people, there is NOTHING that brings out my inner black drag queen faster than an inappropriate censure. If you’re going to fucking honk at me, you better have a good reason. So my head starts to bobbing and my finger starts to weaving and all I can hear in my head is Pootifah (my inner black diva) beginning to roar a “OH NO SHE DI INT” (something I’d never say out loud, but it’s the perfect accompaniment to a “bob and weave.” Or a “bobbing weave” depending on yer hair did.)

But what’s really spooky is that ALL of this happened at the same intersection. The major intersection a block from my house. Suddenly I feel like Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters. Like my house is actually sitting right at the vortex of stupidity.

Hopefully I won’t wind up on the roof, looking like a backup dancer from an old Pat Benatar video, speaking in tongues to a Rick Moranis doppleganger. But if that’s what it takes to stop the madness, know that I would take this one for the team.

Stay strong smart people.

Truly Bone Headed

Further stupidity from yours truly. Took the two (remaining) dogs out for their constitutional yesterday. I have to stay in the yard with them because the landscaping is unfinished and there’s a spot they can wriggle under the fence. And by “wriggle” I mean run straight through.

The Runner was actually on the other side of the yard, trying to mind-control our radical insurgent squirrel population. The squirrels were trying to mind-control her right back. My old, slow Little Dog was puttering around on his usual rounds, re-marking the spots he had re-marked only hours before.

I called the two to come in. The Runner immediately headed for the open door, while I walked further down the yard to collect Little Dog. As I returned to the house, I assumed The Runner had headed directly inside.

I collected my things and headed off to my meetings. About three hours later, I walked into the house and was greeted by only one dog. Hmmmm. I wandered through the house, checking closed closet doors and under beds, but no Runner. FUCK!! Could I have possible left her outside? So unlike me. So LIKE a stupid person.

Blech.

Did I mention that this is the pet of our nine year old? Oh, yeah, that’s gonna be fun. “Hey, buddy, want another hamster? Cuz I lost your dog!” FUCK!!

I called and called, but no Runner. So, I set off on foot to scour the neighborhood, an urban area with dense traffic and busy intersections, hoping not to find a furry throw rug in the middle of one of them.

As I left my house, the taco wagon pulled up to offer lunch to the construction workers in my ‘hood. And I heard a bark.

No, the taco people didn’t have my dog! But good Runner had only run a couple of doors down, gotten a bit of exercise and was now ready for one of those delicious smelling tacos.

I was so relieved I almost bought her one.

How Much For The Coconut Monkey?

I had a garage sale this weekend. Or, rather, I participated in my friend’s garage sale, something I hadn’t done in years. And may never do again.

First of all, even though you wind up with a sizable chunk of change, if you divide the money by the number of hours invested, it’s not really that great. Of course, the hourly rate for a blogger doesn’t quite compute, but my friends actually make decent bank. Second, you wind up with a wad of singles, making you feel what I call "stripper rich."

We rolled open the garage door pre-dawn, in order to have everything set up by our announced opening time of 7 a.m. Now, anyone who has ever had a garage sale knows that people COMPLETELY ignore the posted start and finish times.

Sure as shit, we had this rather butch lady show up at the crack of 6:30, flashlight in hand, ready to rummage.

Now, I know a lot of people who stand firm and won’t allow early shoppers. The way I see it, a garage sale is just people paying me to haul off shit I don’t want anymore. So, I was like, “Lady, knock yourself out. Feel free to start digging through the stuff we haven’t put out yet.” She informed us that this was her hobby. EVERY Saturday morning, she hops out of bed and is off to find a bargain.

Who are these people?

My favorite moment of the day came when a patron got into an argument with my Beloved (and TRUST me, you DO NOT want an argument with my Beloved) about what street we were on. “This isn’t xxxx street!” she said. “The sign said xxxx street.”

“The sign said yyyyy at xxxx,” answered my B patiently-ish. “See the house is on a corner. It faces xxxx. The garage faces yyyyy.”

“Well you shouldn’t have put xxxx street. I live on xxxx street. This is yyyyy.”

Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “but you found it Lady Miss Dumbass. Buy something or get the fuck out.”

By the end of the day I had come to realize that people buy the strangest shit. Old, beat up, worthless one-offs go like wildfire. The $200 Robert Graham shirt never sold. Nor did the fabulous sweater I bought in Paris. Actually, I pulled that one back off the pile. I love that sweater and I just couldn’t bear to sell it for a dollar.

The Robert Graham shirt was a gift from someone who no longer deserves my friendship, so I was happy to give it to a thrift shop at the end of the day.

Condescension mixed with altruism is a delicious cocktail.

Can I Get A (Jehovah's) Witness?

I don’t know why I’ve suddenly become squeamish. I don’t usually shy away from criticism of religious beliefs that I find objectionable. I guess it’s more that I personally believe that you’re entitled to your beliefs as long as I’m entitled not to have them thrown at me like a water balloon.

So, when the 14-year old Jehovah’s Witness boy died yesterday because his guardian wouldn’t allow him to have a blood transfusion, I was surprised at my conflict. Normally, I would be screaming, ”Stupid Motherfuckers. How can God possibly want you to let a child die because you believe medicine is some sort of voodoo that messes with His master plan?”

But the faith piece threw me off. Then I remembered that Michael Jackson is a devout Jehovah’s Witness. And that man is certainly no stranger to modern medicine.

So, it’s okay to chop your face up and rearrange it for vanity purposes, bleach your skin and buy little white children to call your own, but it’s not okay to have a LIFE SAVING procedure?

That’s not religion. And that’s not faith. That’s just fucked up.

So, for all my Jehovah’s Witness readers (right?), know this: the next time you knock on my door, wheezing from walking your fat ass up the hill to my house, trying to foist off your poorly designed, poorly written, poorly printed on cheap paper proselytizing bullshit, be prepared for a conversation. I want to know why, in the name of God, you let that child die.

Oh! And why you still buy Michael Jackson records.

Slow Slide Into Stupidity

Somewhere today, perhaps in a parallel universe, a snarky blogger is writing about me as a stupid person. Yep. I joined the ranks of the people I rail about. And I didn’t even realize I did it.

You see, there’s the fabulous supermarket here in Austin called Central Market. It’s sort of a gigantic gourmet grocery store, like big-ass Dean and Deluca or something. Anyway, one of the things they are known for is providing samples of their delicious wares throughout the store.

Day before yesterday, while waiting on my lunchmeat (NO, that’s not a euphemism!), I noticed there were samples of salami. Being a big salami fan (now THAT’S a euphemism), I bit.

And proceeded to deposit my licked-upon toothpick in the very clearly marked “clean” container.

Which was sitting right next to the “used” container.

I did it obliviously and strolled away, marveling at the flavor composition of the sausage. Then I heard another sampling patron, aghast at what she had just witnessed, say to my beloved (who was reaching for his own Scooby snack), “Be careful! SOMEONE,” she said with a shudder, “SOMEONE put their USED toothpick in the clean box. DISGUSTING!”

She spat the last part out. (The word, not the salami.)

As the error of my ways washed over me, I dashed up the nearest aisle and cowered behind a temporary display of Christmas sweets. Should I run back and apologize? Should I turn myself in? Or should I just overly dramatize the entire situation in my head?

I chose the latter.

It’s only now that my humiliation has lifted enough for me to write about it. (cough cough.)

In fact, I’m sure you’re wondering how I’ve managed to type this with one hand backwards on my forehead, anticipating a swoon.

What I’m wondering is how many other fuckers put their nasty, licked-upon toothpicks in the clean pile? I may have to start using my fingers.

Clean Up On Aisle . . .

Apparently, the “blue light special” is now the “black eye special.” As a promotion (and part of the widespread conspiracy by Republicans to bankrupt the average American through credit card debt . . . okay I made that part up) the Kmart in Wauwatosa, WI offered a $10 gift card to anyone opening a new Kmart credit card.

And since $10 is the average weekly wage for most Kmart shoppers, you can imagine how popular this promotion was. Especially when it was discovered that EVERYONE was being approved. That’s right. EVERYONE. Credit-worthy or not. Seems a little computer glitch caught the spirit of the season and thought, “what the hell, let’s give EVERYONE $4000 worth of credit.”

Word spread like wildfire about the “free money.” (At least we know those prepaid cell phones work.)

It was so popular that they ran out of credit applications. Then all hell broke loose. Two women jumped another woman to try and wrestle her application away. Others joined in the melee, never once thinking to curb their primal lemming-like urges. (‘Cause ya know, when stupid people aren’t drinking or screwing, they’re fighting. Or wondering why “matt” has two t’s and “cat” has only one.)

One enterprising Wauwatosa wesident (sorry, couldn’t resist) drove to ANOTHER Kmart, grabbed a stack of credit applications and came back, selling them for $20 apiece in the parking lot. Brain cells unite!

In the end it looked like an action movie, with one employee suffering a broken nose and numerous cuts after being thrown into a glass display case.

Once the police cleared things up, Kmart posted a sign saying they were not processing credit applications “at this time.”

