Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Top Ten Dumb Political Quotes of 2008
1. "Stand up, Chuck, let 'em see ya." –Joe Biden, to Missouri state Senator Chuck Graham, who is in a wheelchair, Sept. 12, 2008
2. "We all remember Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in June in California." –Hillary Clinton, rejecting calls for her to drop out of the Democratic presidential race, citing the 1968 assassination of Robert F. Kennedy as evidence that the lengthy Democratic nominating process was not unprecedented, May 23, 2008
3. "Can I explain to you what happened? First of all it happened during a period after she was in remission from cancer." –former Senator John Edwards, on cheating on his wife, Aug. 8, 2008
4. "I think — I'll have my staff get to you. It's condominiums where — I'll have them get to you." –John McCain after being asked how many houses he and his wife, Cindy, own, Aug. 20, 2008
5. "We believe that the best of America is not all in Washington, D.C. ... We believe that the best of America is in these small towns that we get to visit, and in these wonderful little pockets of what I call the real America, being here with all of you hard working very patriotic, um, very, um, pro-America areas of this great nation." –Sarah Palin, speaking at a fundraiser in Greensboro, N.C., Oct. 16, 2008
6. "Goodbye from the world's biggest polluter." –President George W. Bush, in parting words to British Prime Minister Gordon Brown and French President Nicolas Sarkozy at his final G-8 Summit, punching the air and grinning widely as the two leaders looked on in shock, July 10, 2008
7. "It's not surprising, then, they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations." –Barack Obama, on his troubles winning over some small-town, working-class voters, April 11, 2008
8. "I remember landing under sniper fire. There was supposed to be some kind of a greeting ceremony at the airport, but instead we just ran with our heads down to get into the vehicles to get to our base." –Hillary Clinton on visiting Bosnia in 1996, contradicting other accounts that said there was no threat of gunfire. Clinton later said she "misspoke"
9. "As Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where– where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border." –Sarah Palin, explaining why Alaska's proximity to Russia gives her foreign policy experience in an interview with Katie Couric, Sept. 24, 2008
10. "Our economy, I think, is still — the fundamentals of our economy are strong." –John McCain, Sept. 15, 2008
2. "We all remember Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in June in California." –Hillary Clinton, rejecting calls for her to drop out of the Democratic presidential race, citing the 1968 assassination of Robert F. Kennedy as evidence that the lengthy Democratic nominating process was not unprecedented, May 23, 2008
3. "Can I explain to you what happened? First of all it happened during a period after she was in remission from cancer." –former Senator John Edwards, on cheating on his wife, Aug. 8, 2008
4. "I think — I'll have my staff get to you. It's condominiums where — I'll have them get to you." –John McCain after being asked how many houses he and his wife, Cindy, own, Aug. 20, 2008
5. "We believe that the best of America is not all in Washington, D.C. ... We believe that the best of America is in these small towns that we get to visit, and in these wonderful little pockets of what I call the real America, being here with all of you hard working very patriotic, um, very, um, pro-America areas of this great nation." –Sarah Palin, speaking at a fundraiser in Greensboro, N.C., Oct. 16, 2008
6. "Goodbye from the world's biggest polluter." –President George W. Bush, in parting words to British Prime Minister Gordon Brown and French President Nicolas Sarkozy at his final G-8 Summit, punching the air and grinning widely as the two leaders looked on in shock, July 10, 2008
7. "It's not surprising, then, they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations." –Barack Obama, on his troubles winning over some small-town, working-class voters, April 11, 2008
8. "I remember landing under sniper fire. There was supposed to be some kind of a greeting ceremony at the airport, but instead we just ran with our heads down to get into the vehicles to get to our base." –Hillary Clinton on visiting Bosnia in 1996, contradicting other accounts that said there was no threat of gunfire. Clinton later said she "misspoke"
9. "As Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where– where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border." –Sarah Palin, explaining why Alaska's proximity to Russia gives her foreign policy experience in an interview with Katie Couric, Sept. 24, 2008
10. "Our economy, I think, is still — the fundamentals of our economy are strong." –John McCain, Sept. 15, 2008
More Soldiers for the Lord
Totally Shocking News: No matter what they promise Jesus, teens still end up fucking each other!
Virginity Pledges Fail to Trump Teen Lust
By Nicole Ostrow and Tom Randall
Dec. 29 (Bloomberg) -- Teenagers who pledged to avoid sex until marriage were as likely to have intercourse as other U.S. adolescents, according to a survey of conduct mostly in 1990s.
Teens who took the pledge also were less likely to use birth control pills or condoms than those making no promise, according to the research in the January issue of Pediatrics. The results show that teens need information on safe sex and pregnancy prevention even if they vow to refrain, a study author said.
