Thursday, December 13, 2007
In the NYTimes today, a disturbing article indicted (kind of, more pointed and laughed at) entitled, inconsiderate asshole pet-owners and their socially foul machinations for having arrived at peoples' HOMES WITH THEIR UNANNOUNCED PETS IN TOW.
I started hating peoples' kids for the same kinds of reasons. I cannot believe a quote like this could turn me against animals, too. "Ari Henry Barnes, who works in a New York law firm, is so devoted to his cat, Romeo, that he wipes the animal’s behind every time he does 'a stinky boom boom.'"
Call me a woman-hater, an unconscious advocate of domestic abuse (due to my deep, dark feminist self-loathing), but I found this headline kinda clever. New York Post via Feministing
A thoughtful gift suggestion for your favorite blogger... Or a person you'd be willing to spend like 80 bucks on AND her reaction would be worth like 160: A Raw Food Basket of Goodness.
Ike Turner, sadly, has passed from this earth and, potentially, into an excruciatingly warm eternity. He is gone, gone forever. Yet, all that keeps echoing in my heart, and my soul..." Hit me again Ike, and put some stank on it!"
Aw, Jim Carey, don't you go dying on me!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Adam Cohen mentions the cable TV show "I love the 70s" as an analogical pop-culture comparison to B Clinton's constant campaigning-for-his-wife throwbacks to his time in office in the 90s. Um, Adam? VH-1 also did a show called "I love the 90s", you can cut that middle-man right out of your analogy. Also, weak and wasted use of a pop-culture reference (grasping). Also, Bill not near as funny or deadpanny as Michael Ian Black.
There's some other time-relevant junk in the op-ed column about the presidential election -- also not near as funny or deadpanny as Michael Ian Black.
More Movie Clues: Wesley Snipes, a younger and even-skinnier-than-he-is-now Chris Rock, and Ice-T as the ballsy and lippy undercover cop. Think back to 1991, when you tight-rolled your black Guess jeans and wore your K-Swiss canvas without socks (I know I am not the only one). God, people: NEW JACK CITY (remember Flava-Flav?).
That movie made crack cocaine look pretty bad, AND pretty much a black/poverty problem. Without much surprise, our judicial system bought propaganda rather than researched science, and implemented mandatory sentencing laws which punished crack cocaine dealers way worse than powder cocaine dealers, and when I say way worse I mean like 100 to 1. So says an article in the NY Times, the US Sentencing Commission recently ruled these sentences to be unfair, and the courts are retroactively lightening sentences. About fucking time. Jesus Christ, this should have been done years ago. So kudos to the panel for doing something, albeit late, but at minimum intelligent policy-making is happening instead of the executive branches faux-moral hard line, fascist approach to governing.
There is so much fucking drug policy nonsense in this article to make any thinking person's blood boil. Some highlights:
1) The Bush Administration stands anti this decision, mostly because it is full of evil racist war-mongering asshats who ignore the constitutional rights of its citizens and would PUT DUE PROCESS IN A SACK AND DROWN IT AND CHOOSE TO JAIL EVERY AMERICAN WHO MAKES UNDER ONE MILLION DOLLARS A YEAR AND ISN'T WHITE IF IT COULD.
2) Our mandatory-sentencing penalties do nothing to bring down "drug kingpins". They are only nailing the lowest amoeba on the drug sales chart, and considering the numbers of inmates, sentences are hardly a deterrent.
3) The penalties are ridiculously severe. One chick has been in there for 11 years. Did anyone involved in Enron get bent over even close to that far?
As Chris Rock says, "Lockin' people up cuz they WANT TO GET HIGH".
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Single Woman Gutted by A Fish. That Story and More, at 11. Back to You, in the Studio, Dick.
Finding love is like trying to catch a swordfish: Your efforts may lead to your true heart's desire, but there is always a chance the event will end in a violent and bloody death.
One beautiful summer day, you head out to the sea with your closest friends in tow. You've decided you want to catch a swordfish. You don't know shit about swordfish. But you've seen these pictures in peoples' homes: The proud fishermen and women, holding their shiny, glossy swordfish, all smug and animated and clenching the aftermath of their socially-accepted savagery tight against them. Plus, you've eaten the damn thing at an Applebee's once or twice, and it tastes pretty good actually. This is the day you're gonna do it. You are finally gonna reel in one of these elusive motherfuckers. You feel anxious and scared, yet confident. After all, how hard could it be? You see these trophy shots in homes of people you know. If they can land the big one, why can't you? The task can't be as oppressive as it seems, right? People tell you all the time how great at fishing you would be, if you only threw out your line. You're encouraged incessantly, in fact. If they believe you can do it, then it must be so.