They probably should have written it phonetically.


Ed. Note: I’ve actually been to Wauwatosa, WI. But I didn’t go to the Kmart.

Um . . . World Peace?

Who knew beauty queens were such a bunch of vicious, conniving, back-stabbing hussies?!?!?

Okay, I knew.

But that’s because I have watched every Miss Texas and Miss America pageant since I was in diapers. I used to fake crying while holding a bunch of imaginary roses, walking around my playpen waving at my adoring, cheering fans, occasionally pausing to balance my imaginary crown, which was beginning to list, due to my baby fine hair, ya know. (So can someone explain to me how my coming out years later caught people off guard?)

But I still wasn’t prepared for those Miss Universe contestants. Their foreign-ness always threw me off. Might they actually be genuine? Might they be as beautiful on the inside as they are on the outside? I mean, they seem more . . . what’s the word? . . . WORLDLY than Miss Lake O’The Pines or Miss Haltom-Richland Area.

But apparently, being Miss Puerto Rico is some dangerous shit. CNN is reporting today that Ingrid Marie Rivera not only survived the catty comments and bitchy backstabbing, but spiked makeup and gowns coated in pepper spray, to become Puerto Rico’s representative to Miss Universe 2008.

And did I mention that she’s allergic to pepper spray? So every time she touched up her makeup (i.e. every fucking five seconds) or changed a gown (these girls are in and out of clothes more often than a crack whore) SHE BROKE OUT IN HIVES!!!!

Apparently, she’d be backstage packing on the ice bags to reduce the swelling, hurling epithets in Spanish at the other contestants. But she never lost her smile.

No, she persevered. And she won. Proving once and for all that, darn it, if you just use a little sticktuitiveness, you an achieve anything. She was the Puerto Rican Beauty Queen Who Could.

And I, for one, have already set my Tivo for the Lifetime movie.

None For Me, Thanks.

Being in the advertising world, I find that I am hypercritical of most campaigns. Okay, I’m hypercritical of everything. But I’ve come across a new campaign whose good intentions are unfortunately derailed by bad phrasing. It’s the new campaign for HPV, human papillomavirus.

And the tag line is “Pass it on.”

The structure of the radio spot is such that a factoid is given about HPV, then another, more whisper-y voice comes out of the background to say “Pass it on.” So far, so good, right?

But then, some bright bulb decided that the sexual transmission part should be addressed. So, our hero says something to the effect of “HPV can be transmitted through sexual contact.” That is immediately followed by the whisper woman, “Pass it on.”

NO!

I don’t want to pass it on. And I don’t want it passed on to me.

Keep it. Learn about it. Treat it. Cure it.

But please, please, don’t “Pass it on.”

You know, I had a friend complain recently about a gigantic debate in her agency over whether to use the word “pennies” or “cents.” That sort of shit happens all the time and drives the creative team crazy. You’d think someone in the approval chain would have caught this unfortunate play on words.

Godspeed Mr. Wilson

You know, I really try to be thankful every day for the many, many bountiful blessings I have. A loving, supportive family. An amazing group of friends, the kind who define true friendship. A wonderful life. And an undending supply of stupid people, giving this blog purpose and material.

But today I want to express my thanks for a loyal and true friend I lost this week. His name was Wilson. Wilson was our 14 year old Westie. And on Tuesday, we had to say goodbye. Wilson was my Beloved's pet. So I didn't get to know him until he was well into his golden years. He was a crusty old fucker, alternating between "pet me" and "fuck you." Over the past year and half, since I began "working from home" Wilson would shadow me all day, every day. I knew when he was mad, I knew when he was scared, I knew when he was playing, and I knew when he needed me just to be near him for security. (I'm sure he would argue that it was my security, not his, that was the reason for this.)

Our other dogs are a little perplexed at why the Alpha is missing. My little dog has been especially attentive to my Beloved, seeming to instinctively know that doggie love was just the tonic.

We had known for a while now that the clock was ticking. But over the weekend the hands seemed to be turning rapidly. And by Tuesday, we knew there was no other choice.

We are also very blessed to have the greatest vet. Dr. B, I know you don't read this, but you handled this just right. The right amount of respect. For us. And for Wilson.

Radney Foster (one of my favorite singer songwriters) wrote a lullaby for his son that he would sing on the road each night. I find that the chorus comforts me in times of loss.

"Godspeed little man.
Sweet dreams little man.
Oh my love will fly
to you each night
on angel's wings."

Godspeed, Mr. Wilson.

I Love Dan Savage.

There, I've said it. For those of you who are unitiated, Dan writes the syndicated column Savage Love. He goes where no man has gone before, giving great, practical sex advice, no matter how kinky. Todays columns is all about three-ways. And this quote is priceless.

"Most people have either had a three-way or thought about it. Yes, even women. A recent ABC poll ranked threesomes as the most popular fantasy in America. (Outside of America, of course, the most popular fantasy begins with at least one engine falling off of Air Force One.)"

And that's my afternoon giggle. Score one for the smart people.

Yes, He Really Wants to Hurt You.

I was stunned and saddened to see the news this morning that Boy George had been charged with false imprisonment. Okay, maybe I wasn’t stunned. I mean, I’ve always been a big fan of Sister George, but that’s not a pretty fella. And while I’m not advocating false imprisonment, how else is a fat old drag queen going to get a pretty young Scandinavian model to stay for tea?

And why saddened, you ask? Well, if you had seen the photos of me in New Orleans, prancing around with an Amy Winehouse wig on, you’d say, “But you ARE a fat old drag queen!” (It seemed perfectly appropriate at the time, belting out “Rehab” while drunk at 2 in the afternoon.)

Fortunately, I’m lucky enough to have found my beloved, someone who can make me giggle in my dotage and who can actually tolerate my mercurial moments.

And I keep an ankle monitor on him at all times. Some might call THAT imprisonment. I call it love.

Sundays in the Parking Lot

Yesterday, while making my pilgrimage to my favorite grocery store, I happened across an amazing scene. The parking lot was jammed, but I’ve learned over the years that the turnover is rapid, so you usually don’t have to drive around long. I also thought it would be a great opportunity to teach the young ‘un about the joys of parking far from the door. You know, good exercise, it’s actually faster than waiting to pounce, etc.

As I pulled into my space at the far end of the lane, I noticed a woman in a gigantic white SUV much closer to the store. She was merrily chatting away on her cell phone, pedestrians leaping from her path as she doggedly pursued some good, up-close parking. When she saw a woman heading for a close-in car, she began what I call stalker parking. You know, where you follow someone to their car, staying just far enough behind them that they don’t know you’re there, but close enough to ward off any potential parking spot suitors.

The aisles of this parking lot are big enough for two vehicles to pass easily. But Missy Big White SUV decided to straddle the middle, effectively blocking traffic from both directions. But the woman “leaving” wasn’t. Or else she didn’t like being stalked. So she got in her car and waited, I’m assuming for someone else to finish shopping. She didn’t turn the car on and she didn’t indicate in ANY way that she was going to leave, other than getting in her car.

Meanwhile, I have parked and walked all the way to the front of the store, but am so absorbed in the unfolding drama that I stop to watch. How long will Missy Big White SUV wait before she realizes that people are parking ALL AROUND HER? But no, she has to have THAT space. It’s apparently a matter of Big White SUV principal.

So she honks.

I was stunned. Such rudeness. Such entitlement. Such Drama.

I wanted to put on my Krystle Carrington wig and go open her car door and bitch slap her. (I would have chosen the Alexis Carrington Colby Dexter Wig, but my budding nemesis had raven hair. Contrast is critical in conflict.) We could have rolled around the parking lot, making a spectacle of ourselves, climaxing with a very spent looking Missy crumpled in a shopping cart against a tree.

I love Sunday daydreaming.

Anyhoo, Missy finally realized the futility of the situation and squealed off to find another spot, no doubt huffing exasperatedly into her mobile. SHA! OMG! SHA!

Maybe she was so frustrated that she will vow never to return, to only shop at her neighborhood store.

One can only hope.

What's This For?

I have this theory that one day recently, Georgie W. was playing around in the Oval Office, opening and closing drawers in his big desk when he came across a big rubber stamp. “What’s this big VOTE stamp for,” he said.

“Oh, Mr. President, it’s not a VOTE stamp, it’s a VETO stamp. That’s what you use when you don’t like what the Congress is doing,” said the loyal aide, questioning whether this job would really be as big a resume builder as he hoped.

Georgie’s eyes grew big. “Uncle Dick says I should NEVER like what this new Congress does.” And with that he began jumping around the office (God, don’t you wish for a sharp corner now and again) stamping things and clamoring, VOTE, VOTE, VOTE!”

The aide gently took the stamp and president in hand. “No, sir, not on the furniture. On the bills. You VETO the bills.”

Giggling, Georgie W. said, “You said Bills. You mean like Clintons? Can I stamp Miss Hillary? You know behind that door right over there is where he put his thing in that lady’s mouth? I’m not allowed to go in there.”

“No, Mr. President. These kind of bills. The ones Congress sends you. Here,” he said, sitting him down behind a stack.