The pledges, made orally or in writing, are viewed by advocates as buttressing federally funded education programs that say avoiding pre-marital sex rather than using protection will curb pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases. President George W. Bush’s administration more than doubled the budget for abstinence-only education programs since 1999 to $204 million this fiscal year. More than a dozen states have rejected federal money rather than limit what is taught.
“The results suggest that the virginity pledge does not change sexual behavior,” wrote author Janet Rosenbaum, a postdoctoral fellow in the department of population, family and reproductive health at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. “Clinicians should provide birth control information to all adolescents, especially abstinence-only sex education participants.”
Virginity Pledges Fail to Trump Teen Lust
By Nicole Ostrow and Tom Randall
Dec. 29 (Bloomberg) -- Teenagers who pledged to avoid sex until marriage were as likely to have intercourse as other U.S. adolescents, according to a survey of conduct mostly in 1990s.
Teens who took the pledge also were less likely to use birth control pills or condoms than those making no promise, according to the research in the January issue of Pediatrics. The results show that teens need information on safe sex and pregnancy prevention even if they vow to refrain, a study author said.
The pledges, made orally or in writing, are viewed by advocates as buttressing federally funded education programs that say avoiding pre-marital sex rather than using protection will curb pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases. President George W. Bush’s administration more than doubled the budget for abstinence-only education programs since 1999 to $204 million this fiscal year. More than a dozen states have rejected federal money rather than limit what is taught.
“The results suggest that the virginity pledge does not change sexual behavior,” wrote author Janet Rosenbaum, a postdoctoral fellow in the department of population, family and reproductive health at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. “Clinicians should provide birth control information to all adolescents, especially abstinence-only sex education participants.”
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Typo In Prop 8
From the good folks at The Onion:
Typo In Proposition 8 Defines Marriage As Between 'One Man And One Wolfman'
SACRAMENTO, CA—Activists on both sides of the gay marriage debate were shocked this November, when a typographical error in California's Proposition 8 changed the state constitution to restrict marriage to a union between "one man and one wolfman," instantly nullifying every marriage except those comprised of an adult male and his lycanthrope partner. "The people of California made their voices heard today, and reaffirmed our age-old belief that the only union sanctioned in God's eyes is the union between a man and another man possessed by an ungodly lupine curse," state Sen. Tim McClintock said at a hastily organized rally celebrating passage of the new law. But opponents, including Bakersfield resident Patricia Millard—who is now legally banned from marrying her boyfriend, a human, non-wolfman male—claim it infringes on their civil liberties. "I love James just as much as a wolfman loves his husband," Millard said. "We deserve the same rights as any horrifying mythical abomination." On the heels of the historic typo, voters in Utah passed a similar referendum a week later, defining marriage as between one man and 23 wolfmen.
Typo In Proposition 8 Defines Marriage As Between 'One Man And One Wolfman'
SACRAMENTO, CA—Activists on both sides of the gay marriage debate were shocked this November, when a typographical error in California's Proposition 8 changed the state constitution to restrict marriage to a union between "one man and one wolfman," instantly nullifying every marriage except those comprised of an adult male and his lycanthrope partner. "The people of California made their voices heard today, and reaffirmed our age-old belief that the only union sanctioned in God's eyes is the union between a man and another man possessed by an ungodly lupine curse," state Sen. Tim McClintock said at a hastily organized rally celebrating passage of the new law. But opponents, including Bakersfield resident Patricia Millard—who is now legally banned from marrying her boyfriend, a human, non-wolfman male—claim it infringes on their civil liberties. "I love James just as much as a wolfman loves his husband," Millard said. "We deserve the same rights as any horrifying mythical abomination." On the heels of the historic typo, voters in Utah passed a similar referendum a week later, defining marriage as between one man and 23 wolfmen.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Worst Predictions About 2008
1. "A very powerful and durable rally is in the works. But it may need another couple of days to lift off. Hold the fort and keep the faith!" —Richard Band, editor, Profitable Investing Letter, Mar. 27, 2008
2. AIG "could have huge gains in the second quarter." —Bijan Moazami, analyst, Friedman, Billings, Ramsey, May 9, 2008
3. "I think this is a case where Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae are fundamentally sound. They're not in danger of going under…I think they are in good shape going forward." —Barney Frank (D-Mass.), House Financial Services Committee chairman, July 14, 2008
4. "The market is in the process of correcting itself." —President George W. Bush, in a Mar. 14, 2008 speech
5. "No! No! No! Bear Stearns is not in trouble." —Jim Cramer, CNBC commentator, Mar. 11, 2008
6. "Existing-Home Sales to Trend Up in 2008" —Headline of a National Association of Realtors press release, Dec. 9, 2007
7. "I think you'll see [oil prices at] $150 a barrel by the end of the year" —T. Boone Pickens, June 20, 2008
8. "I expect there will be some failures…I don't anticipate any serious problems of that sort among the large internationally active banks that make up a very substantial part of our banking system." —Ben Bernanke, Federal Reserve chairman, Feb. 28, 2008
9. "In today's regulatory environment, it's virtually impossible to violate rules." —Bernard Madoff, money manager, Oct. 20, 2007
10. A Bound Man: Why We Are Excited About Obama and Why He Can't Win, the title of a book by conservative commentator Shelby Steele, published on Dec. 4, 2007.
