Monday, August 29, 2011
LUV, deux.
Since that last post was so long, I decided to give the second story it’s own little spot. Once again, on Southwest. This time with Paula Deen’s less successful sister as one of our flight attendants. GAWD, that molasses voice over the loudspeaker! I just wanted to slather myself in butter and beat somebody to death with some extra-crispy bacon. Yawwwl.
But it wasn’t her voice, as much as the one thing she did that just chaps my ass beyond all recognition (digression: can you chap an ass in assless chaps?). The lovely dumbass sitting in the bulkhead committed her first offense by putting her back further down the aisle, the backtracking to get the bulkhead seat.
Great. Now when the door opens, we’ll have to wait for Miss Einstein to block the aisle and fight the departing hoard like a horny Alaskan salmon to retrieve her bag. Of course, she was also bright enough to think she could put all of her personal belongings on the floor at her feet, an act that pretty much anyone who has ever even SEEN an airplane, knows is a no-no.
But L’il Deen was having NONE of it.
“Yew cain’t put yer bag there, hun. It’s gunna hafta go in tha overhead bee-uhn.”
When the woman looked at her quizzically, L’il punted. “Sorry. It’s not MY rule.”
Yes, you sorry sack of shit. It is absolutely YOUR rule. YOU are the airline. YOU (and all the other flight attendants in the world) make damn sure we all understand that you are NOT a sky hostess, but an important piece of the safety puzzle. YOU ARE responsible for maintaining a certain safety level in the cabin, and this exact issue is one of the primary safety precautions for which you are responsible.
Yes, I know that it’s waaaaay more important to be liked by a passenger, but come on. Own it. It’s your job. And your job means you support and enforce the rules, not undercut them with your own fear of being disliked.
I see this particular trait more and more across our great land. This unwillingness to accept responsibility, even when some unpleasantness ensues.
“It’s not MY fault!”
Yeah. It is. So very many things that are wrong with our country right now are your fault.
Of course, I had to walk right past her on my eager debarkation. I cringed as she said, “bah bye! Thank yewwww!”
Well, at least she got the “ewww” part right.
After the LUV is Gone
Air travel is always a great provider of stupid people in action. Lately, I have had the unfortunate occurrence of flying Southwest—the LUV airline—a couple of times. In general, I’m a big snobby queen about air travel. Even though I spend the vast majority of my time in coach, I prefer airlines where there is at least a possibility I could get upgraded and fly with what is usually a bunch of overweight traveling salesmen logging their 8 millionth mile of the year.
And that is decidedly NOT the Southwest model. Southwest is like Yokel Air now. Amateur travelers and Tea Party devotees, with a dash of Bumpkin Businessman for spice.
Back in the old days, Southwest was just easy and fun. It was no fuss, you jumped on, you jumped off and the cute young flight attendants were hired as much for their senses of humor as they were for their ability to actually attend.
Then apparently the hiring department of Southwest was taken over by the cast of Hee Haw. Jesus H. Christ, could they BE more cornpone. The made up songs, the banjo accents—I’m surprised they don’t sell tooth black out, fake freckles and pieces of straw in the company store.
But all of that pales in comparison to the surliness I experienced during a recent boarding.
The Beloved and I were flying back from a crazy weekend in LA (where we were entertained by a couple of Top Chefs, a Real Housewife, some real chefs and, of course, dear friends. When I printed out our boarding passes, his was A59. Not great, but not horrible. I printed mine out immediately after and it was A6. Suh-weet! I wasn’t sure how I had scored such a great boarding number, but figured it had something to do with the fact I had flown down at a different time, and perhaps my fare category was different.
As I’m standing in line, I notice another passenger has a boarding card for A6. Hmmm. As I hand my boarding pass to the gate agent and begin to head into the jetway, I notice that my card doesn’t ping it’s approval. Of course, I should have kept walking, but I turned to see what the problem was. The gate agent was standing there with a sullen look on her face.
“Is there a problem?” WHY? Why did I ask? Just get on the damn plane.
“Um … yeah. You’re not A6, you’re A60.” This made perfect sense, given that my Beloved’s number was 59. But that wasn’t what my card SAID.
“But it says A6.”
She pointed to a small number 60 in the lower corner of the boarding pass, then piled on, adding, “And it doesn’t say “Business Select.”
And it doesn’t say you have to be such a hateful cow, either. She sent me back to slot 60.
From my perspective—the perspective of the CUSTOMER—it shouldn’t be about what my fucking ticket DOESN’T say. It should be about what it does say. It wasn’t like the printer left off a zero. It was very clear that I had been assigned that number. And I’m sure I could have fought it, but it was late and I was tired and waiting in line with my Beloved is really a lovely way to spend time, so I didn’t protest.
My ticket also didn’t say that I wanted to be seated across from an absolutely horrible screaming child, spoiled rotten beyond belief, with a couple of ineffectual, milquetoast parents who mistook placation for punishment.
But that’s what I wound up with. And I was feeling the H8.
And that is decidedly NOT the Southwest model. Southwest is like Yokel Air now. Amateur travelers and Tea Party devotees, with a dash of Bumpkin Businessman for spice.
Back in the old days, Southwest was just easy and fun. It was no fuss, you jumped on, you jumped off and the cute young flight attendants were hired as much for their senses of humor as they were for their ability to actually attend.
Then apparently the hiring department of Southwest was taken over by the cast of Hee Haw. Jesus H. Christ, could they BE more cornpone. The made up songs, the banjo accents—I’m surprised they don’t sell tooth black out, fake freckles and pieces of straw in the company store.
But all of that pales in comparison to the surliness I experienced during a recent boarding.
The Beloved and I were flying back from a crazy weekend in LA (where we were entertained by a couple of Top Chefs, a Real Housewife, some real chefs and, of course, dear friends. When I printed out our boarding passes, his was A59. Not great, but not horrible. I printed mine out immediately after and it was A6. Suh-weet! I wasn’t sure how I had scored such a great boarding number, but figured it had something to do with the fact I had flown down at a different time, and perhaps my fare category was different.
As I’m standing in line, I notice another passenger has a boarding card for A6. Hmmm. As I hand my boarding pass to the gate agent and begin to head into the jetway, I notice that my card doesn’t ping it’s approval. Of course, I should have kept walking, but I turned to see what the problem was. The gate agent was standing there with a sullen look on her face.
“Is there a problem?” WHY? Why did I ask? Just get on the damn plane.
“Um … yeah. You’re not A6, you’re A60.” This made perfect sense, given that my Beloved’s number was 59. But that wasn’t what my card SAID.
“But it says A6.”
She pointed to a small number 60 in the lower corner of the boarding pass, then piled on, adding, “And it doesn’t say “Business Select.”