Everything is set: the boat is chartered; the captain and crew are all about it; the sun is out; the air is clean and YOU, my dear, are about to embark on the adventure of your life! Don't get scared now. Hell. Yes. Strap that pole on me and tell me where to stand!
You are poised, in a tasteful, slimming outfit and in sensible, yet stylish shoes - and you wait. Your pole in hand. The conversation around you is light and hopeful. You feel supported and ready. Peace abounds. Then. THEN. You feel a tug on that fragile, yet capable string of yours. You peer over the side of the boat. OH the majestic swagger of a swordfish. Powerful, yet vulnerable (as all beasts have a soft side, you so foolishly think). Yes, that's him. That's the one. He's the one you are gonna put in your picture frames and brag about to all your friends and mother and feel a deep, soulful connection to forever and ever and fucking ever. He's been spotted. He's taken the bait. Now, now all you have to do is get him into the boat. How difficult could it be? I mean, the fact that you even spotted one you like is a GODDAMN MIRACLE IN AND OF ITSELF.
You gaze into his eyes. He looks like your "kind". But who knows these days, with tons of fish looking one way and actually being rotten and gross on the inside. You are willing to take a chance. And hence, the battle of wills begin. You gently tug on your pole, your body motioning him toward you. Ah! But he resists. Silly little fishy. I know your game. You pull harder, your body strains, but You. Are. Strong. Of course, now he's seen you up close and HE IS NOT REALLY FEELING IT AS MUCH AS YOU. Aw, but you don't care. Here little fishy fishy, swordfishy, quit resisting and get into the motherfucking boat. His strains are near violent now, body flopping around in the water, making a total mess -- getting you all wet and bothered. You're committed though, and won't let go. No matter what, you will conquer the swordfish and get him into that picture you've been hallucinating about. Back and forth. Tug for tug. Bodies thrashing. There is no one there to help you. They've all abandoned you for their own fish. It is just you and that slippery sucker. He doesn't know it yet, but he's a goner. He's a goddamn goner. Then, in one fell swoop! of your untoned arms, you propel his heavy body toward yours. Up, Up, Up He Goes. Soaring... The movement is graceful, resplendent, hotttt...for a moment, you gaze at him in the air... breathtaking and so, so close... and then... and then... he spirals down, straight toward you... and your jubilation turns to total panic. See, it is only then that you see his razor-sharp and pointy impaler-ator, AND IT IS FURIOUSLY RACING, DIRECTLY TOWARD YOUR HEART.
PLUNGE. Pluuuunge. Gasp... gasp... heave. His knife-like appendage has stabbed through your chest. You are down, but not dead. Oh no no, death doesn't come when you want it to ever ever ever. His death-snout is in you, but you are still alive. So you feel it when - out of desperation and his own will to survive - his sharp teeth begin gnawing away at your exposed flesh. And it isn't like you are suffering... just as an uncomfortable inconvenience - NO NO... It is the most excruciating distress you have ever felt in your entire fucking life. Outside of him being himself, with his inherently dangerous, yet quite natural appendage, his writhing body and spastic teeth are making the whole thing entirely worse. HE DOESN'T MEAN TO. HE IS JUST TRYING TO GET SOME FUCKING AIR AFTER ALL, AND IF YOU ARE THE BODY HE HAS TO GO THROUGH TO DO IT - WELL, THEN TOO FUCKING BAD FOR YOU.
You've finally given up. You've relented. You let go of the pole awhile ago. You've accepted your certain fate. Resolution. He's won. He's found his freedom and relief. He's gotten his way; off he flaps his stupid, stinky body back into the ocean from whence he came. And there you are. You are bloodied, clothes ripped to shreds, boobs gone, laying there in the middle of the boat. Alone. You are dying. You are laid out there underneath the perfect sun, in the pure ocean air with the surreal blue sky above you -- and you are dying. Alone.