(From Business Week Online - Worst Predictions About 2008)
2. AIG "could have huge gains in the second quarter." —Bijan Moazami, analyst, Friedman, Billings, Ramsey, May 9, 2008
3. "I think this is a case where Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae are fundamentally sound. They're not in danger of going under…I think they are in good shape going forward." —Barney Frank (D-Mass.), House Financial Services Committee chairman, July 14, 2008
4. "The market is in the process of correcting itself." —President George W. Bush, in a Mar. 14, 2008 speech
5. "No! No! No! Bear Stearns is not in trouble." —Jim Cramer, CNBC commentator, Mar. 11, 2008
6. "Existing-Home Sales to Trend Up in 2008" —Headline of a National Association of Realtors press release, Dec. 9, 2007
7. "I think you'll see [oil prices at] $150 a barrel by the end of the year" —T. Boone Pickens, June 20, 2008
8. "I expect there will be some failures…I don't anticipate any serious problems of that sort among the large internationally active banks that make up a very substantial part of our banking system." —Ben Bernanke, Federal Reserve chairman, Feb. 28, 2008
9. "In today's regulatory environment, it's virtually impossible to violate rules." —Bernard Madoff, money manager, Oct. 20, 2007
10. A Bound Man: Why We Are Excited About Obama and Why He Can't Win, the title of a book by conservative commentator Shelby Steele, published on Dec. 4, 2007.
(From Business Week Online - Worst Predictions About 2008)
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Animal Atrocities
It’s been a tough year for the United States. But when we step back for a moment and take a quick look around the globe, it’s abundantly clear that Americans are still livin’ well, quite well. So, as a subtle reminder of this fact, I’ve decided to post the best in pictures 2008—war and violent conflict. But since I don’t want to be a total ‘Debbie Downer,’ I’m taking a cue from the major media outlets and interspersing photos of cute critters doing wacky things. (Photos from Telegraph.co.uk) Enjoy…
Surf's up!
Georgia
Burberry bunny
India
This kitty loves his mouse
Bolivia
True love = Sloppy kisses
West Bank
Pug in disguise
Iraq
I want a pony for Christmas- a mini pony!
Congo
Surf's up!
Georgia
Burberry bunny
India
This kitty loves his mouse
Bolivia
True love = Sloppy kisses
West Bank
Pug in disguise
Iraq
I want a pony for Christmas- a mini pony!
Friday, December 19, 2008
Grandma’s Homemade Methamphetamine Stew
"You know, from the inside, no family ever seems typical, and that's how it is with us. Our family has the same ups and downs as any other, the same challenges and the same joys."
-Alaska Governor Sarah Palin
From the Anchorage Daily News:
WASILLA -- A 42-year-old Wasilla woman was arrested Thursday at her home by Alaska State Troopers with a search warrant in an undercover drug investigation. Sherry L. Johnston was charged with six felony counts of misconduct involving a controlled substance.
Johnston is the mother of Levi Johnston, the Wasilla 18-year-old who received international attention in September when Gov. Sarah Palin and her husband, Todd, announced their teenage daughter was pregnant and he was the father. Bristol Palin, 18, is due on Saturday, according to a recent interview with the governor's father, Chuck Heath.
Troopers served the warrant at Johnston's home at the "conclusion of an undercover narcotics investigation," said a statement issued Thursday by the troopers as part of the normal daily summary of activity around the state.
Troopers charged Johnston with second-degree misconduct involving a controlled substance -- generally manufacturing or delivering drugs -- as well as fourth-degree misconduct involving controlled substances, or possession.
Full Story Here
-Alaska Governor Sarah Palin
From the Anchorage Daily News:
WASILLA -- A 42-year-old Wasilla woman was arrested Thursday at her home by Alaska State Troopers with a search warrant in an undercover drug investigation. Sherry L. Johnston was charged with six felony counts of misconduct involving a controlled substance.
Johnston is the mother of Levi Johnston, the Wasilla 18-year-old who received international attention in September when Gov. Sarah Palin and her husband, Todd, announced their teenage daughter was pregnant and he was the father. Bristol Palin, 18, is due on Saturday, according to a recent interview with the governor's father, Chuck Heath.
Troopers served the warrant at Johnston's home at the "conclusion of an undercover narcotics investigation," said a statement issued Thursday by the troopers as part of the normal daily summary of activity around the state.