And it doesn’t say you have to be such a hateful cow, either. She sent me back to slot 60.
From my perspective—the perspective of the CUSTOMER—it shouldn’t be about what my fucking ticket DOESN’T say. It should be about what it does say. It wasn’t like the printer left off a zero. It was very clear that I had been assigned that number. And I’m sure I could have fought it, but it was late and I was tired and waiting in line with my Beloved is really a lovely way to spend time, so I didn’t protest.
My ticket also didn’t say that I wanted to be seated across from an absolutely horrible screaming child, spoiled rotten beyond belief, with a couple of ineffectual, milquetoast parents who mistook placation for punishment.
But that’s what I wound up with. And I was feeling the H8.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Who Likes White People?!
One of the reasons I was really wanting to get back to this blog was Cahngresswoman Michele Bachmann. You know, the utterly batshit crazy representative from Minnesota? Yeah, her.
(complete and utter digression, but whomever in the world came up with the nickname “Lady Bird” for Marcus Bachman, I will BLOW you, anytime, anyplace. Genius! Absolute perfection!)
So Mrs. Bachman gave a speech this weekend. And guess what her opening line was?
“Who likes white people?” (while raising her own damn hand).
I am NOT FUCKING KIDDING YOU.
Now, to be “fair and balanced” she was apparently following a band called the White People Soul Band
She continues with:
“I am Michelle Bachman and I am a member of Congress and I’m running for the Presidency of the United States…But I am here to talk tonight about the Creator of the Universe, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.” Whattywhafuckityfuck? No offense to my Jesusian friends, but I’m pret-tee sure that nobody EVER claimed Jesus was the Creator of the Universe. I’m pretty sure his dad gets the credit. God must feel like Robert Downey. Or Efrem Zimbalist (yeah, I dug back that far!) Or Thurston Howell, Jr.
Now, I am well aware that Mrs. Bachmann has a loose way with the facts, but isn’t she kinda running on the whole Christian platform? Isn’t she a certified Dominionist? So, is she just incredibly stupid or just incredibly careless?
Either way, I’m sure as hell not thinking those are very presidential traits. Of course, I would lit-rally move away if the "majority" of people in this country thought Mrs. Bachmann was more qualified, and had better leadership potential, than our sitting president.
Of course, I’d have to change the name of the blog to L’Attack of Le Stupid People. And no one wants that.
(complete and utter digression, but whomever in the world came up with the nickname “Lady Bird” for Marcus Bachman, I will BLOW you, anytime, anyplace. Genius! Absolute perfection!)
So Mrs. Bachman gave a speech this weekend. And guess what her opening line was?
“Who likes white people?” (while raising her own damn hand).
I am NOT FUCKING KIDDING YOU.
Now, to be “fair and balanced” she was apparently following a band called the White People Soul Band
She continues with:
“I am Michelle Bachman and I am a member of Congress and I’m running for the Presidency of the United States…But I am here to talk tonight about the Creator of the Universe, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.” Whattywhafuckityfuck? No offense to my Jesusian friends, but I’m pret-tee sure that nobody EVER claimed Jesus was the Creator of the Universe. I’m pretty sure his dad gets the credit. God must feel like Robert Downey. Or Efrem Zimbalist (yeah, I dug back that far!) Or Thurston Howell, Jr.
Now, I am well aware that Mrs. Bachmann has a loose way with the facts, but isn’t she kinda running on the whole Christian platform? Isn’t she a certified Dominionist? So, is she just incredibly stupid or just incredibly careless?
Either way, I’m sure as hell not thinking those are very presidential traits. Of course, I would lit-rally move away if the "majority" of people in this country thought Mrs. Bachmann was more qualified, and had better leadership potential, than our sitting president.
Of course, I’d have to change the name of the blog to L’Attack of Le Stupid People. And no one wants that.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
The Haves vs. The Have Nots
A few weeks ago, I had to make a trip to Los Angeles for a charity event one of my dearest, dearests was chairing. It was a kinda swanky event—an afternoon garden party at one of those big old movie star casas. Being the gigantic queen that I am, I decided that I couldn’t just drive up to the valet parker in ANY OLD CAR. No, no. Miss thing needed a luxury rental.
Upon arriving at the airport, I saw my “luxury” ride awaiting. A champagne colored Lincoln MKZ. Mary Sweet Mother of Jesus. What an ugly piece of grandmother shit. I thought for a moment about asking to swap, but then just went with it.
The interior was all burled, blonde wood and soft, buttercream leather. The car was essentially a Taurus playing dress up. And it was obviously designed for the blue-haired female population. I thought, “okay, I’m not THAT big a queen,” but accepted my fate and figured that I would probably still get some valet attitude.
The car was pretty tricked out, with gadgets and screens that no senior citizen would ever be able to navigate (yeah, I’m a hater. So what? I’ll be an AARP card-carrying senior before you know it. So I’m getting my licks in while I can.)
One feature I found particularly odd was an audible beep beep beep whenever the MKZ got too close to another car. This was usually in effect during parking maneuvers, but did sound off on other occasions.
For instance, when the homeless woman who was panhandling on the street got too close to my car. I almost laughed my ass off. The fucking alert went off. Cuz honey, nothing says luxury like protecting the occupants from the “undesirables.” The HORROR! Shudder to think.
Oh, and by the way… I almost forgot to mention—there was no valet parking at the event.
Serves me right.
Upon arriving at the airport, I saw my “luxury” ride awaiting. A champagne colored Lincoln MKZ. Mary Sweet Mother of Jesus. What an ugly piece of grandmother shit. I thought for a moment about asking to swap, but then just went with it.
The interior was all burled, blonde wood and soft, buttercream leather. The car was essentially a Taurus playing dress up. And it was obviously designed for the blue-haired female population. I thought, “okay, I’m not THAT big a queen,” but accepted my fate and figured that I would probably still get some valet attitude.
The car was pretty tricked out, with gadgets and screens that no senior citizen would ever be able to navigate (yeah, I’m a hater. So what? I’ll be an AARP card-carrying senior before you know it. So I’m getting my licks in while I can.)
One feature I found particularly odd was an audible beep beep beep whenever the MKZ got too close to another car. This was usually in effect during parking maneuvers, but did sound off on other occasions.
For instance, when the homeless woman who was panhandling on the street got too close to my car. I almost laughed my ass off. The fucking alert went off. Cuz honey, nothing says luxury like protecting the occupants from the “undesirables.” The HORROR! Shudder to think.
Oh, and by the way… I almost forgot to mention—there was no valet parking at the event.
Serves me right.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Orange With Envy
I know this is old territory, but doesn't John Boehner have someone to tell him to shut off the mystic tan? Does he not have an iPhone? You can set all kinds of alerts that will prevent you from overdoing it.