Fairy tale? You tell me.

How else do we explain the fact that for his first five years in office, Bush didn’t veto a single bill. Guess it was more important to make it look like a harmonious, lovefest between the Hill and the hillbilly.

Since then, he’s taken to using his veto. He killed a stem cell research bill (because people would start cutting fetuses out their mother’s wombs while they slept), an Iraq funding bill (because it would pull troops out of Iraq), and a bill to fund health insurance for kids (toughens 'em up).

But yesterday, something new happened. The Congress voted to override our suddenly trigger-happy cowboy. And by an overwhelming margin. The Water Resources Development Act, which provide resources mostly to areas fucked up by Katrina, then fucked over by FEMA. It also provides resources to preserve Everglades wetlands.

Way to grow a pair, Congress. Although I can’t believe that you haven’t figured out how to get ANY bill passed. All you have to do is put the words “al Qaeda” in there somewhere. Al Qaeda in New Orleans? How about a billion? Bin laden hiding in the everglades? How much do you need?

Trust me, with Georgie’s brain, it will take a while for him to catch on. Imagine how much good you could do.

Can You Believe There Are Actually People Out There Who Think Bush is the Best President Ever?

Latest job approval numbers are out for President Goofmonkey. The good news: 23% say Bush is the worst president ever. The bad news: what are the other 77% thinking?

I mean, honestly, can someone tell me what the man has done RIGHT?

More stats: 35% say he’s doing a poor job. But 40% say he’s doing a good job “compared to his predecessors.” WTF? You’re telling me that 40% of Americans think this dumb motherfucker, who somehow manages to breathe with his head up his ass, is doing a good job?

1% even thought he was “the best president ever in American history.” I don’t think those people took American History.

His approval rating is at 34% (uh, how can 40% think he’s doing a good job, but only 34% approve?), the lowest approval rating for a president since Truman.

But then they break it down in a partisan fashion. And people, let me tell you, if you weren’t convinced that the Republicans were brain-dead before, this should push you right over the finish line.

72% of Republicans polled approve of Bush’s performance. And 27% of Independents.

I’m sorry, but I think I just chipped a tooth when my jaw dropped so hard. Are you fucking kidding me right now? Again, what has he done right? Starting an unwinnable war? Capturing Osama bin Laden (oh, yeah, he hasn’t done that, has he)? Dropping a half a TRILLION dollars in Iraq? Outing a CIA operative (which would have been treason if a Democrat had done it. Seriously.) Being a complete freakshow in the legislative sense (NO vetoes for 5 years, now a flurry)? Delivering cocky fratboy speeches full of “mispronounciations?” Losing the respect of most other nations? I could go on here.

Seriously, give me something. One thing. And if you say, “Well, at least he didn’t cheat on his wife,” I’m going to force you to give all your money to the poor, since your piety has obviously rotted your brain to the point where you’re no longer useful.

The Collapse of Civilization As We Know It.

In a state run by right-wing religious zealots, it’s not surprising that a little issue over televised NFL football should work its way all the way up to the Legislature. Ridiculous, but not surprising. Oh, and just in case you’re not from Texas, we’re talking about the Cowboys. The Texans, in spite of their jingoistic moniker, are just another NFL team to us.

See, the problem began when the for-pay NFL Network announced that they would be televising two Dallas Cowboys games exclusively. That means many Texans, like my mama and daddy, can’t sit down together on a Sunday afternoon and watch the ‘Boys. (Which, aside from Church, also on Sunday, is the only OTHER time they sit down together.)

Unless they subscribe to the NFL Channel. Great marketing ploy, right? Not if you’re a hillbilly who likes his football.

I want to reproduce for you here a piece of an article from the Austin American Statesman (potentially the worst daily in the country). Enjoy.

"’Cable companies need to focus on giving their customers what they want, which is football,’ said Sen. Kim Brimer, R-Fort Worth. (ED NOTE: Hunh? Guess that’s why there are 500 channels, cause so many people want their football. And by the way, they can still watch a ton of fucking football games, just NOT the Cowboys vs. The Packers. Oh, and Brimer is a well known dick.)

Brimer and Rep. Corbin Van Arsdale, R-Tomball, warned last week that if the two sides can't huddle up and agree, consumer-oriented legislation could arise in the 2009 session.

They said a possible proposal would, at the least, establish a third-party dispute resolution process on cable programming and authorize the Texas Public Utility Commission to establish additional customer service protections.”

Okay, you have got to be fucking kidding me. The Legislature is considering taking action because of a FOOTBALL GAME! Apparently there is NOTHING else going on in this state that requires legislative attention. Talk about priorities.

Van Arsdale continued:
"I've had a lot more people contact me about NFL football the last two months instead of child protective services, windstorm insurance or worker's compensation, which are frankly more important issues," he said. "I don't control what constituents call me about."

Ahhh, yes. Those constituents. And what exactly does a Tomball constituent look like? Having grown up in the “other” Boll town, Diboll, I have a pretty good idea. And this is my other brother Daryl.

Maybe, just maybe, Rep. Van Arsehole, we should divert some of the time and $$$ to education. Then your redneck constituency might not have so many misspellings in their letters to you. And maybe, just maybe, they might actually be interested in those other hot-button issues you champion.

Call it a hunch, but I’m betting the majority of your voters couldn’t talk for 10 seconds about any of those issues you mentioned. Don’t know, don’t care. But if you want their football, you’ll have to pry that remote from their cold dead hands.

I know I’ve said it before, but it’s not a bad concept.

Keeping Our Borders Safe From Men in Dreds

Guess last week the terror alert was Orange and BLACK. Happy Halloween at the Department of Homeland Security. While I was slogging through airport security, fully expecting a cavity search, our protectors threw a costume party to celebrate the season.

Now, they’ve got some ‘splainin to do.

See, one of the revelers dressed up in prison stripes, donned dredlocks and put on darkened-skin makeup. The panel of judges, all Republican appointees, no doubt, praised the concept for it’s “originality.” Are you fucking kidding me? When did blackface become “original?” Have these ‘tards not heard of Al Jolson? Did they miss the whole Whoopi Goldberg Friars Club dustup a few years back? Have they never been to a frat party in the South?

Julie Meyers, head of Immigration and Customs Enforcement for the Department of Homeland Security was one of the judges. Meyers, who is whiter than wonder bread, apologized for the incident. But only after people complained. She said a “few of the costumes” were “inappropriate and offensive.” Funny, none of the other costumes made CNN.

And then, in true Federal fashion, she sent out a memo reminding all employees to be compliant with the department’s diversity training requirement (seriously!). Might I suggest she sign up for a refresher course herself.

The real kicker? Apparently most people didn’t realize he was wearing makeup. Unnnnh-huh. Would that be because you’re all a lying sack of shit? Or because Republicans avert their eyes uncomfortably when they think a black person is in the room?

Ms. Meyers said she was deeply saddened by the incident. “All I could think about was poor Mr. Shuffles, the porter at our country club when I was growing up. That wasn’t his name, of course. We never knew his real name. We just called him that because it’s how he walked. But he was the nicest darki . . . uh, negr . . . uh, man. I would hate for him to think that the little girl he made Arnold Palmers for had turned out to be one of those . . . hate people.”

Another man, obviously dressed as Osama bin Laden, was awarded the prize for “Best Cash Cow” and “Best Scapegoat”

Hey, Teacher! How Many Times Does 13 Go Into 25?

Okay, how about the 25 year old Nebraska school teacher and her 13 year old latin lover, er . . . student?

She loved him soooooo much that she decided run away with him to Mexico. Only problem? (okay, it was one of MANY problems)

HE’S AN ILLEGAL ALIEN!

So, Missy, not only are you a stupid fucking child molesting bitch, but you basically just deported the poor boy, involuntarily separating him from the rest of his no-doubt-hardworking family. And his booty call. High marks, teacher.

And lest you take issue with the word “involuntarily” let me point out that a 13 year-old’s penis only THINKS it makes grown up decisions. Those hormones trump reason EVERY time. And that is an infallible defense. Hell, I would have gone to Wal-Mart if it got me laid at 13.

Funny, I always think of teachers as being smart people. But this woman put the “um“ in dumb. I mean, come on she’s a MATH teacher for God’s sake. Can she not subtract 13 from 25?

My favorite was when the boy sent her a note calling her his “Baby Gurl.” Okay, could you at least correct his fucking spelling? And I love the mug shot. Or, actually, I guess it was her school photo from 2006. When her boyfriend was 11. Uh-huh, I know.

But again, she's a math teacher.

And what about the Nebraska school system? What were they doing to protect our children?

Didn’t anybody wonder why she kept singing “De Colores” over and over again? Didn’t anybody wonder why she kept asking if her culo looked fat in those jeans? Didn’t anybody wonder why she kept a poster of Mary Kay LeTourneau in her classroom? Didn’t anyone wonder why she always had the freshly fucked look after 4th Period?

And isn’t Nebraska a red state? They probably figured since he was illegal, he was on his own. In fact, they’ll probably reimburse her for mileage.