Troopers charged Johnston with second-degree misconduct involving a controlled substance -- generally manufacturing or delivering drugs -- as well as fourth-degree misconduct involving controlled substances, or possession.
Full Story Here
Thursday, December 18, 2008
"Boundless Love" from Client-9
Ah, it’s almost Christmas. How do I know this? My mailman keeps asking me for aspirin…he also wants to know why all my magazines come wrapped in black plastic, but that’s another story. Poor guy’s back is killing him because he’s lugging around a sack full of tacky holiday photo cards. We all get these. Many of us send them. Pretty standard themes:
-The matching sweater family
-Dogs in Santa hats
-We’re on vacation!
-Aren’t our children are adorable?
-Cats, cats, cats
-Reminder—I’m engaged or just got married
-The star means we’re Jewish
-Kids and animals do the CRAZIEST things
-Celebrate Kwanzaa (from the black guy who grew up in the suburbs)
-Sad solo dude and his expensive car
You get the picture; kitsch ad nauseum. But there’s always one card that sends a chill up the spine. Makes you shove it back in the envelope and run upstairs to take a shower. Cause we’ve all got at least one friend who was really really creepy back in the day. I’m not talking about the douche bag who used to pat an occasional waitress on the ass. The picture of him and his Corvette make for a fine holiday greeting. I’m talking about the guy who you found hungover one morning, naked and crying in a Vegas hotel bathroom scrubbing his penis frantically in the sink after having had unprotected sex with a stripper in a Denny’s restroom. Yeah, we all know him.
And seeing this guy on a Christmas card, no matter how elegant his wife looks, or how endearing his kids are, or how many Labradoodles in Santa hats are licking his face in the photo, just reminds you of the all the impromptu cock-washings you’ve witnessed over the years.
But you know, tis the season. Got to let bygones be bygones. So for you, really creepy friend, I found a card that might even make you feel like a pretty decent person. Happy holidays…
-The matching sweater family
-Dogs in Santa hats
-We’re on vacation!
-Aren’t our children are adorable?
-Cats, cats, cats
-Reminder—I’m engaged or just got married
-The star means we’re Jewish
-Kids and animals do the CRAZIEST things
-Celebrate Kwanzaa (from the black guy who grew up in the suburbs)
-Sad solo dude and his expensive car
You get the picture; kitsch ad nauseum. But there’s always one card that sends a chill up the spine. Makes you shove it back in the envelope and run upstairs to take a shower. Cause we’ve all got at least one friend who was really really creepy back in the day. I’m not talking about the douche bag who used to pat an occasional waitress on the ass. The picture of him and his Corvette make for a fine holiday greeting. I’m talking about the guy who you found hungover one morning, naked and crying in a Vegas hotel bathroom scrubbing his penis frantically in the sink after having had unprotected sex with a stripper in a Denny’s restroom. Yeah, we all know him.
And seeing this guy on a Christmas card, no matter how elegant his wife looks, or how endearing his kids are, or how many Labradoodles in Santa hats are licking his face in the photo, just reminds you of the all the impromptu cock-washings you’ve witnessed over the years.
But you know, tis the season. Got to let bygones be bygones. So for you, really creepy friend, I found a card that might even make you feel like a pretty decent person. Happy holidays…
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Forgotten Heroes of Airport Bathroom Sex
This week a Minnesota appeals court rejected Senator Larry Craig’s motion to withdraw his guilty plea in the now infamous airport restroom sex sting case. For most Americans, Craig, and his inappropriately tapping feet, became nothing more than a punchline. But to the growing number of us who enjoy performing sex acts with faceless strangers in airline terminal bathroom stalls, Larry Craig is an icon.
The following video, from 23/6, examines some of the lesser known warriors in the battle to legitimize anonymous airport sex:
The following video, from 23/6, examines some of the lesser known warriors in the battle to legitimize anonymous airport sex:
King Barack of Nigeria
“David has become sort of like a boyfriend I broke up with who keeps trying to be friends. He keeps writing. And writing.”
-Mimi Swartz, in Yes, We Spam!, referring to the repeated post-election email solicitations from David Plouffe, Barack Obama’s campaign manager
I gotta say, though I’m a big fan of the President-elect and his crew, the constant stream of fundraising spam is becoming annoying. Worse, the pitches are really getting ridiculous. I received this one today:
My dear Friend,
This is to bring you notice that I, David Plouffe, Chief Barrister Attorney to an ex-King of Nigeria, have the honor with upmost good faith do appeal to you to sincerely to render me an assistance by way of supporting me to bring over to your country the sum of United States Dollars, Six Million two hundred thousand United States Dollars (US$6.2M).
I am representing with trusted belief and goodwill, the former deposed King of Nigeria, Barack Hussein Obama. As loyal steadfast to King Barack Hussein Obama, I, David Plouffe, Esquire, ask you as a person with familiar the particulars of business to take possession of said moneys before transfer return to King Barack Hussein Obama in exile in The city of District of Columbia, United States.