Of course, Speaker Boehner obviously has a problem. Tanorexia, while generally the province of bored, underachieving, purge-prone starlets and sorority girls, is a serious issue. And I think Speaker Boehner would make an excellent national spokesperson. If only he could use his bully pulpit for good and not evil. I mean, the motherfucker can cry ON CUE. Can you imagine how powerful his PSA's would be for the cause? Dude, you don't even have to pick a color for the cause-it's already written on your face.
But apparently, he doesn't recognize that he has a problem.
Who knows, maybe he wanted to be a carrot when he grew up. Either that, or there's an Oompah Loompah in the woodpile.
Of course, Speaker Boehner obviously has a problem. Tanorexia, while generally the province of bored, underachieving, purge-prone starlets and sorority girls, is a serious issue. And I think Speaker Boehner would make an excellent national spokesperson. If only he could use his bully pulpit for good and not evil. I mean, the motherfucker can cry ON CUE. Can you imagine how powerful his PSA's would be for the cause? Dude, you don't even have to pick a color for the cause-it's already written on your face.
But apparently, he doesn't recognize that he has a problem.
Who knows, maybe he wanted to be a carrot when he grew up. Either that, or there's an Oompah Loompah in the woodpile.
A Month of Sundays
When I was growing up, my people would use that phrase when they hadn't seen anyone in a while. "Why I haven't seen you in a month of Sundays!" For some reason, maybe because Sundays were "holy," it always seemed like one of those subtle Southern backhanded chides. "Bless her heart" is probably the most common of these, but "a month of Sundays?" It always seemed like an accusation that you hadn't been to church in 30 weeks or so.
Looking back at my last post on this site, I realize it's been 29 Sundays since I added my voice to the din. So let's call it a "Leap Year February of Sundays" or just, "too damn long."
So for anyone who still actually checks this site, let me say "thanks and keep checking back." I can't possibly sit out the craziness and gigantic attacks of the stupid that are going on all around us. Rick Perry actually contending for the Presidency? Stupid. Michelle Bachmann being taken seriously? Too Stupid. Marcus Bachmann? Girrrrl, stupid.
But it's not just the Republicans and Tea Baggers we need to worry about. There are plenty, plenty, plenty of targets out there, just ripening to the point of rupture. And feel like poppin' some balloons. Are you with me?
Looking back at my last post on this site, I realize it's been 29 Sundays since I added my voice to the din. So let's call it a "Leap Year February of Sundays" or just, "too damn long."
So for anyone who still actually checks this site, let me say "thanks and keep checking back." I can't possibly sit out the craziness and gigantic attacks of the stupid that are going on all around us. Rick Perry actually contending for the Presidency? Stupid. Michelle Bachmann being taken seriously? Too Stupid. Marcus Bachmann? Girrrrl, stupid.
But it's not just the Republicans and Tea Baggers we need to worry about. There are plenty, plenty, plenty of targets out there, just ripening to the point of rupture. And feel like poppin' some balloons. Are you with me?
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Whisper to a Scream
Here in NorCal, we have a chain of sub shops called ToGo. Long o’s. I mean, sure you can take them to go, but that’s not how you say it. It’s Toe Go. Anyway . . .
I’m in line at the ToGo yesterday, waiting on my delicious #20 with prov. There’s a line of people waiting, but service is smooth and we’re all in a “kumbaya, gimme my sammy” kinda place. Then this adorable young mother walks in with her two beautiful children (seriously) and walks right around the line to the phone-in order counter.
I gave her a side-eye, just to make sure she wasn’t cutting, but one of the clerks asked if she had a phone order.
“YEAH! IT’S UNDER LESLIE!” she screamed at the clerk. Now the joint was a bit noisy, but, bitch please. The man is two feet away from your face. And I’m 8 inches away from your blow hole.
She continued, “IT WAS TWO SANDWICHES! I ALSO NEED CHIPS AND A DRINK!” She said this last part as she reached around my back to the chip rack.
Lucky me! I get your shriek in stereo now.
Enough was enough. I turned to her, leaned in where she could hear me plainly without shouting, smiled my southern beauty queen smile and said, “Inside voice.”
She looked at me like I had shot her. But she piped down.
Damn, that sandwich was good.
I’m in line at the ToGo yesterday, waiting on my delicious #20 with prov. There’s a line of people waiting, but service is smooth and we’re all in a “kumbaya, gimme my sammy” kinda place. Then this adorable young mother walks in with her two beautiful children (seriously) and walks right around the line to the phone-in order counter.
I gave her a side-eye, just to make sure she wasn’t cutting, but one of the clerks asked if she had a phone order.
“YEAH! IT’S UNDER LESLIE!” she screamed at the clerk. Now the joint was a bit noisy, but, bitch please. The man is two feet away from your face. And I’m 8 inches away from your blow hole.
She continued, “IT WAS TWO SANDWICHES! I ALSO NEED CHIPS AND A DRINK!” She said this last part as she reached around my back to the chip rack.
Lucky me! I get your shriek in stereo now.
Enough was enough. I turned to her, leaned in where she could hear me plainly without shouting, smiled my southern beauty queen smile and said, “Inside voice.”
She looked at me like I had shot her. But she piped down.
Damn, that sandwich was good.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Salty Tears at the Beach
So, after a wild ride of a year, my Beloved surprised me and the now almost 13 year-old offspring with a well-needed trip to Maui (apparently, Paris HIlton was there too, but thankfully there was no sighting). After asking around for all the "must do's" we planted our fat asses firmly in the sand outside our hotel room and never moved unless food or drink was involved. We splurged on those gay little beach chair duos with the pull-up canopy (they called them "cabanas" just to make them even gayer, but darlings, you might want to google "French Riviera" and see what a real cabana is). To complete the visual, wrapped a sarong artfully around my rotundity, perched a large, floppy straw hat on my pate and donned sunglasses large enough to serve dinner on. It was a look that screamed, "yes, I'm famous. And NO, you may not talk to me."
Shortly, a couple in their mid-50's, AND THEIR TEN YEAR-OLD SON (I'm sure offspring seemed like SUCH a good idea in your mid 40's), plopped their assets down on a "cabana" immediately to my right. Now, knowing that a couple of old queens are hardly the ideal playmate for an almost 13 year-old (unless of course, said queens are Catholic priests), I immediately thought young Kieran might like to meet The Offspring. Two only children forging a bond over sandy shorts and ugly sea shells. Ahhh!
The kids dashed off to play in the surf and I went back to eavesdrop--I mean, relaxing. Apparently, Kieran's last name is Bickerson, because SWEET JESUS every word that came out of these people's mouths was cutting. Apparently even a task as menial as brushing sand off of a beach chair was not done properly.