Going Undercover

This afternoon I head out on my latest undercover assignment. For the next three days and nights, I'll be observing stupid drunken behavior up close and personal. Like, in a mirror up close and personal. And I do it all for you. And because it's my birthday.

Laissez les bon temps rouler, y'all!

Back on Monday, working whatever brain cells are left.

Apparently, Ain’t No Party Like a Republican Party.

Another Republican elected official has fallen prey to the penis. His and another guy’s. Washington State Representative Richard “Call me Dick” Curtis (married with children, by the way) picked up a young man while wearing ladies’ lingerie. Given his conservative credentials, I’m sure they were sensible undergarments. Not those whorish, slutty outfits the liberal closet cases wear.

The young man, in true gay hustler fashion, stole Rep. Curtis’ wallet and tried to extort him. Ahhh, not sure which one of you motherfuckers is more stupid. Let’s just put you both in the same puddle, shall we. Curtis, of course, proclaimed he is “not gay.” Hey, bra, no problem. We all went to college. We know how easy it is after a kegger to find yourself in cheap lingerie on the receiving end of a Dirty Sanchez. Keep your chin up.

So, just for the record, doesn’t it seem that the more conservative you are, the more likely you are to engage in activity directly contradicting your stated public opinions? Certainly seems that way to me. It will come as now surprise to you that I am gleefully awaiting the next open fly in the ointment. There’s no doubt in my mind that there are more to come.

And you thought Bill Clinton had a problem keeping his dick in his pants?

My God Doesn't Hate Anyone. But If He Did, It Would Be the Phelps Family.

Well, after Tuesday’s ruling, I do agree with Fred Phelps about one thing. There is a God.

Not familiar with the Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kansas? It’s where the narrowest of the narrow-minded go to “worship.” But thanks to the father of a U.S. soldier who was killed in Iraq, their coffers are going to be $11 million lighter. Can I get an “amen?”

See, here’s the deal. Phelps and his disciples of hate have long picketed gay events, showing their Christian love with such cleverly worded signs as “God Hates Fags” and “The Bible Says Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.”

Yeah, it also said “don’t eat the apple.” Suck on that Granny Smith.

But Phelps, who has got to rank up there with Donald Trump and Paris Hilton in the Attention Whore Hall of Fame, decided that the war in Iraq was God’s retribution on the U.S. for our tolerance of homosexuality. So he guided his flock to picket . . . are you ready . . . THE FUNERALS OF DEAD SOLDIERS. I’m sure you’re shaking your head like you just got hit with epilepsy. I’ve known about this soooooooper freak for a long time. I’ve even been picketed by his peeps.

But this was just an absolute new low. Showing up at a funeral and waving signs around when people are trying to grieve the loss of a hero. Someone who died in the defense of our country. So, the father of one of the Marines sued. And the court agreed with him.

"It's hard enough burying a 20-year-old son, much less having to deal with something like this," he said, recalling that some of the other signs at the funeral included "Thank God for dead soldiers" and "Thank God for IEDs," according to cnn.com.

Nice. Of course, Phelps says he will appeal. And he actually thinks this will raise his profile.

I, for one, wish the press would make a pact that they will never, ever cover the antics of this man again. Declare him not newsworthy. After all, what’s a preacher without a congregation?

Are You Regular?

I got caught up in one of those Chamber of Commerce boosterism articles in the local paper yesterday. It was about how the geographic and population center of Austin had moved considerably north and west from the original Downtown location of 6th and Congress. None of this was surprising, given the intense sprawl my lovely little Blue Town has experienced over the last decade or so.

The article also talked a lot about the revitalization of downtown and the goal of getting 25,000 residents there by 2010.

Then they quoted the cranky motherfucker.

“I’m a regular citizen. I only go downtown every six months or so.”

I guess what really struck me about this was his use of the word “regular.” As if people who shop and eat and play downtown are somehow odd or irregular. Granted, our slogan here is “Keep Austin Weird,” but it got me thinking.

I would bet you that most people in America think of themselves as “regular” citizens. And they probably feel that they are relatively centrist or moderate in their viewpoints. All those scary right-wingers (and some of the left-wingers) really believe that they are fighting for the “everyman” against the fringes or “special interests.”

I wish there were some sort of actual chart where you could find dead center and plot how you believe and where that places you in the continuum of left to right. I bet most people would be shocked at their positioning, having long believed that their views were very mainstream. I bet we’d find that the far right and far left truly are the lunatic fringe, with far too much influence on the rest of us due to their vocal nature.

But I guess what pissed me off the most was that subtext that anything different from “regular” means “bad.” And we are in a dangerous place in our country’s history, where we seem to be unable to embrace our differences, be they political, racial, sexual, or religious.

I don’t know. I just find these regular folk a bit odd.

Look! A Smart!

I had the most pleasant surprise yesterday. I was sitting at one of Austin's many institutions of dining (If you know what "never far from 12th and Lamar" means, you'll know I was essentially dumpster diving) having a less than delicious repast. I had a table in a sunny window. I was doing a little writing. But I was surrounded by four very persistent flies. And my waiter was essentially MIA. Not that I really wanted him to spend much time at my table. While very cute, my waiter was a walking cliche from the seventies, who kept making that clicking noise at me and pointing his finger and thumb in that fake gun gesture. It felt like a young Wink Martindale had invaded my space.

I swear I even saw him wink once as he clicked. That made it sort of hard to keep my food down.

Then I saw it. A SMART car. Those cool little two-seaters that are all over Europe, but not scheduled to arrive on our shores until next year. Then another drove past. Then another. It was almost like seeing a UFO (sorry Heather) in that I wasn't really sure I'd seen what I thought I'd seen. But this was midday and no hallucinogens were involved, so I smiled and shrugged and muttered, "cool!" under my breath.

Then they came around again. The same parade, sporadically placed, turning the same corner.

Well, I had to get me some of this. I pulled out some cash and threw it at Wink before he could click at me again (I'm not particularly cheap, but DAMN I hated paying 10 bucks for a shitty club sandwich and a water) and dashed out to my car.

I only had to wait a couple of minutes before they came around again and I was off, hot on the trail of the SMARTs. Moments later I emerged onto a parking lot FULL of SMART promotional banners and a giant semi with smart cars all over it. They were actually offering test drives. I had to. What a fun distraction!

The line was longer than I'd anticipated, but the people watching was really fun. NOT AT ALL the demographic I would have expected. Big butch lesbians. Tiny older asian lady. Retired couple. I think I was the youngest person there. And I'm closer to sunset than sunrise.

The sales guy looked like Vern Yip from HGTV. I kept wanting to say, "You look like Vern Yip from HGTV." Then I thought, "What if it actually IS Vern Yip from HGTV and he lost his job and now he's having to travel the country hawking SMART cars and he broke down and started crying right now and I didn't get to take my test drive."

So I said nothing.

And then, it was my turn. A cute little Passion Cabriolet (Seriously, people, could there BE a gayer name for a car?). I dutifully took the wheel and off we went. I was surprised at the stability of the car. I was thinking it would ride like a golf cart, but it felt like a solid ride. I would be nervous as hell on a freeway, but for in town it could be cool.

Soon enough, the ride was over. Just like Disneyland. They dropped you off right in front of a bunch of surveys. I passed. I didn't want to spoil my SMART car high by answering a bunch of questions.

But it was the highlight of my day. SMART is cool.

PS If you live in Austin, they're doing these test drives today and tomorrow, as well. In the Book People parking lot. Go.

The Pilot Is On Our Side

I have stumbled across a column on Salon.com that I think you might like. It's called "Ask the Pilot" and it is authored by Patrick Smith, an actual pilot. I have seen his column before, but the most recent installment had me chuckling, so I thought I'd share with you.

Having spent quite a few hours on planes and in airports, I find his work to be insightful and funny. I also think the shit that people write in and ask him is the dumbest stuff ever.

Check it out.

Get Down, Girl. Go 'Head Get Down.

I know, I know, models are an easy target. But they’re just so . . . visible.

I, along with 999,999 other people with too much time on their hands, watched the You Tube video (also on yahoo.com today) of Model Sarah Welch falling through a hole in the catwalk at the Shadang show at LA Fashion Week.

It wasn’t a foot or a leg. Missy DROPPED through the floor, as if a trapdoor had opened. Fortunately she wasn’t hurt. But this hole only looked about as big around as one of my thighs. Only a model could have made it through. I don’t think she even touched the sides. Models everywhere are purging this morning, asking themselves the hard question, “Would I have been able to fall through that hole without any part of me touching the sides? I HATE her.”

Welch was quoted as saying “It is just a really funny mishap. And I hope they're enjoying watching it just as much as I am."

Well that's no fun. You can't really make fun of people who are willing to laugh at themselves. But you know, having a sandwich now and again could prevent such mishaps in the future, I bet.

Cashing Checks and Balances

Money can be a huge stressor on any relationship. But I think maybe it’s time for a divorce. Do you hear me Congress? That Bush is no good for you. He lies about how much he needs for his supposed hobby. Then he comes back to you with new amounts. “Hey, uh, do you think I could get another $46 Billion?” He's spending our money like it was his parents.