The volume of money is presently available in cash and deposited with Global Security Company. South Africa with deposit Certificate Number CXB90. This was part of the money that Nigerian Ex-Head of State, Barack Hussein Obama, concealed in the private personal warehouse before set up by military junta due to involvement in pro-Democracy activities as he wants civil rule in Nigeria as is a popular demand of the citizens.
Finally, I have discussed with King Barack Hussein Obama and have decided to offer you 20% of the sum for your noblest assistance because the money would be released to you in my presence on arrival to the country we choose. Also you will receive in good health a precious souvenir (picture beneath):
So let me have your immediate response towards actualization of this objective through Tel/Fax 234-1-7654321.
Fondest and Excellent Regards,
David Plouffe, in representation of His Majesty King Barack Hussein Obama
-Mimi Swartz, in Yes, We Spam!, referring to the repeated post-election email solicitations from David Plouffe, Barack Obama’s campaign manager
I gotta say, though I’m a big fan of the President-elect and his crew, the constant stream of fundraising spam is becoming annoying. Worse, the pitches are really getting ridiculous. I received this one today:
My dear Friend,
This is to bring you notice that I, David Plouffe, Chief Barrister Attorney to an ex-King of Nigeria, have the honor with upmost good faith do appeal to you to sincerely to render me an assistance by way of supporting me to bring over to your country the sum of United States Dollars, Six Million two hundred thousand United States Dollars (US$6.2M).
I am representing with trusted belief and goodwill, the former deposed King of Nigeria, Barack Hussein Obama. As loyal steadfast to King Barack Hussein Obama, I, David Plouffe, Esquire, ask you as a person with familiar the particulars of business to take possession of said moneys before transfer return to King Barack Hussein Obama in exile in The city of District of Columbia, United States.
The volume of money is presently available in cash and deposited with Global Security Company. South Africa with deposit Certificate Number CXB90. This was part of the money that Nigerian Ex-Head of State, Barack Hussein Obama, concealed in the private personal warehouse before set up by military junta due to involvement in pro-Democracy activities as he wants civil rule in Nigeria as is a popular demand of the citizens.
Finally, I have discussed with King Barack Hussein Obama and have decided to offer you 20% of the sum for your noblest assistance because the money would be released to you in my presence on arrival to the country we choose. Also you will receive in good health a precious souvenir (picture beneath):
So let me have your immediate response towards actualization of this objective through Tel/Fax 234-1-7654321.Fondest and Excellent Regards,
David Plouffe, in representation of His Majesty King Barack Hussein Obama
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Bait and Switch
I did a double-take (or more accurately a double-read) today after stumbling upon neoconservative columnist (National Review Online) Mona Charen’s The Good Obama Can Do. I couldn’t quite nail it, but I immediately knew something was off in this article, which ostensibly touts the potential positive impact from Michelle and Barack Obama “modeling good parenting” in the White House. On second glance though, Charen’s true motive popped out at me like a priest in the schoolyard with pockets full-o-lollipops.
It’s yet another defense of so-called traditional marriage. But this one is far more sinister. Charen goes out of her way not to include the standard giveaway phrases: traditional marriage, same-sex couple(s), any Biblical text, San Francisco-values, Prop 8, Ellen, etc. Instead, she simply bashes every family who does not fit into her arbitrary mold—a married man and a woman who are “college-educated,” and “upper middle and upper class,” did not have a child out of wedlock, and have never been divorced.
Apparently, anything else “plays havoc with children’s security.” My personal favorite, of Charen’s many vague and melodramatic statements is: “Stepfamilies, as medieval fables suggested, are not as safe or secure for children as the nuclear family of two married parents.” Cinderella aside, most of her quotes are decidedly less amusing. Charen’s third paragraph is palpably creepy:
More than one-third of American children are born out of wedlock (two-thirds for black kids)...They have higher rates of school failure, drug use, depression, teen pregnancy, trouble with the law, violence, and poor health...poor women are having more and more children without husbands and they are also divorcing at much higher rates.
And then, after cataloging the supposed problems that stem from raising children outside a traditional marriage, she proposes that the child dependant tax credit be increased “limited to married parents.”
So, Mona, let me get this straight, according to you, the people that need the most help raising well-adjusted children will get nothing while married couples will receive more cash simply for procreating? Here is how I would summarize your views: If you are single, divorced, homosexual, or in particular a poor minority, the government should enact policy to discourage you from raising a child.
It’s a good thing that Barack Obama’s grandmother wasn’t a fan of your column.