Bitch, bitch, bitch. Bicker, bicker, bicker. I was just about to say, "Excuse me, this is my fucking VACATION. If I wanted to listen to bickering, I would just call up a co-worker." Then a bottle of wine magically appeared. And disappeared. Not the bottle. Just the wine. And the bickering turned into arguing.
What? Time for lunch already? I adjusted my sarong and headed to the bar. After a delicious repast, I returned to the beach. Mr. Bickerson was now nowhere in sight. His stuff was gone, too. All that was left was a sobbing Mrs. Bickerson. Excuse me, a DRUNK-ON-HER-ASS-sobbing Mrs. Bickerson. A drunk-on-her-ass-sobbing Mrs. Bickerson, clutching her 10-year old to her bosom while she sobbed her salty, wine-fueled tears of desperation and, I presume, divorce.
Man, I hope they are putting as much money away for kid therapy as they are for booze. Soon, Mrs. B passed out cold. YAY!!!
Now don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good sideshow as much as the next guy, but seriously. Kieran began frolicking in the waves like he hadn't a care in the world. I could only assume that he was well-practiced in this particular routine. Mrs. B soon awoke from her fitful slumber, stumbled down the beach and fell into the water. I would have laughed if it hadn't been so pathetic. (Okay, I DID laugh, but discreetly.)
Soon, Mrs. B was clutching her child to her heaving chest, adding a little more salt water to what was already an ocean full. And this was the beginning of their two week vacation.
Shortly, a couple in their mid-50's, AND THEIR TEN YEAR-OLD SON (I'm sure offspring seemed like SUCH a good idea in your mid 40's), plopped their assets down on a "cabana" immediately to my right. Now, knowing that a couple of old queens are hardly the ideal playmate for an almost 13 year-old (unless of course, said queens are Catholic priests), I immediately thought young Kieran might like to meet The Offspring. Two only children forging a bond over sandy shorts and ugly sea shells. Ahhh!
The kids dashed off to play in the surf and I went back to eavesdrop--I mean, relaxing. Apparently, Kieran's last name is Bickerson, because SWEET JESUS every word that came out of these people's mouths was cutting. Apparently even a task as menial as brushing sand off of a beach chair was not done properly.
Bitch, bitch, bitch. Bicker, bicker, bicker. I was just about to say, "Excuse me, this is my fucking VACATION. If I wanted to listen to bickering, I would just call up a co-worker." Then a bottle of wine magically appeared. And disappeared. Not the bottle. Just the wine. And the bickering turned into arguing.
What? Time for lunch already? I adjusted my sarong and headed to the bar. After a delicious repast, I returned to the beach. Mr. Bickerson was now nowhere in sight. His stuff was gone, too. All that was left was a sobbing Mrs. Bickerson. Excuse me, a DRUNK-ON-HER-ASS-sobbing Mrs. Bickerson. A drunk-on-her-ass-sobbing Mrs. Bickerson, clutching her 10-year old to her bosom while she sobbed her salty, wine-fueled tears of desperation and, I presume, divorce.
Man, I hope they are putting as much money away for kid therapy as they are for booze. Soon, Mrs. B passed out cold. YAY!!!
Now don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good sideshow as much as the next guy, but seriously. Kieran began frolicking in the waves like he hadn't a care in the world. I could only assume that he was well-practiced in this particular routine. Mrs. B soon awoke from her fitful slumber, stumbled down the beach and fell into the water. I would have laughed if it hadn't been so pathetic. (Okay, I DID laugh, but discreetly.)
Soon, Mrs. B was clutching her child to her heaving chest, adding a little more salt water to what was already an ocean full. And this was the beginning of their two week vacation.
In All Things, Balance
So . . . anybody still out there? Yeah, I know. I suck. The good news is, it was SUCH an amazing and productive 2010 that there simply wasn't a lot of bandwidth for personal projects like this here bloggy thingy. But I missed it oh so much. The bad news? Work is still ginning along at rocket speed (I guess that's really good news, but you know what I mean).
In the spirit of the new year, however, I am resolving to refresh and relaunch AOTSP. However, I am also trying to be a kinder, gentler person, so you can see the inherent conflict I'm facing. Oh, well, if I have to break a resolution . . .
Therefore I am in deep, secret negotiations to do all kinds of fancy thangs here. So stay tuned. If you're there.
Meanwhile, I'm going to start posting again. Starting here! Starting now!
xoxo and Happy New Year,
Seamus O'Pine
In the spirit of the new year, however, I am resolving to refresh and relaunch AOTSP. However, I am also trying to be a kinder, gentler person, so you can see the inherent conflict I'm facing. Oh, well, if I have to break a resolution . . .
Therefore I am in deep, secret negotiations to do all kinds of fancy thangs here. So stay tuned. If you're there.
Meanwhile, I'm going to start posting again. Starting here! Starting now!
xoxo and Happy New Year,
Seamus O'Pine
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Witchy Poo and the Amendments, or What’s in First?
So, witch-dabbler, Teabagger Senate candidate and walking punchline Christine O’DonnelL appeared on a local radio station in Delaware to spread her message of enlightened ignorance. As usually happens these days, the radio interview was also videotaped (most radio shows have live webcams of their broadcasts).
The O’Donnell campaign was apoplectic (that means “really mad,” Christine—don’t sue me!) and demanded that the video be turned over and destroyed. (Uh, pick one. They can’t turn it over AND destroy it. Chain of custody. Dumb ass.)
The best part was when O’Donnell’s attorney (I’m picturing a baby-faced ideologue with a third-rate law degree in an ill-fitting hand me down suit) called the station to say he would “crush” them with a lawsuit if they didn’t turn the tape over.
The stations attorney apparently suggested that the campaign lawyer might need a bottle and a nap—and maybe a refresher first year constitutional law class. Because, you see, there is nothing illegal about videotaping a guest on a radio show. In fact, the action is protected by the First Amendment.
Apparently, when told of the response, Christine (the candidate, not the haunted car) rolled her eyes and said, “THAT’S in the First Amendment?!?!?” When told that, in fact, it was, O’Donnell said. “Somebody get me a copy of that thing. What the fuck ISN’T in there?”
If you’ll recall, Ms. O’Donnell (who apparently thinks her first name means she’s related to Christ) has been having lots of confusion about the First Amendment lately. Given all the new information she’s been getting lately, it wouldn’t surprise me if the crazy lady decides to “plead the first” the next time she doesn’t want to answer a difficult question.
Seriously, people, can you imagine this woman in the Senate? I mean, sure, we’d have a few laughs as we watched h the American empire continue to crumble on the shoulders of the O’Donnells and Angles. It would certainly give me plenty of blog fodder. But honestly, shouldn’t John Cornyn really be the low water mark for a Senator? Anything worse than Cornyn should be against the law. Isn’t that in the first amendment?