You feel a calm, a truce exists with the universe. You open your eyes and peer, one last time, at the world around you. You can kind of decipher images of shoes and hairdos and faces, but recognize none. Squinting, you attempt to flash a smile to the young captain you spot on the bow. Then one familiar and perfect face appears an inch from yours. It's your sister, your best friend. She lifts your head and puts it into her lap. She strokes your cheek and you can taste the salt of her tears dripping into your gaping mouth. You know she senses your pain as if it were her own. She starts to whisper, I saw what that fucker did to you. And, I have to tell you, he was kind of an asshole. You consider her perspective for a moment. You muster the words from the back of your throat, Yes, I suppose he was quite an asshole. With her clear wisdom and a refreshingly positive disposition, she replies. I really think you are better off without him, don't you? You know that you know that you know: She is right. You ask, Am I going to die? Without even taking a moment to weigh your question, her answer erupts dismissively, No fucking way! Then she deadpans: There is, however, quite a mess to clean up here... Where are your boobs? You can't help but laugh at the question and beg her to go fetch you a whiskey neat before she calls for reinforcements.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Lo & Behold: A prescription drug proves to be dangerous, so says scientists at the University of Bath. According to Newstarget.com, it seems the acne medication, Accutane, "reduced the availability of the neurotransmitter serotonin; low levels of which have consistently been linked to a number of psychiatric symptoms including aggression, anxiety disorders, and suicidal ideation."
On a related note, I still get pimples AND I had to google "University of Bath"...I thought it sounded made up. I guess we all have problems.
It seems like we continually abandon self-governance and independent thought, replacing it with dogma and an established religious (or otherwise) framework for "ideas". We can't conceptualize the spirit of the law because we are so obsessed with letter of the law. All things considered, American Christians are the most wishy-washy faithful, especially compared to the ideological purist Sudanese Muslim mindset. I know this has all been said before "blah blah religious zeal has cost more lives than any other group effort in the history of man blah blah". And "isn't God supposed to BE love?" Is Allah supposed to be love? Admittedly, I don't know much about what I'm writing here. But i will say this: THINK. It seems to follow, if you're thinking, really thinking, considering, having a real internal dialogue with your brain, you will avoid making irrational knee-jerk reactionary decisions.
We should be more evolved than this by now. This poor teacher, doing her due diligence as an educator, motivating your youngsters in a thankless, piss-poor wage environment, a fucking bloody civil war looming at her doorstep, Was her heart not in the right place? Did she have malice of forethought? Does the punishment fit the crime? Naming a teddy bear Muhammad is a CRIME? Need I even say it? Jesus Christ.
Monday, December 3, 2007
I'm sure, by now, you've all read the tragic Megan Meier story. Its gross drama has entered my periphery like fifteen goddamn times already. For those of you spending your time 'working' or 'meditating' (and if that's true, I don't know HOW THE HELL you found this blog), the brief synopsis is this: Via MySpace, Josh began romantically wooing thirteen year old Megan-- until he started being a dick and in an irrationally depressive teenage response, Megan hung herself. It came out later that Josh didn't actually exist and was a persona created by a neighborhood MOM. Evidently, her daughter was friends with Megan and after growing apart/putting the kibosh on the contact (as normal teenage girls are want to do), the bitchface of a cunt MOM decided to reek psychological hell on the estranged friend (who was a CHILD).
Don't these people have jobs/hobbies/fucking perspective/compassion? I am guessing this MOM also prides herself on being able to stuff her ass into her daughter's size four Old Navy Low-rise Flares. I'm sure you can find her tanning, french manicuring and proudly wearing a shirt announcing she's a "MILF".
The most badass portion of the NYTimes Article? The Meier's found out about the hoax and destroyed the asshole's Foosball table, then put the pieces in the asshole's driveway. It hardly quelled the pain of losing their daughter, but it produced a much needed physical outlet to release some aggression, I'm sure --especially feeling powerless in the light of the body of laws which allow this kind of sick behavior to be deemed societally rude, but not illegal.
How of(t)en do you meet someone (a boy, let's say) who you overlap with so irritatingly lovely that not only do you both have your coffee black, but when forced to purchase it from S****ucks, you both rebelliously refuse to abide by their Third Reichian framework, defying group conventionality, and ordering, with resolve in your voice (and some embarrassment in your heart) "medium coffee" rather than "grande drip"? And yet, he hasn't called you since more than a week ago and his last text was three fucking days past?? Shit's messed up.
Then I have to hear my sister go on and on about the elderly, DYING clients she sees on a daily basis, laundry-listing their diseases for me "emphysema, Alzheimer's, diabetes" and how their beds are set up in the living room and how "she had a coughing fit that lasted like a half hour" and "she's only 65 - WHICH IS YOUNG WHEN YOU'RE THAT OLD" and how they all have one common phrase when she sees them "TIME JUST WENT SO FAST" and now I am forcibly contemplating my own fucked up habits and how they will catch up with me and the only positive thing I can say is the healthier ones drank a lot, they claim (but what constitutes "a lot" really?) so I might just be OK RIGHT BEFORE I DIE.
And I thought my day would improve after I walked through the HUMAN FECES on my way into the office.