Seriously. Dump him.

President Bush is asking for an additional $46 BILLION on top of the $147 BILLION he already asked for to fund the war in 08. The Pentagon is spending $2 BILLION per WEEK on the war. If the new requests are approved, the overall cost of the war will top $650 Billion dollars. And we’re borrowing the money so Bush doesn’t have to raise taxes. Well guess what? We’re still going to have to pay that bill. But it will probably be some responsible Democrat who bites the bullet, effectively ending his or her political career because we Americans are convinced that their “high” taxes are supporting lazy, poor people. In fact, they're supporting wealthy Republicans and a bunch of Iraqis.

Sorry people, but that’s WAY more obscene to me than a blow job. I mean, to my way of thinking, Bush is giving it to ALL of us up the ass.

Meanwhile, an independent investigative panel has found that the State Department can’t account for most of the $1.2 Billion it has spent with DynCorp, who were contracted to provide training to Iraqi police.

That’s just perfect. Where’s the outrage? All the Republicans running for President are committed to continuing this type of policy, running around trying to out-conservative each other. And some of them are STILL trying to tag the DEMS with the old “tax and spend liberal” label.

Hey, I have an idea! Why don’t we tax everyone who is FOR the war. That way, since you believe in it so much, you can help foot the bill. Because I would MUCH rather my tax dollars stay right here at home and help AMERICANS.

I bet you would see HUGE anti-war sentiment if that happened. It's easy to be hawkish with someone else's money.

If Only You Believed Like I Believe

A few weeks back, USA Today published the results of a poll “measuring attitudes toward freedom of religion, speech and the press.” I was absolutely flabbergasted by the stupidity of my fellow Americans. Here are some delicious samples:

55% of respondents believe that the Constitution establishes a Christian nation. (It doesn’t). 75% of those identifying themselves as “evangelical” or “Republican” (there’s a difference?) held that view. And about HALF of Democrats and Independents do.

Don’t say WTF just yet. Hold it. It’ll feel better when you let it out in a second.

58% believed that teachers should be allowed to lead prayers in public schools.

43% think public schools should be allowed to have live nativity scenes WITH CHRISTIAN MUSIC. Having accidentally heard some Christian music, I’m not sure which of these aspects I find more distasteful. A live baby Jesus or some God Jovi (Bon Jesus?) praise singer with a mullet. Or a live baby Jesus with mullet.

50% think teachers should be able to use the Bible as a “FACTUAL text in history class.” 80% think it should be used to teach “literature.”

56% think freedom of religion should apply to all groups. That means 44% DON’T!! I would personally exclude the Baptists and anyone who speaks in tongues.

34% believe the press has too much freedom.

60% believe the media doesn’t try to report without bias (I didn't realize that many people watched FOX).

The best quote? Rick Green of WallBuilders (aren’t walls used to separate?), an “advocacy group that believes the nation was built on Christian principles,” said of the Constitution, “I would call it a Christian document, just like the Declaration of Independence.”

All together now, “WTF?!?!?!?!?” See. Didn’t it feel better to wait?

Would You Like to Stupid Size That?

Traveling through American airports always provides great fodder for my incredulity. Although why I can still manage incredulity in the face of all I’ve witnessed . . . I dunno.

So, I’m in the DFW airport, fresh off one delayed flight, awaiting another delayed flight. I realized that I would probably be better off eating airport food than waiting until who-knew-when-I’d-get-home.

A Wendy’s salad sounded like the least dangerous option. As I approached the window, a fifty-ish woman set her bags down at one of the two small café tables near the line. We were equidistant from the end of the line, perhaps 4 feet, when Missy decides it’s a race and literally breaks into a trot to “beat” me to the back of the line.

Moments later, she has reached the front and it’s go time! Staring up at the board of numbered combos available, she says, “I’ll have the #8.”

Wendy’s: What would you like to drink with that?

Missy (testily): I don’t want ANYTHING to drink. I just want the sandwich.

Wendy’s: Uh . . . it’s a combo.

Missy: I just want the SANDWICH.

Wendy’s: Okay, so you don’t want the #8 combo, you just want the spicy chicken sandwich?

Missy (practically exasperated): That’s right.

Wendy’s: Anything else?

Missy (still clueless to the concept): I’d like a #5 . . .

Wendy’s: Combo?

Missy: JUST the sandwich!!!!

Wendy’s: No problem. So a spicy chicken sandwich and a bacon double cheeseburger. Your total comes to . . .

Missy: Can I get fries with that?

We Didn’t Elect HER!

Okay, I want each of my readers to take this blog to every person who has ever said about Hillary, “We didn’t elect HER president!” Usually with little sprays of spittle flying from their mouths.

Why the fuck was Laura Bush the author of an editorial in the Wall Street Journal yesterday? And on the Myanmar junta and the threat of U.S. sanctions, no less.

Ladies Home Journal, I could understand.

But was the Bush administration really using the First Lady as their voice on this issue?

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have ill will towards Mrs. Bush. She seems like a perfectly nice chain smoking librarian to me. But Laura Bush has STEADFASTLY avoided the public eye and, according to my sources, been strongly reluctant to be drawn into any sort of issue management at the White House. So now she’s the spokesmodel on MYANMAR?

Maybe she was having coffee and a KOOL Lite at a friend’s house in Georgetown and happened to see the signs in front of the Myanmar consul’s house begging for US intervention. You know, she thought, I could write an editorial in the WSJ and really have an impact here.

Cuz I’m pretty fuckin’ sure the Myanmar junta keeps their WSJ subscription up to date.

Now we all know Laura is the smarter half of that couple. And truth be told, I would actually be much happier with her as President.

But seriously, WTF?

Think Daddy Footed the Tow Bill?

I live in the middle of Austin on a wonderful little arc of a street that connects two major thoroughfares. Across the street is a wonderful city-owned tennis center. On the corner is a big frat house. The tennis center parking lot and the frat house parking lot are directly across the street from each other.

So for anyone who follows college football (or UT sports) knows, last weekend was the big Texas-OU game in Dallas. And the frat boys chartered three big buses to take them and their “dates” (WHY do sorority girls always bring their own pillows?) to the big game. We watched as sorority girl after sorority girl and fraternity boy after fraternity boy parked their expensive cars in the tennis center parking lot and got on the bus to go away for the weekend.

Off go the buses! Hook ‘em horns!

Fast forward to Saturday morning and the tennis center staff arrives to open the facility, only to find a parking lot full of cars. The same cars that were there when they left the night before. Cue the armada of tow trucks.

So, Sunday night, I hear the rumble of buses and run to my beloved like a four-year-old on Christmas morning who thought he had just heard reindeer footfall on the roof. “THE BUSES ARE BACK! THE BUSES ARE BACK!”

We both grabbed our beverages and headed outside to watch the drama unfold.

Now, we all know I’m evil, but I derived such joy at watching stupid person after stupid person disembark and begin wondering where oh where their cars had gone. Understand, Texas lost the game, these kids were almost certainly hungover and tired. And now they had no transportation. Brilliant!

My favorite was the girl who wandered up and down the parking lot, looking HORRIBLY confused, her wheeled suitcase and well-used pillow trailing behind her. It was as if she knew she was stupid and just kept thinking, “I’m SURE I parked it here. It’s got to be here somewhere! Maybe the bus let us off in a different place! Think, Missy, THINK! OW!”

Gradually it dawned on them that all of their cars had been towed.

So for the last two days the fraternity has posted pledges outside with a large handpainted sign that says, “Fraternity Parking ONLY.” Yeah. That’ll teach those tennis people a lesson. Especially since NO ONE ever parks in the frat lot but the frat boys.

Not to mention the fact that they are not seeking retribution for something THEY did wrong. Now THAT’S Bush’s America.

Daddy's Little Girl

I saw this commercial last night and it just hit me in all wrong ways. It was for Playskool’s Rose Petal Cottage, a little lightweight fabric, foldout playhouse for little girls (and aspiring homos). It had all the requisite stereotypical girl things . . . a stove, an oven, a tea set . . . but what absolutely flipped my lid was when the little girl opened her play washing machine and said, “time to do the laundry!”

Excuse me, what year is it again? I half expected there to be a carton of cigarettes in the “freezer” and a little faux martini shaker. It was so offensive it could have been satire, but it wasn’t.

I think little girls and boys should play at whatever they like. If they want to play house, knock it out! No problem. But the laundry thing just reeked of misogynistic bullshit. Who owns Playskool? The Baptists?

It was creepy, creepy, creepy and really pissed me off.

Playskool. Even a little woman’s place is in the home.

Moon Over Denial

So Senator Wide Stance (R-Minneapolis Airport) has decided to stay in the Senate and “clear (his) good name” before the Ethics Committee, eh? Republicans are fuming. Democrats are peeing all over the stalls in glee. Male Senate pages and interns are wearing extra pairs of underpants and going to the House side to use the bathroom.