The O’Donnell campaign was apoplectic (that means “really mad,” Christine—don’t sue me!) and demanded that the video be turned over and destroyed. (Uh, pick one. They can’t turn it over AND destroy it. Chain of custody. Dumb ass.)
The best part was when O’Donnell’s attorney (I’m picturing a baby-faced ideologue with a third-rate law degree in an ill-fitting hand me down suit) called the station to say he would “crush” them with a lawsuit if they didn’t turn the tape over.
The stations attorney apparently suggested that the campaign lawyer might need a bottle and a nap—and maybe a refresher first year constitutional law class. Because, you see, there is nothing illegal about videotaping a guest on a radio show. In fact, the action is protected by the First Amendment.
Apparently, when told of the response, Christine (the candidate, not the haunted car) rolled her eyes and said, “THAT’S in the First Amendment?!?!?” When told that, in fact, it was, O’Donnell said. “Somebody get me a copy of that thing. What the fuck ISN’T in there?”
If you’ll recall, Ms. O’Donnell (who apparently thinks her first name means she’s related to Christ) has been having lots of confusion about the First Amendment lately. Given all the new information she’s been getting lately, it wouldn’t surprise me if the crazy lady decides to “plead the first” the next time she doesn’t want to answer a difficult question.
Seriously, people, can you imagine this woman in the Senate? I mean, sure, we’d have a few laughs as we watched h the American empire continue to crumble on the shoulders of the O’Donnells and Angles. It would certainly give me plenty of blog fodder. But honestly, shouldn’t John Cornyn really be the low water mark for a Senator? Anything worse than Cornyn should be against the law. Isn’t that in the first amendment?
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Okie Smokie
Yesterday, the state of Arizona executed convicted killer Jeffrey Landrigan. His final words were “Boomer Sooners!” OU’s official response was, “riiiight. Like YOU have a college education.” Funny, but I would have thought from his picture that a cry of "soooooooooeeeeee! Pig! Pig! Pig!" would have been a much more likely finale.
As a University of Texas alum, it crossed my mind that being an OU alum shouldn’t be a crime worthy of the death penalty. Especially since being an OU alum is a bit like a life sentence anyway.
And before you start thinking, “what a stupid murderer,” consider this: he was smart enough to escape from an Oklahoma prison.
{Probably when they asked for his papers in Arizona and he pulled out a pack of Zig-Zag, they decided he was too stupid to live there. That's saying something.)
Oh yeah! He had steak for his last meal. Dude, don't you know that shit will stay in your colon FOREVER!
As a University of Texas alum, it crossed my mind that being an OU alum shouldn’t be a crime worthy of the death penalty. Especially since being an OU alum is a bit like a life sentence anyway.
And before you start thinking, “what a stupid murderer,” consider this: he was smart enough to escape from an Oklahoma prison.
{Probably when they asked for his papers in Arizona and he pulled out a pack of Zig-Zag, they decided he was too stupid to live there. That's saying something.)
Oh yeah! He had steak for his last meal. Dude, don't you know that shit will stay in your colon FOREVER!
Friday, October 22, 2010
The Hollow Promise of Hope
I’m confounded by our President. Yesterday, he released a message for the “It Gets Better” campaign, the now rampant effort started by Dan Savage to help victims of bullying keep the faith. Loads of Hollywood types have already chimed in here, and even a Fort Worth City Council member delivered a heartfelt and tearful personal plea from the dais last week. All good stuff.
I will even let it slide that he’s a bit late to the party (Can’t say “tardy,” people. No free bad wig promotions here. At least not today.) Politicians are notorious for checking the temperature of the water before they wade in like it was a bubble bath or something. No, what really, really gets me is that our President is CONTRIBUTING to the atmosphere that tells bullies “it’s okay to pick on the fag kids.”
President Obama has pledged to end Don’t Ask Don’t Tell in our military. As with so many issues of concern to the gay community, the debate around DADT and it’s potential repeal have centered on the interaction in the ranks between heteros and homos, the tension in the showers for the men (nobody seems to care about lesbians in the women’s ranks—probably because some General thinks that’s hot) and the accompanying morale problems. Even though every single country that has allowed gay and lesbian soldiers to serve openly has had almost no integration issues, the smartest, greatest country on earth continues to cave in to the basest fears, no matter how irrational.
Each branch of our armed services prides itself on “molding” its men and women—teaching them, ingraining in them that they don’t question orders. They react. When told to jump, they say “how high?” And then they go for a run while singing nursery school rhymes (I don’t know, but I’ve been told . . .)
But let’s forget all of that for a moment. The Pentagon is busy “studying” the repeal and its impact. Uh huh. Like they haven’t already studied the shit out of this issue. But it’s just before a mid-term election and the nutwings and asshats are out in full force. Talk about Halloween coming early!
And then SOME JUDGE (and tell me when, exactly, it became okay to criticize the role of judges? Are some of you constitutional realists forgetting that there are THREE branches of government, each empowered to check the others? Dumbfuckery) decides to say that DADT is discriminatory and therefore must be struck down. Good on ya, Judge. That’s exactly why you’re there. To check the political cowardice/gamesmanship from the other two branches.
Sooooo, you would think the Obama administration would use the moment to avoid the political fallout. “We would have preferred a legislative solution . . . but what can you do?” would have walked that fine middle line. Problem solved. They take no heat.
But they decided to appeal. They decided to appeal a decision they think is right, something they were already planning to do. (Let’s not even talk about how DADT was done by Executive Order. Doesn’t that mean that it could simply be UNDONE by Executive Order?)
Mr. President, the message you are sending is that STILL, somehow, Gays and Lesbians are "less than." And THAT, sir, is precisely why some kids feel it's okay to bully them. And PRECISELY why, too many of those kids are taking their own lives. How would you feel, sir, if YOUR government leaders sent a message that it was okay to bully Sasha and Malia every day for being African-American. I'm sure none of that goes on at Sidwell Friends. But it would be wrong. Wrong in every way.
We need your LEADERSHIP ON THIS. Take off your underoos and put on your big boy pants.
This President was elected on a platform of HOPE. And I hoped that he would be the best President ever. I have defended him against his detractors, begged for time, asked for a long view. Now I can’t even ask those things of myself. I’m losing hope quickly, because I thought, of all people, THIS President just might do what was RIGHT, rather than what was politically expedient.
Especially since he doesn’t seem to be able to manage the politics very well.
I will even let it slide that he’s a bit late to the party (Can’t say “tardy,” people. No free bad wig promotions here. At least not today.) Politicians are notorious for checking the temperature of the water before they wade in like it was a bubble bath or something. No, what really, really gets me is that our President is CONTRIBUTING to the atmosphere that tells bullies “it’s okay to pick on the fag kids.”
