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.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, November 26, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, November 23, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
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.
"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.
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