It’s yet another defense of so-called traditional marriage. But this one is far more sinister. Charen goes out of her way not to include the standard giveaway phrases: traditional marriage, same-sex couple(s), any Biblical text, San Francisco-values, Prop 8, Ellen, etc. Instead, she simply bashes every family who does not fit into her arbitrary mold—a married man and a woman who are “college-educated,” and “upper middle and upper class,” did not have a child out of wedlock, and have never been divorced.
Apparently, anything else “plays havoc with children’s security.” My personal favorite, of Charen’s many vague and melodramatic statements is: “Stepfamilies, as medieval fables suggested, are not as safe or secure for children as the nuclear family of two married parents.” Cinderella aside, most of her quotes are decidedly less amusing. Charen’s third paragraph is palpably creepy:
More than one-third of American children are born out of wedlock (two-thirds for black kids)...They have higher rates of school failure, drug use, depression, teen pregnancy, trouble with the law, violence, and poor health...poor women are having more and more children without husbands and they are also divorcing at much higher rates.
And then, after cataloging the supposed problems that stem from raising children outside a traditional marriage, she proposes that the child dependant tax credit be increased “limited to married parents.”
So, Mona, let me get this straight, according to you, the people that need the most help raising well-adjusted children will get nothing while married couples will receive more cash simply for procreating? Here is how I would summarize your views: If you are single, divorced, homosexual, or in particular a poor minority, the government should enact policy to discourage you from raising a child.
It’s a good thing that Barack Obama’s grandmother wasn’t a fan of your column.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Tough Day for the Religious Right
1) John McCain said that he wouldn’t necessarily support Sarah Palin if she chose to run for President – “I can't say something like that. We've got some great other young governors…Have no doubt of my admiration and respect for her and my view of her viability, but at this stage, again…my corpse is still warm, you know?”
2) Colin Powell said that Palin polarized the GOP.
3) Barack Obama's Presidential Inaugural Committee has chosen the Lesbian and Gay Band Association to march in the inaugural parade in Washington on Jan. 20.
4) And as it turns out, President Bush got sole...
2) Colin Powell said that Palin polarized the GOP.
3) Barack Obama's Presidential Inaugural Committee has chosen the Lesbian and Gay Band Association to march in the inaugural parade in Washington on Jan. 20.
4) And as it turns out, President Bush got sole...
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Sexual Jihadists
The following is a reprint of an email I received this morning from HRC. It’s worth a quick read. Incidentally, when I sit on Santa’s lap at the mall next week, I’m going to ask him for boxer-briefs embossed with “Sexual Jihadist” across the crotch. I hope this doesn’t make the other children uncomfortable.
"...there is a real, unbroken line between the jihadist savagery in Mumbai and the hedonistic, irresponsible, blindly selfish goals and tactics of our homegrown sexual jihadists."
I am not kidding. This is a new low in anti-gay rhetoric.
Boone and his buddies continue to stir up fear, even if they have to lie. It's exactly how they passed the California marriage ban.
We need your help to stop the radical right from painting a movement about love and dignity as violent and radical. We need your support to stay strong, smart, and nimble, to combat these growing attacks with the simple truth: all we want is equality.
Make a donation to HRC on behalf of Pat Boone. Your gift helps HRC combat these lies – and sends the message that our call for equality cannot be silenced.
We'll even send Mr. Boone a note with your first name and gift amount to let him know you've donated in his name.
"...there is a real, unbroken line between the jihadist savagery in Mumbai and the hedonistic, irresponsible, blindly selfish goals and tactics of our homegrown sexual jihadists."- Pat Boone, December 6, 2008
Country singer and right-wing pundit Pat Boone has written a column equating the movement against Prop. 8 to the terrorists who tortured and murdered hundreds in Mumbai.
Country singer and right-wing pundit Pat Boone has written a column equating the movement against Prop. 8 to the terrorists who tortured and murdered hundreds in Mumbai.
I am not kidding. This is a new low in anti-gay rhetoric.
Boone and his buddies continue to stir up fear, even if they have to lie. It's exactly how they passed the California marriage ban.
We need your help to stop the radical right from painting a movement about love and dignity as violent and radical. We need your support to stay strong, smart, and nimble, to combat these growing attacks with the simple truth: all we want is equality.
Make a donation to HRC on behalf of Pat Boone. Your gift helps HRC combat these lies – and sends the message that our call for equality cannot be silenced.
We'll even send Mr. Boone a note with your first name and gift amount to let him know you've donated in his name.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Private Context
Senator Russ Feingold sent President-elect Obama a letter today urging him to act on recent recommendations made by the Senate Judiciary Constitutional Subcommittee (full article here - Feingold Urges Obama to Reverse Bush Measures). The subcommittee, which Feingold chaired, heard testimony from forty prominent academics, policy makers, and advocacy group representatives, including John Podesta, the head of Obama’s transition team. Collectively, they endorsed a reversal of most of the policies enacted by the Bush administration since 9/11. Particularly noteworthy is their recommendation to make significant changes to the Patriot Act and the FISA Amendments Act.