President Obama has pledged to end Don’t Ask Don’t Tell in our military. As with so many issues of concern to the gay community, the debate around DADT and it’s potential repeal have centered on the interaction in the ranks between heteros and homos, the tension in the showers for the men (nobody seems to care about lesbians in the women’s ranks—probably because some General thinks that’s hot) and the accompanying morale problems. Even though every single country that has allowed gay and lesbian soldiers to serve openly has had almost no integration issues, the smartest, greatest country on earth continues to cave in to the basest fears, no matter how irrational.
Each branch of our armed services prides itself on “molding” its men and women—teaching them, ingraining in them that they don’t question orders. They react. When told to jump, they say “how high?” And then they go for a run while singing nursery school rhymes (I don’t know, but I’ve been told . . .)
But let’s forget all of that for a moment. The Pentagon is busy “studying” the repeal and its impact. Uh huh. Like they haven’t already studied the shit out of this issue. But it’s just before a mid-term election and the nutwings and asshats are out in full force. Talk about Halloween coming early!
And then SOME JUDGE (and tell me when, exactly, it became okay to criticize the role of judges? Are some of you constitutional realists forgetting that there are THREE branches of government, each empowered to check the others? Dumbfuckery) decides to say that DADT is discriminatory and therefore must be struck down. Good on ya, Judge. That’s exactly why you’re there. To check the political cowardice/gamesmanship from the other two branches.
Sooooo, you would think the Obama administration would use the moment to avoid the political fallout. “We would have preferred a legislative solution . . . but what can you do?” would have walked that fine middle line. Problem solved. They take no heat.
But they decided to appeal. They decided to appeal a decision they think is right, something they were already planning to do. (Let’s not even talk about how DADT was done by Executive Order. Doesn’t that mean that it could simply be UNDONE by Executive Order?)
Mr. President, the message you are sending is that STILL, somehow, Gays and Lesbians are "less than." And THAT, sir, is precisely why some kids feel it's okay to bully them. And PRECISELY why, too many of those kids are taking their own lives. How would you feel, sir, if YOUR government leaders sent a message that it was okay to bully Sasha and Malia every day for being African-American. I'm sure none of that goes on at Sidwell Friends. But it would be wrong. Wrong in every way.
We need your LEADERSHIP ON THIS. Take off your underoos and put on your big boy pants.
This President was elected on a platform of HOPE. And I hoped that he would be the best President ever. I have defended him against his detractors, begged for time, asked for a long view. Now I can’t even ask those things of myself. I’m losing hope quickly, because I thought, of all people, THIS President just might do what was RIGHT, rather than what was politically expedient.
Especially since he doesn’t seem to be able to manage the politics very well.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Good Morning, Senator Asshat! Good day, Governor Nutjob!
It’s been a long time since I dropped anything here. In case there’s anyone left still checking in, lo siento mucho. Not sure what killed my stupid gag reflex, maybe the California summer, maybe the fact that I’m actually doing paying work. (Who knew you could actually make $$$ from this blogging thing?)
Lately though, I have begun suffering from Stupid Tourette’s. Are you fucking kidding me? I take a few months off and the US of A LOSES ITS FUCKING MIND?
Christine O’Donnell? FUCK! Carl Paladino? MOTHERFUCKER! Sharon Angle? FUCKITY FUCK FUCK! Certifiably crazy and spewing complete and utter horseshit. In any other election cycle, these people would be the candidates from the “Bless Your Heart” party. Yet here they are as major party nominees for GINORMOUS public offices. Also, does anyone else think Meg Whitman looks like Kristin Wiig’s character with the tiny hands from SNL? Maybe she can sell ad space on that forehead to pay off campaign debt. Or, if she actually wins (shudder) maybe use it for PSAs against gay marriage. If she IS elected, I’m going to be watching closely to see if a tiny hand creeps out to lay on that bible.
And apparently gay is the new black. Rachel Maddow did an entire segment last night about how the same tactics are being employed in 2010 as in 1964, with gay civil rights now being the straw man as Satan’s Little Helper, with full on rehashed Jim Crow-esque philosophies being espoused. WTF?
Have all the smart people left the building? Hello? Anyone?
I remember when facts were the ultimate trump card. The “gotcha” moments were when a candidate was caught getting the facts wrong and was turned out publicly. Now, Tea Party candidates simultaneously mock the fact that a smart candidate thinks the separation of church and state is laid out in the 1st Amendment (it is!) and tries to block the press from covering events in Alaska. Ummm, maybe those words don’t mean what you think they mean.
As for me, I think I’m going to have plenty to comment on for the next few . . .
Lately though, I have begun suffering from Stupid Tourette’s. Are you fucking kidding me? I take a few months off and the US of A LOSES ITS FUCKING MIND?
Christine O’Donnell? FUCK! Carl Paladino? MOTHERFUCKER! Sharon Angle? FUCKITY FUCK FUCK! Certifiably crazy and spewing complete and utter horseshit. In any other election cycle, these people would be the candidates from the “Bless Your Heart” party. Yet here they are as major party nominees for GINORMOUS public offices. Also, does anyone else think Meg Whitman looks like Kristin Wiig’s character with the tiny hands from SNL? Maybe she can sell ad space on that forehead to pay off campaign debt. Or, if she actually wins (shudder) maybe use it for PSAs against gay marriage. If she IS elected, I’m going to be watching closely to see if a tiny hand creeps out to lay on that bible.
And apparently gay is the new black. Rachel Maddow did an entire segment last night about how the same tactics are being employed in 2010 as in 1964, with gay civil rights now being the straw man as Satan’s Little Helper, with full on rehashed Jim Crow-esque philosophies being espoused. WTF?
Have all the smart people left the building? Hello? Anyone?
I remember when facts were the ultimate trump card. The “gotcha” moments were when a candidate was caught getting the facts wrong and was turned out publicly. Now, Tea Party candidates simultaneously mock the fact that a smart candidate thinks the separation of church and state is laid out in the 1st Amendment (it is!) and tries to block the press from covering events in Alaska. Ummm, maybe those words don’t mean what you think they mean.
As for me, I think I’m going to have plenty to comment on for the next few . . .
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Who Still Barks?
I was just watching a clip from the rehearsals for Neil Patrick Harris’ production of Rent, which goes up at the Hollywood Bowl this weekend only. It’s pretty much an all-star cast (“all-star” meaning “Dancing With the Stars” caliber) but they were knocking the vocals out the park.
The tune they were working on ended and the people present at the rehearsal applauded enthusiastically. And someone barked.
You know, the old Arsenio Hall Dawg Pound bark. The one that was originally accompanied by an odd circular motioned fist pump. And it made me wonder, who the fuck still barks?