This is what is called DEEP denial. In this case accompanied by DEEP shit. It’s sad to say, but I actually kind of understand what the Senator is doing. If he misplays even one card now, the whole house comes tumbling down. He’s committed to the lie. To the denial. He’s NOT gay, y’all. He swears.

Funny. Reminds me of the news today on Marion Jones. She so vehemently denied she was doping that she sued one of her accusers for something like $25 million. Today, “Oops. My bad. That needle I stuck in myself DID make me run faster, jump higher and party . . . all . . . night . . . long (all niiiiiiight! All niiiiight!)

Someday, Senator—and probably sooner than you can imagine—your tangled web will not be able to bear your weight. In the meantime, let me clue you into something. The vast majority of Americans absolutely believe you were trying to knock off a little porcelain nookie. So, basically, who are you lying to?

She'll Do ANYTHING For Publicity

I swear this is a copy and paste. Headline for a USA Today section.


Lifeline Live
Hanson brother in hospital; Britney granted visitation



I don't think that means what you think it means.

Is One of Those Capitol Hill?

According to the AP, Ohio State Rep Matthew Barrett shared a little more than planned with a group of high schoolers. While giving a slide presentation on how a bill gets passed, an image of a topless woman popped up, her rotundas in clear view.

(Funny, I don’t remember the areola as part of the legislative process. Is it near the filibuster?)

Rep. Barrett immediately yanked out his memory stick (insert cheap joke here) and turned it over to school administrators. Fifteen minutes later, a sweaty and slightly-out-of-breath principal confirmed that there was, in fact, a catalog of nude images on the stick.

“I have no idea where these came from,” said Barrett (a Democrat, by the way.) He said the memory stick had been a gift from a legislative liaison.

Uh huh. Right.

I’m voting wifey doesn’t let him keep porn on the home computer.

As you might imagine, the incident was met with “snickers.” Uh . . . yeah. They’re HIGH SCHOOLERS! What were you expecting, righteous indignation?

While not reported, I’m sure at least one boy said, “Hey, it’s your mom, dude!” Several others left class holding their books awkwardly in front of them.

Maybe he should have stuck to “I’m just a bill . . . sittin’ here on Capitol Hill.”

God Save the (Homecoming) Queen!

I always love how stories like this rustle high school feathers. Last Saturday, University City (Missouri) High School crowned a senior boy it’s Homecoming Queen. Now before you cheer this little step forward in gender identity, you should know—it was all a prank. Aaron Zaggy (LOVE that name. I’ve had many a tipsy night where I thought my name was Aaron Zaggy) entered the contest and was elected by his peers.

Needless to say, the school was wracked by sobs and wails,punctuated with “um,” “like,” and “sha!”

Brittany McNairy also ran for Homecoming Queen (of COURSE you did, Brittany.) She wanted to preside over “Our Night in the Limelight.” (Ahhhh, the high school homecoming and prom themes. I really want to write a book about that someday.) "I was mad," said Brittany. "A lot of girls were mad."

Well said, hon. At least for a girl named after a spaniel.

Other comments ranged from “It’s soooooo unfair,” to “but . . . he’s a boy,” to “that is soooo gay—I mean . . . I don’t mean that in a same-sex way, although it is kind of a same sex—oh, never mind. It’s just lame, okay?!”

I’m sure there’s a new rule being drafted as we speak, with vehement dissent from the drama and art teachers.

School officials were more circumspect. “This situation also presents a life lesson of sorts by demonstrating the importance of voting and knowing that one’s actions at the ballot box can have a lasting impact,” read the statement from the board. “This is why we end up with fucktards like George W. Bush as president, you ignorant, privileged little bastards.”

This story brought back memories of my own small-town homecoming. While I was neither King nor Queen (budding, but not quite yet), I WAS the escort of the Homecoming Queen. What makes that interesting was that I was not her first choice. That would have been her husband.

That’s right. The 17 year-old homecoming queen of Diboll, TX in 1979 was MARRIED. And our school wouldn’t allow her husband to escort her. Why, you ask?

BECAUSE HE WENT TO A DIFFERENT SCHOOL!!!!!

Apparently no one thought it at all odd that a 17-year old was married (for a couple of years already). But God forbid her husband attend a rival school.

And we wonder how come these kids are so fucking stupid.

Belief vs. Truth

I was watching a clip from The View a couple of weeks ago. The one where they kept asking Sherri Shepard if she believed the earth was flat. She kept responding “I don’t know.”

At the moment, I was, like, ‘What the fuck do you mean, ‘you don’t know?’ You DO know. We ALL know. It’s proven. Not a conjecture. We’re not relying on word back from the Pinta. Astronauts have orbited the earth. We have photos. WE KNOW it’s round.

So, why would someone who is presumably relatively well-educated (although being on TV certainly doesn’t equate to being educated) say such a ridiculously stupid thing?

In a word: Faith.

The View conversation came after Shepard said she didn’t “believe in evolution, period.” As I’ve discussed in this forum before, you can’t NOT believe in evolution. We know things evolve. Many people don’t believe in the theory of evolution as it pertains to the rise of man and I get that these are separate things.

I get that faith requires a willing suspension of disbelief, much like a good movie. The difference is, you get to walk out of the movie.

But this serves to highlight a very dangerous trend playing out across our country. What do we do when our beliefs are contradicted by science? Tradition would hold that we holler “Eureka!” or in the parlance of contemporary corporate American, have an “aha!” moment. (I tend to have more “wtf?” moments, but I digress).

Or, we’re Amish and think that electricity is the Devil’s breath.

But so many people (okay, mostly right wing Christians) bury their heads in the sand (aka “their asses”) and say “I don’t believe it.” Not believing it doesn’t make it untrue. It’s proven.

I believed in Santa Claus, and the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny (which, while I’m on the subject—what a great way for the Christians to recognize the crucifixion and resurrection of the son of God—a giant bunny who hides eggs. That’s not even a metaphor for anything. Why hasn’t anyone cried blasphemy on that shit?) But eventually, I was informed that these entities were necessary figments that were useful in manipulating children and selling lots of products. (And also, has anyone ever looked into collusion by Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy? Seems an oddly convenient pairing. Eat the candy! Rot the teeth!)

But face it America, never has it been more apt: The Truth Shall Set You Free.

Maybe we need a Truth Fairy.

That High Horse Ain't Got No Legs

You know, for a man named Peter, I’m so thrilled that General Pace so closely follows his moral code. I guess he wants to believe he's named after a big saint. I'm more inclined to vote body part.

This week, he felt the need to clarify his homophobic remarks from earlier this year, but really only stirred the hornet’s nest. See, General Pace doesn’t believe that the military should engage in conduct that isn’t “moral.”

By “moral” he means homosexuality and adultery. For the Bible tells him so.

Guess he missed the Moses memo on killing.

Excuse Me, That's MY Money!

So, the President can’t speak properly, but he sure knows how to ask for money. He has now asked the Congress for $190 billion to fund the Iraq war for another year. Let me emphasize that again. He is asking for $190,000,000,000 for ONE FUCKING YEAR of battling a war we shouldn’t be in in the first place. And no one even seems to be swallowing hard.

And what is it again we’re supposed to be getting out of this?

Where’s the fucking outrage people? This is ridiculous that we have become so desensitized to so many zeros. (I guess that happens when you have the biggest ZERO sitting in the Oval Office.)

And where is the Republican outrage? Aren’t they the ones who are always complaining about high taxes? Well how the fuck do you think we’re paying for this war? Bake sales?

Give me a fucking (tax) break. And quit bitching about welfare mothers and social programs. The amount of money we have spent on this war is OBSCENE. We could have rebuilt New Orleans, provided a college education for every child who wanted it, eradicated homelessness, provided healthcare for all and still had enough money to go for ice cream after.

As of July this year, the population of Iraq was 27.5 million (and falling). And the meter is fast approaching 1 TRILLION dollars. Why not just buy them? It would be cheaper.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know there’s a bunch of oil over there and that this is a domino game. But I thought that’s why we sucked so much Saudi dick. So we could have a toe-hold in the region.

Maybe growing up in the Bush household, Little Georgie thought it was okay to ask for a million dollar advance on his allowance. But I think it’s time to cut up his credit card.

Cute Quotes From the Leader of the Free World

So, I’m hoping, hoping, hoping that some commemorative ceramic figurine maker will decide to make these. I want to see a set of cutesy bookends, featuring a Norman Rockwellian vignette of George W. Bush in an old-fashioned classroom setting.

The first would show a concerned, fatherly Bush, surrounded by school kids (maybe with their books upside down—how cute would that be?). He would be scratching his head and looking perplexed—maybe even flummoxed.

The inscription on this collectible would be: Is our children learning?

The other end would be a smiling Bush, flipping one of the children’s books right-side-up, while the other children laughed along. This inscription: Childrens do learn.

I bet there are a lot of trailer-park Christians out there who would snap this up. QVC? FranklinMint? Lladro? Are you listening.

Peoples do buy this shit.

Me? I'm going to throw up now.