My guess is that even the mighty Barack-star won’t risk looking soft on national security issues early in his first term, especially after his bumbling sidekick Biden said there will be an “international…generated crisis” inside of six months. Sure Obama will make a big show of enacting some of the safe recommendations, like closing the Guantanamo prison and establishing a government-wide standard of humane detainee treatment. But I’m feeling pretty confident that government agencies will still be able to monitor our wireless activity without a warrant well into Barack’s second term. Frankly, knowing that some entry-level federal techie will be scrutinizing my communications may actually encourage me to increase the amount of picture messages of my scrotum that I send my buddies during their interoffice meetings.
Maybe it’s ok that the government is secretly reading all our text messages? After all, sometimes it’s the people closest to us that we’re really worried about…
My guess is that even the mighty Barack-star won’t risk looking soft on national security issues early in his first term, especially after his bumbling sidekick Biden said there will be an “international…generated crisis” inside of six months. Sure Obama will make a big show of enacting some of the safe recommendations, like closing the Guantanamo prison and establishing a government-wide standard of humane detainee treatment. But I’m feeling pretty confident that government agencies will still be able to monitor our wireless activity without a warrant well into Barack’s second term. Frankly, knowing that some entry-level federal techie will be scrutinizing my communications may actually encourage me to increase the amount of picture messages of my scrotum that I send my buddies during their interoffice meetings.
Maybe it’s ok that the government is secretly reading all our text messages? After all, sometimes it’s the people closest to us that we’re really worried about…
Friday, December 5, 2008
Formatted for A-Dub
Apparently, my good friend Andrew can’t get all the way through my longwinded blog posts. So today, instead of my usual extended single post, I am simply going to list several potential post titles with respective synopses. I have enabled anonymous commenting in case you’d like to submit your own prospective topic, or perhaps something else Andrew will read, like a haiku.
Putin on the Ritz
A musical complete with a singing one-armed Ukrainian prostitute, Georgian Siamese-twin wrestlers, and a chorus line of Chechen Islamic Extremists.
Tommy J. – Foundin' Hustla
Historical science fiction. Thomas Jefferson is transported through time to modern day Washington D.C. where he immediately tries to “purchase” every black woman he sees. Hilarity ensures…until, in the ultimate irony, he is stabbed by a pimp on the footsteps of his own Memorial.
Toss My Salad
A television pitch: weekly reality show pairing American street prostitutes with classically trained French chefs to prepare full formal dinner service for D-list celebrities.
Heart of Darkness: The Bachelor Party of Clark Flobosco
Nonfiction; a weekend trip to Vegas goes horribly awry. A disturbing and sad tale. Names have been changed to preserve anonymity.
Top Ten Suffocated Gerbil Political Metaphors
Self explanatory.
Penis Non Grata
My life as a straight white Anglo-Saxon Protestant male in 200 words or less.
Putin on the Ritz
A musical complete with a singing one-armed Ukrainian prostitute, Georgian Siamese-twin wrestlers, and a chorus line of Chechen Islamic Extremists.
Tommy J. – Foundin' Hustla
Historical science fiction. Thomas Jefferson is transported through time to modern day Washington D.C. where he immediately tries to “purchase” every black woman he sees. Hilarity ensures…until, in the ultimate irony, he is stabbed by a pimp on the footsteps of his own Memorial.
Toss My Salad
A television pitch: weekly reality show pairing American street prostitutes with classically trained French chefs to prepare full formal dinner service for D-list celebrities.
Heart of Darkness: The Bachelor Party of Clark Flobosco
Nonfiction; a weekend trip to Vegas goes horribly awry. A disturbing and sad tale. Names have been changed to preserve anonymity.
Top Ten Suffocated Gerbil Political Metaphors
Self explanatory.
Penis Non Grata
My life as a straight white Anglo-Saxon Protestant male in 200 words or less.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Noah's Arc
BOULDER, Colo. — When Donna Campiglia learned recently that a genetic test might be able to determine which sports suit the talents of her 2 ½-year-old son, Noah, she instantly said, Where can I get it and how much does it cost?
“I could see how some people might think the test would pigeonhole your child into doing fewer sports or being exposed to fewer things, but I still think it’s good to match them with the right activity,” Ms. Campiglia, 36, said as she watched a toddler class at Boulder Indoor Soccer in which Noah struggled to take direction from the coach between juice and potty breaks.
“I think it would prevent a lot of parental frustration,” she said.
-From the New York Times article, Born to Run?
Noah’s Arc – A Play in One Act
SCENE: LIGHTS COME UP on DONNA CAMPIGLIA, 36, and
NOAH CAMPIGLIA, 2 ½, on opposite ends of a orange leather
couch in the Denver Broncos-memorabilia laden office of
DOCTOR BROOKS T. WALKER, 42, sports psychologist.