I mean you always hear it, but who actually does it? What’s the bark demographic? In my mind it’s the Jon Gosselins and Michael Lohans of the world. The backward baseball cap and Ed Hardy wearers. Or maybe it’s just someone’s retarded cousin who gets to go to lots of events.
Seriously though, it’s the opposite of tough. It makes you look like such a pussy. Even if you’re a lesbian. It hasn’t been cool since White Zinfandel was on wine lists. It’s the Tequiza of enthusiasm.
And you know when I’m disparaging an alcoholic beverage of any sort, it’s serious.
So do me a favor. Save your barking for a full moon. At a campsite. With the guys. Over a cold Tequiza.
The tune they were working on ended and the people present at the rehearsal applauded enthusiastically. And someone barked.
You know, the old Arsenio Hall Dawg Pound bark. The one that was originally accompanied by an odd circular motioned fist pump. And it made me wonder, who the fuck still barks?
I mean you always hear it, but who actually does it? What’s the bark demographic? In my mind it’s the Jon Gosselins and Michael Lohans of the world. The backward baseball cap and Ed Hardy wearers. Or maybe it’s just someone’s retarded cousin who gets to go to lots of events.
Seriously though, it’s the opposite of tough. It makes you look like such a pussy. Even if you’re a lesbian. It hasn’t been cool since White Zinfandel was on wine lists. It’s the Tequiza of enthusiasm.
And you know when I’m disparaging an alcoholic beverage of any sort, it’s serious.
So do me a favor. Save your barking for a full moon. At a campsite. With the guys. Over a cold Tequiza.
Monday, June 14, 2010
God’s Will
One of the more . . . interesting . . . things to come out of the BP disaster is the right wing insistence that this is somehow the liberals’ fault, or my favorite, “an act of God.”
Mmm, hmm! ‘Cause God is in the oil business you know. I'm pretty sure that if God wanted oil all over the fucking place, he would have drilled those holes himself.
But then I started thinking. You know there are an awful lot of “acts of God” that seem to especially victimize the South. Hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, humidity, televangelists. I could go on, but you get the picture. God obviously hates the South.
But wait a minute? Isn’t the South all red states? Isn’t the South the bastion of conservatism, especially religious and way too busy minding other people’s business?
Holy Shit! God hates religious conservatives and red staters! How could I have missed this? It’s so obvious.
Maybe all that “God’s will” you keep talking about is actually taking his name in vain. And that’s a pretty big sin according to that book you like to thump around.
Glory, indeed.
Mmm, hmm! ‘Cause God is in the oil business you know. I'm pretty sure that if God wanted oil all over the fucking place, he would have drilled those holes himself.
But then I started thinking. You know there are an awful lot of “acts of God” that seem to especially victimize the South. Hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, humidity, televangelists. I could go on, but you get the picture. God obviously hates the South.
But wait a minute? Isn’t the South all red states? Isn’t the South the bastion of conservatism, especially religious and way too busy minding other people’s business?
Holy Shit! God hates religious conservatives and red staters! How could I have missed this? It’s so obvious.
Maybe all that “God’s will” you keep talking about is actually taking his name in vain. And that’s a pretty big sin according to that book you like to thump around.
Glory, indeed.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Throw Mama From the Plane!
So we’re on the way back from our brief respite, flying out of Wide Stance International Airport (also known as Minneapolis/St. Paul). I am, of course, like a kid in a candy store. I love airports. I love watching people in airports (can’t imagine why?!?!).
Our gate was near the end of a moving sidewalk. The origin of said sidewalk was out of sight, but I can only imagine the origins of this particular cluster. As I watched, an entire family came into view. Three generations, led by Grandma, closely followed by the married couple and grandkids. Actually, I should say they were led by Grandma’s WALKER. That’s right, they put grandma on a moving sidewalk . . . WITH HER WALKER!!
Cue disaster! Cue hilarity! Cuz, bitches, pretty soon that sidewalk ends. And ya gots to get off. Grandma and her walker had NO CHANCE. Apparently, they were an especially close-knit family, since they were giving each other essentially zero personal space. I’m all for family ties, but in this instance it was a bad, bad idea.
As Grandma struggled mightily to put her history of ambulation to use and stay upgright while exiting, the rest of the family plowed into her (guess they never thought to walk backward). Literally they all wound up in a giant pile at the end of the moving sidewalk, Grandma on bottom.
Fortunately, no one was hurt. Except for me. I slightly pulled a muscle turning away so they wouldn’t see me laughing.
And yes, once again, I’m aware that I’m doomed to the fiery pits of hell. We’re on the same flight.
Our gate was near the end of a moving sidewalk. The origin of said sidewalk was out of sight, but I can only imagine the origins of this particular cluster. As I watched, an entire family came into view. Three generations, led by Grandma, closely followed by the married couple and grandkids. Actually, I should say they were led by Grandma’s WALKER. That’s right, they put grandma on a moving sidewalk . . . WITH HER WALKER!!
Cue disaster! Cue hilarity! Cuz, bitches, pretty soon that sidewalk ends. And ya gots to get off. Grandma and her walker had NO CHANCE. Apparently, they were an especially close-knit family, since they were giving each other essentially zero personal space. I’m all for family ties, but in this instance it was a bad, bad idea.
As Grandma struggled mightily to put her history of ambulation to use and stay upgright while exiting, the rest of the family plowed into her (guess they never thought to walk backward). Literally they all wound up in a giant pile at the end of the moving sidewalk, Grandma on bottom.
Fortunately, no one was hurt. Except for me. I slightly pulled a muscle turning away so they wouldn’t see me laughing.
And yes, once again, I’m aware that I’m doomed to the fiery pits of hell. We’re on the same flight.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
The Mosquito Cost
Sometimes I am a diva. This will come as a complete shock to . . .absolutely no one. While I apply my Southern Belle upbringing in wide swaths, I have moments where my actions and intentions don’t exactly go together.
Take this holiday weekend. My proscritos del norte invited us to join the family at their cabin in the woods of northern Wisconsin, on the shores of Lake Superior. Beautiful. Bucolic. Relaxing. Inviting. All the things you’d want from a brief respite. Except for the SWARMS of mosquitoes. Billions by my quick mathematical calculations (#of actual mosquitoes minus futile fanning divided by degree of exasperation time degree of exaggeration). It was ridiculous.
I don’t know, maybe it was the margaritas or maybe it was being so close to Canada that I got to thinking I was Celine Dion carrying prefab twins or something, but I fished out my metaphorical Marie Antoinette wig and boldy took action: I decided to pay the offspring to kill the mosquitos.
A dollar.
Per mosquito.
Uh-huh, I know.