"Ow!" Said the Pretty Blonde Girl

Zoomed through an episode of Beauty and the Geek. Hadn't planned on stopping AT ALL. The premise absolutely repulses me. But just as I was about to click away, the pretty blonde girl spoke. She was talking about how hard her challenge had been, because it required thinking and "brain stuff."

Swear to God. She called it "brain stuff." I fell off the fucking bed laughing. Best of all? Straight face. Missy has a WHOLE lot of room upstairs. It's where she keeps her "brain."

Sad to say, but I'll probably come back for more. Besides, Britney's no fun anymore. Y'all.

Rich People Don’t Wear Socks

So, I haven’t hung with the East Coast Elite in many, many years. (Okay, I’ve never hung with them. But I do stalk them from time to time. Sue me.) But I hadn’t noticed before--rich people don’t wear socks. When they are at leisure, they wear “casual attire” (which is pretty much what I call “dressing up,” i.e. long pants and a polo shirt.) They wear cute shoes. AND NO SOCKS.

Now I know what you’re thinking. Why would I, who subscribes to the “barefoot and looks pregnant” school of fashion find it at all remarkable that these conservative types (preppy in the legitimate sense) would go sockless. I live in Austin, for Christ’s sake. Flip flops are our version of dress shoes.

But in a town as buttoned up as D.C. is (guys wear ties in the gym), it just struck me as funny.

Now, I know they can afford socks. So, it must be a “I-don’t-care-if-I-stink-up-my-shoes-I’m-rich-be-otch!” kind of thing. Or maybe that’s their way of showing a little skin. A sexy come hither code that turns other rich people on. Mmmm. Ankles. HOT!

Hey, whatever turns you on. If you put your feet together, those little ankle bone bumps do sort of look like cleavage.

How Come They Make Such Stupid Decisions?

So, I’m in our nation’s capital. I figured I might as well come to the front and check out the Office of Stupid Fuckers first hand. But first, I needed caffeine, so I parked my happy ass at a small, local coffee house (I think it was called “Starbucks” or something like that) and tried to look like I wasn’t from Texas.

The first thing I noticed is that there sure are a lot of smart people here. Seriously, there are more think tanks than Starbucks. Just in the couple of blocks near our hotel, there’s enough brain power to fuel a MENSA outlet mall.

So how is it that the people in power here make such stupid fucking decisions? Then sound so fucking stupid talking about them? Maybe they’re not active listeners.

Say Wot? British Stoner Stupidity

So a Brit feller texts his buddy to see if he “wanted to buy some reefer.” Guess the dealer hadn’t made the cut to new phone. See, the buddy had changed numbers. The old number now belongs to a police officer. Like any good copper, he responded that, yeah, sure, he’d love some. Arranged to meet the guy and busted him. Wah-wah-wah-wah-waaaaaaaaah.

You know, though, it’s probably the best thing that could happen to him. If he’s that retarded in his business and discretion skills, he probably wasn’t going to get the branch manager promotion anyway. Or maybe he just enjoyed dipping into his inventory.

I feel especially bad for the guy because I have a family member (extended) who accidentally texted me a series of oddly (and poorly) coded messages about “playing basketball at midnight.” He also talked about “bringing the girls.” It had long been rumored in our family that he was pimping and dealing on a very small scale. Like so many of his “startups” this one fell by the wayside. Hard to figure out why. I, of course, being the evil bitch that I am, texted him back repeatedly, altering the plan and changing the time. Then I stopped responding altogether. I had to go to bed.

Now, I grew up in the 70’s and 80’s and really, really, truly people, there aren’t any euphemisms left that are subtle enough to escape detection, yet still be understandable. So I kind of laud the guy for just saying, “Dude, want some reefer?” and not beating around the bush.

And I also must confess that I hate texting and culture around it. So I’m secretly glad that he got busted that way.

Someone should develop a national PSA campaign around the slogan, “Stupid People Shouldn’t Deal Drugs.” We could get Ann Coulter to be the spokesperson. That’d scare a stoner.

Thank You Sir! May I Have Another?

How Did I Miss This?

In 2006, a very high-profile professional dominatrix, Leona McConnell, claimed that she had "watched George W. Bush enthusiastically and expertly perform a homosexual act on another man, one Victor Ashe" in the mid-1980s? (Radar, the source of the story, refers to this as a “bro job”—a straight guy helping a buddy out. LOVE that.) Ashe was Bush's college roommate, apparently.

Okay, first of all—EWWWWWWWWWWW! That is NOT the image I want to have in my head for the rest of the day. Second of all, when has GW ever done anything “expertly?”

Seriously, though, I can’t even begin to imagine that George would have it in him (no pun intended). Now, it could be a situation like Robert Downey, Jr.’s character in Less than Zero, where the act was fueled by drugs and alcohol. Lord knows, I’ve certainly had some alcohol motivated regrets. And I’ve known a few cocky, Republican frat boy types who loved to take a walk on the wild side now and again. So I guess it IS conceivable.

But wait . . . what was a professional dominatrix doing in the room? Did we just bury the lead here? Whether the job was blow or bro, I want to know what else happened in that room.

Stop and think about it.

It’s obvious to the entire world that GW likes being told what to do. Maybe now we can see a pattern. What if Laura is a closet dom? THAT’S an image I could giggle over all day long. Demure, librarian First Lady by day—wicked lady with a whip by night. Or maybe Dick Cheney with a leather mask on as he walks into the Oval Office.

Don’t laugh. Republicans are waaaaaaay kinkier than the Dems ever think about being. The little vestibule where Clinton kept his cigars might be George’s playpen now.

Who knows what Hillary will find when she walks back into the White House.

Fresh Squeeze

Okay, how deliciously ironic would it be if OJ wound up in prison for his recent “reacquisition” of his sports merchandise. I was one of the millions of Americans consumed with his trial. I even read a couple of the post-mortem books, including the one by disgraced, “racist” copy Mark Fuhrman. I highly recommend the book. In it, Fuhrman argues that he is not a racist, and in fact was well-liked in the black community. He also says that he had never seen a murder case with more evidence pointing to guilt and that the D.A.’s office botched the prosecution horribly.

And now . . . just the stupidest fucking thing. Busting into someone’s hotel room to “get my stuff back.” ?!?!?!? Of course, if you’ve literally gotten away with murder, you probably think you’re pretty bullet proof.

Now, he may be facing a little hard time. Stay tuned. Should be fun to watch.

Attack, Part Deux

Josie, the lesbian from season two of Top Chef (not to be confused with the Pussycat) and her friends were followed out of a bar in Sea Cliff, NY and beaten by a group of young people who were shouting anti-gay slurs. Okay, this is disturbing on so many levels. First, the whole hate crime thing. Nobody deserves to be beaten simply for having a bad haircut and being mechanically inclined.

Second, NOTE TO YOUNG STRAIGHT PEOPLE--you would have to be a dumb motherfucker to pick a fight with a lesbian. That girl will KICK YOUR ASS. I’m sure if her straight sister hadn’t been with her, she would be wearing a new cap made of straight boy foreskin.

And now that I’ve gotten the cheap laughs out of the way, I want to ask a serious rhetorical question. Where’s the threat, people? What on earth does someone’s sexuality have to do with you, much less feel like a threat? Obviously, this isn’t the Psychology 101 blog, but damn.

And don’t you love that’s it’s always a group. Even fey Tucker Carlson, with his precious bow-tie and mop of hair, after thinking he was getting hit on in a public restroom, went and got a buddy to come back in and bang the guy’s head against a stall. Because these cowards are afraid that if they go solo, they might get their ass kicked. Or more likely, find themselves enjoying the close, physical same-sex contact.

Literal Attack of the Stupid People, Part Uno

Okay, first I have to go on record as saying that I am deeply opposed to interpersonal violence. With the exception of punching the odd bully, I’ve never seen fisticuffs solve anything.

But, for some reason, fighting is a badge of honor amongst the ignorati. Canned whoopass has long been a staple of the stupid man’s diet. And a couple of items in the news today only serve to reinforce my thesis.

Now, lest you think I’m talking about Kid Rock and Tommy Lee bitch-slapping each other over two midgets ‘rasslin’ in a bikini top, think again (I actually thought that was some funny shit. Good thing Tommy didn’t get his dick out, or Kid would have been facing more than assault charges).

No, I’m referring first to the two fellers in the Oklahoma bar, one of whom was wearing a University of Texas T-shirt, the other of whom was a rabid Sooners fan. Now, I must admit that I had pangs of “stupid motherfucker deserved it” for wearing such provocative attire. Seriously stupid move.

And this was Oklahoma after all, where the average IQ is generally lower than the temperature on any given day. But instead of simply saying stupid, sophomoric things to each other, the Okie tried to rip the nuts off of the Longhorn and nearly succeeded. Seriously. Left the guy bloodied and his boys hanging by a thread.

Chances are pretty good the Okie will be convicted, but I think the judge should get creative in the sentencing. I mean, come on, jail time isn’t going to impact this yokel. Anybody who would try to rip another man’s balls off over an argument about collegiate sports rivalries has probably already spent some time in the pokey.