Who knew that a 12 year old could be a killing machine. Two hundred mosquitoes later and daddy is thinking “that coulda been a bar tab instead of a mass hit on the Cheeshead mosquito population.” Hell, I may have to go give blood a few times to scrape that together. Should have just given it to the mosquitoes and cut out the middlemen.
Take this holiday weekend. My proscritos del norte invited us to join the family at their cabin in the woods of northern Wisconsin, on the shores of Lake Superior. Beautiful. Bucolic. Relaxing. Inviting. All the things you’d want from a brief respite. Except for the SWARMS of mosquitoes. Billions by my quick mathematical calculations (#of actual mosquitoes minus futile fanning divided by degree of exasperation time degree of exaggeration). It was ridiculous.
I don’t know, maybe it was the margaritas or maybe it was being so close to Canada that I got to thinking I was Celine Dion carrying prefab twins or something, but I fished out my metaphorical Marie Antoinette wig and boldy took action: I decided to pay the offspring to kill the mosquitos.
A dollar.
Per mosquito.
Uh-huh, I know.
Who knew that a 12 year old could be a killing machine. Two hundred mosquitoes later and daddy is thinking “that coulda been a bar tab instead of a mass hit on the Cheeshead mosquito population.” Hell, I may have to go give blood a few times to scrape that together. Should have just given it to the mosquitoes and cut out the middlemen.
Friday, May 21, 2010
The Gentleman from Georgia
Sigh. You know, it’s not just the Republicans in this country who weren’t paying attention in science class (because they thought the Debbil would get them for learning about evolution) but apparently a certain Democratic congressman from Georgia. And he even comes complete with a rube name, Hank Johnson.
In a hearing on Capitol Hill about relocating some military operations to Guam, Rep. Johnson voiced his concern about the additional population on an island that is, by his estimation, “24 miles long and about 7 miles wide at its least widest point.”
You see, the brain trust that the people of Georgia elected to represent them is afraid the island will “capsize” due to the extra population. Which is actually about par for the course for Georgia intellect. But still . . .
I’m dumbstruck. Which means I’m struck by how fucking dumb this fucker is. Lord, did ya not have enough gray matter that day? Did you think, "shit shit shit, I’m outta brains!! Hey, maybe I’ll stick him in Georgia. They’re not exactly my best work, so maybe no one will notice THIS FUCKING RETARD." (Yes, God says “retard.” He invented it. I’m just quoting him. Take it up with him if you have issues.)
Meanwhile, Hank Johnson is busy up thar in D.C. making laws and shit. Yep. We’re doomed. But at least we can watch it on YouTube.
In a hearing on Capitol Hill about relocating some military operations to Guam, Rep. Johnson voiced his concern about the additional population on an island that is, by his estimation, “24 miles long and about 7 miles wide at its least widest point.”
You see, the brain trust that the people of Georgia elected to represent them is afraid the island will “capsize” due to the extra population. Which is actually about par for the course for Georgia intellect. But still . . .
I’m dumbstruck. Which means I’m struck by how fucking dumb this fucker is. Lord, did ya not have enough gray matter that day? Did you think, "shit shit shit, I’m outta brains!! Hey, maybe I’ll stick him in Georgia. They’re not exactly my best work, so maybe no one will notice THIS FUCKING RETARD." (Yes, God says “retard.” He invented it. I’m just quoting him. Take it up with him if you have issues.)
Meanwhile, Hank Johnson is busy up thar in D.C. making laws and shit. Yep. We’re doomed. But at least we can watch it on YouTube.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Jump Skeeter!
I think I’m going to pee myself. The blogs are all atwitter about a 23 year old Tennessee man who jumped from his moving vehicle, a vehicle his wife was driving because “she wouldn’t shut up.”
Oh, sweet Jesus!! What hath the flood wrought? I mean, first of all, who among us HASN’T wanted to jump from the prison of a moving vehicle with an overly chatty companion. Thoughts of death over torture bring a slight smile to our face.
But we are fucking smart enough to override the impulse. Not in Tennessee, land of hillbillies and those who love ‘em. Naw, Mister Man just thought, “Fuck it bitch, I’m out!!.” And leapt. Now he's in critical condition. Fucker's probably faking that coma, just so he doesn't have to listen to his wife.
You would think that with the amount of time it took to untie the door handle, he might have reconsidered.
Oh, sweet Jesus!! What hath the flood wrought? I mean, first of all, who among us HASN’T wanted to jump from the prison of a moving vehicle with an overly chatty companion. Thoughts of death over torture bring a slight smile to our face.
But we are fucking smart enough to override the impulse. Not in Tennessee, land of hillbillies and those who love ‘em. Naw, Mister Man just thought, “Fuck it bitch, I’m out!!.” And leapt. Now he's in critical condition. Fucker's probably faking that coma, just so he doesn't have to listen to his wife.
You would think that with the amount of time it took to untie the door handle, he might have reconsidered.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Shocking Sex Tape!!
The gossip rags and blogs are going crazy with the news of sex tapes that are about to be released featuring Kendra Wilkinson. Okay, can someone please ‘splain something to me? Why on earth is ANYONE shocked or scandalized that Kendra Wilkinson, A FORMER PLAYBOY PLAYMATE AND GIRLFRIEND TO HUGH HEFNER, made a sex tape?!?!?
I don’t know for sure, since I’m not all down with the vazhine, but wouldn’t that have been part of her job description? Maybe people are getting confused because her TV show was called The Girls Next Door. Folks, that title is ironic. The Girl’s BACKdoor would have been a more appropriate moniker.
I feel like I’m living in a bad redux of Victorian England. Except instead of having all of these morally superior elites, we have morally superior fucktwats.
SHE’S A PORN STAR. That’s what she’s known for. Playboy maybe soft core, but it’s still only in existence to give pre-teens boners. (Does anyone else actually read it?) Watching Kendra Wilkinson get boned on screen is roughly the equivalent of waiting for the little man to wave his rag at me at the car wash. It’s a job. It’s HER job.
The bunny ears are for life.
I don’t know for sure, since I’m not all down with the vazhine, but wouldn’t that have been part of her job description? Maybe people are getting confused because her TV show was called The Girls Next Door. Folks, that title is ironic. The Girl’s BACKdoor would have been a more appropriate moniker.
I feel like I’m living in a bad redux of Victorian England. Except instead of having all of these morally superior elites, we have morally superior fucktwats.
SHE’S A PORN STAR. That’s what she’s known for. Playboy maybe soft core, but it’s still only in existence to give pre-teens boners. (Does anyone else actually read it?) Watching Kendra Wilkinson get boned on screen is roughly the equivalent of waiting for the little man to wave his rag at me at the car wash. It’s a job. It’s HER job.
The bunny ears are for life.
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