Some suggestions:

Make HIM wear ONLY University of Texas apparel for the next 10 years.
Or, prohibit him from wearing ANY sports related clothing or attending any sporting event for 5 years.
Or, make him go back and finish the 4th grade.

Actually, they should just lock him up in jail in Texas. Half the folks in there are former Longhorn football players anyway. That would teach him a lesson.

. . . And Takin’ Names

I don’t know why ANYTHING stupid that GW does surprises me anymore. But, this may be my all time favorite, if for no other reason than to affirm, in jaw-dropping fashion, how ridiculously cocky and clueless our President is.

As we know, Bush is in Australia, the country that is kind of like a cooler cousin to the U.S., but with their own complete fucktard of a leader, but I digress.

Anyhoo, Bushie stopped by the Iraq on the way just to bolster the morale of the troops and, you know, check in. Then, after arriving in Australia, a conversation between Bush and a Deputy Prime Minister was caught by the press. When the fella asked Bush how it was going in the Iraq, Bush replied—SWEAR to God—“We’re kickin’ ass!”

Then he apparently went to a kegger.

Seriously, is he that deluded? You'd be hard pressed to find ANYONE who would even classify the war on Iraq as a success. But "We're kickin' ass?" Wow. Maybe he just got it backwards and meant to say, "We're getting our ass kicked." That would ccertainly make more sense.

This is the second thing Bush has said while Down Under that just floored me. The first was when he was walking into a formal dinner, accompanied by Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice. He turned to Secretary Rice and said, “You can be my date.” WHA?!!? She’s the fucking Secretary of STATE, dude. He would never have said that to Colin Powell.

Oh, Dr. Rice! They ate your brain, didn’t they? January 20, 2009 can't come soon enough.

Fred Thompson’s campaign bumper sticker should say “I’m With Stupid.”

Appearing on Diane Sawyer last night, Thompson was asked how he would handle bin Laden and Al Qaeda differently than Bush’s people. Now, if you’re running for President, and terrorism is the major issue on people’s minds, don’t you think you would have that answer down pat? Apparently not. You be the judge:

Thompson: “You don't know what the president knows in terms of intelligence as to how they can pinpoint where Osama bin Laden is right now. I think the point is clearly he's there, clearly he's somewhere along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border and clearly he's still giving orders. And the even broader concern that Americans should have is that al-Qaida is still out there in the world. They're in western Europe, they're in the United States, they're in Iraq.

Iraq is a part of global effort, a global war that al-Qaida and radical fundamental Muslims have been carrying on against us for some time. We didn't pay much attention to it for a while but we are now and we're finding there's a global war going on against us. And we better figure out a way to contain it because it's going to be with us for a long time after Iraq.”

Thompson has said publicly that he wants to be seen as “Reagan’s Heir.” Well, Senator, I think you're well on your way. Hopefully, the American people won’t fall for it a second time, though.

Show The Baby The Buffet!

A poll this summer showed that 50% of parents who have overweight children aren’t aware that their kids are too fat. Can I get a big collective Scooby Doo “huunh?” What exactly DO they think when they can only see PART of their child in the mirror. Or when Tubbers keeps his homework in the folds of his stomach? Love is blind, for sure, but really?

Maybe I should start a sideline career as a “fat spotter.” I could just walk up to those clueless parents in the mall or in line at the Popeye’s Fried Chicken and say something sensitive, like, “My, he’s a jumbo lad, isn’t he?” Or, “that’s quite a large ass for an eight year old.”

Then I’d ask for a dollar.

With 25 million kids in the US considered overweight or obese, I’d have my work cut out for me. But with stupid people making more fat babies every day, I smell a cottage industry. If “fat” and “cottage” aren’t oxymoronic. (me? I’m pan-moronic). Or maybe that smell is something else.

Or MAYBE I could be a child walker. People pay buttloads of money in New York to have others walk their dogs, why not walk fat children for a little folding money. The really good dog walkers use rollerblades and handle, like, eight dogs at a time. I wonder how many fat children I could wrangle at once? Maybe if I hooked them to the front of a red wagon and made them pull me around. I could dangle a Pop Tart on a string in front of them to keep them moving—I’d never need my car . . .You know, I think I’m onto something. I could solve childhood obesity and global warming with one solution. No cars, just fat kids pulling wagons. Except what do I do when they get skinny?

Throw Your Steroids Away, Boys. There’s a New Game in Town.

So a Johns Hopkins researcher has announced a breakthrough in muscle building. In mice. And from the pictures, it sure looks like a success. There you have one normal, average cute little mouse. And one beside him who looks like he works as a bouncer at mouse titty bar. The fucker’s huge. Not longer or taller, but just massive shoulders and glutes.

That sound you hear is muscle queens from WeHo to Chelsea spitting out their egg white omelettes and clearing space in the cupboard for new supplements.

Apparently it has something to do with myostatin and follestatin (no word on whether these people live on Staten Island, har, har, har!) which of course, is greek to me. Science is hard and confusing. There are no pretty colors and lab lights make your skin look awful. But I digress.

So, while there are all kinds of terrific possibilities to cure things like muscular dystrophy and “wasting" in AIDS patients, who are we kidding? This development is aimed squarely at the millions of Americans who want a more muscular physique. We’re talking gym rats and gym bunnies, not lab mice.

Now if they could just discover how to do this with brain cells . . .

I Wonder If All of His Stances Are Wide

Poor Senator Craig and his “wide stance.” Don’t you love it when a new phrase enters the vernacular immediately and permanently? “Wardrobe malfunction,” anyone? And of course, it couldn’t happen to a more deserving person. Deeply closeted, self-loathing and aggressively homophobic. Seen it a million times. We in the Tribe always invoke Shakespeare, “Thou dost protest too much.”

But on to the juice!! First off, did you see the pictures of the arresting officer? Pretty, pretty, pretty. So you likes ‘em young and blonde, eh Senator? You must be in a special little tortured hell at the Capitol. All those pretty little Naz—I mean Young Republicans running around. You probably like to “accidentally” drop things when they’re around, don’t you. Like the soap.

All denials to the contrary, NO ONE on this planet believes that an innocent person pleads guilty. And also sir, with all due respect (read: NONE) when you’ve already plead guilty, you can’t, by definition, claim you’re innocent. Plus, dude, you’ve had, what, almost three months to think up a cover story? And the best you can come up with is "I'm NOT gay. I never have been."

Let me offer my assistance.

“The floor was wet, so I took a wider stance than usual. But even with my precautions, including trying to hold myself steady by grasping the underside of the stall wall, I became unbalanced and fell to the floor. As my head slid under the partition, I opened my mouth to cry for assistance. Imagine my shock when the officer’s penis slid into my mouth. As I tried to extricate myself, the back of my head hit the bottom of the stall wall, forcing me back down on the officer’s throbbing manhood. It was really quite comical. My repeated attempts to disengage could perhaps have been interpreted as 'bobbing,' but it was completely innocent, I assure you. It was much more Lucy and Ethel than Will and Grace.”

Or, this:

“I am NOT gay!” He declared. “But I do love an occasional dick in my ass after a long flight.”


Uh, Senator . . . your flight is ready for departure.

That's Why It's Not Called a "Brains Pageant"

Of course, I can’t let it rest. Even after millions of YouTube viewings (probably half of which were me, laughing my ass off.)

I do have to say that I am thankful for the internet and the capability to expose this level of stupidity. As you all well know, I loves to kick back with a stiff drink or two (whatever. I hate math) and giggle at beauty pageants. It’s my long held dirty little secret. Don’t tell anyone, okay?

So seeing Miss South Carolina referring to “U.S. Americans” and “the Iraq” was not only pee-yourself funny, it’s pretty representative of most of the answers these girls give in these contests. Seriously. It’s a gold mine of unintentional laughs.

Poor Missy. Now she claims she was “in shock.” Honey, I’m pretty sure this wasn’t your first rodeo. So what was so shocking to you? The fact that so many of your peers couldn’t locate the U.S. on a map? Or the fact that Mario Lopez was more waxed and made up than you were?

Oh, and by the way . . . the problem isn’t that people don’t HAVE maps, dumbass. There’s not a burgeoning “mapless” population here. Although I’m surprised you didn’t recommend building some "mapless shelters," a place where people who didn’t know where they were could go for direction.

And speaking of maps, you’re going to need a good one to figure out your future. I for one would love to interview you. Can you imagine how she would respond to questioning?

ME: So, what qualifies you for this position?

HER: Well, um, like, when people, such as Secretaries or Garbage collectors, and world peace. Then, Peru and a tsunami and sadness. But hope is a beacon. The copy machine. Such as tragedy, but I want to help. In the cities and towns of all neighborhood Americans.

Of course, being the bitchy queen that I am, I wouldn’t end the interview there. No, I would ask a series of progressively obtuse questions, knowing that her Beauty Pageant DNA required her to answer in the most nonsensical way humanly possible. And I would record it for posterity. Or at least a few late night laughs when I’d exhausted my Tivo reservoir.

So, I wonder what her talent was?