DONNA leans forward, elbows on knees, anxiously rubbing her
temples with her respective index fingers. NOAH leans back, the
plush cushions almost absorbing his small frame. DOCTOR
WALKER alternatively nods thoughtfully and squeezes his
Broncos stress ball.
DONNA
You see, Doctor, this is exactly the problem; he doesn’t acknowledge the magnitude of the choices we’re making right now. Look at him just sitting there. You think Ronaldo or David Beckham just sat around watching Thomas the Tank Engine all day? I mean, I bring the whistle and the cones to the park everyday, rain or shine. Prajeet, at GNC, got us all the top-of-the-line child supplements. And Noah’s agent Shayla, is about to ink a Juicy Juice endorsement. But he just wants to sit on my lap all day like an invalid.
DOCTOR WALKER
I see, Donna. So you’re saying that you’re angry?
DONNA
Yes. I am very, very angry.
NOAH
Mommy, where Max?
DONNA
(Glaring at Noah) Maximus is not here, Noah! (Turning back to Doctor Walker) He’s talking about the dog. The fucking dog. It’s like, Noah’s here, but not really here. You know?
DOCTOR WALKER
Donna, I want you to tell Noah how it makes you feel when he doesn’t take his tremendous ability seriously.
DONNA
(Standing up, smoothing out her tracksuit bottoms with both hands, and looking down on Noah) Noah-
NOAH
Max in bic-yard?
DONNA
The damn dog is at home! We are at the therapist’s office! (She collapses back onto the couch) God! Why do I bother?
DOCTOR WALKER
Now, Donna, let’s stay on track here. Tell Noah how his selfishness makes you feel.
DONNA
(She takes a prolonged deep breath) Noah, honeybear, when Mommy gets up at five in the morning—before Pilates—and chalks the grass at Warren G. Harding Elementary, and then you just want to put woodchips in your mouth, it makes her really really upset.
DOCTOR WALKER
Donna, that’s good, but tell Noah about the physical manifestation of the feelings his cowardice brings up in you.
NOAH
Mommy, I have go pee-pee. I have-
DONNA
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Noah, Mommy’s about to have a breakthrough.
NOAH
Mommy? Pee-pee! (Noah’s expression abruptly turns sad)
DOCTOR WALKER
Now we’re getting somewhere. Go Donna. Run with it!
DONNA
Noah- (She begins to choke up) Honeybear, you…you have such a gift-
NOAH
Pee-pee!
DOCTOR WALKER
Noah, come on, pal. (Dropping the stress ball and raising his palm to Noah) Pull it together. We’re really making progress.
DONNA
(Through tears) When you squander your talent...it makes me burn…burn inside…want to burn to feel…want to press the hot curling iron onto my leg until I can smell the charred flesh. (She breaks down, sobbing into her hands)
DOCTOR WALKER
That’s it! Let it all out, Donna.
NOAH
Pee-pee!!!
DONNA
(Turning her entire body to Noah) You’re not my father! (Her lower lip quivers) I love you, honeybear.
DOCTOR WALKER
Yes!
NOAH
Mommy?!? (Looking down to his lap)
DONNA
(She leans forward to hug him, but retreats abruptly) Ew.
LIGHTS GO DOWN
“I could see how some people might think the test would pigeonhole your child into doing fewer sports or being exposed to fewer things, but I still think it’s good to match them with the right activity,” Ms. Campiglia, 36, said as she watched a toddler class at Boulder Indoor Soccer in which Noah struggled to take direction from the coach between juice and potty breaks.
“I think it would prevent a lot of parental frustration,” she said.
-From the New York Times article, Born to Run?
Noah’s Arc – A Play in One Act
SCENE: LIGHTS COME UP on DONNA CAMPIGLIA, 36, and
NOAH CAMPIGLIA, 2 ½, on opposite ends of a orange leather
couch in the Denver Broncos-memorabilia laden office of
DOCTOR BROOKS T. WALKER, 42, sports psychologist.
DONNA leans forward, elbows on knees, anxiously rubbing her
temples with her respective index fingers. NOAH leans back, the
plush cushions almost absorbing his small frame. DOCTOR
WALKER alternatively nods thoughtfully and squeezes his
Broncos stress ball.
DONNA
You see, Doctor, this is exactly the problem; he doesn’t acknowledge the magnitude of the choices we’re making right now. Look at him just sitting there. You think Ronaldo or David Beckham just sat around watching Thomas the Tank Engine all day? I mean, I bring the whistle and the cones to the park everyday, rain or shine. Prajeet, at GNC, got us all the top-of-the-line child supplements. And Noah’s agent Shayla, is about to ink a Juicy Juice endorsement. But he just wants to sit on my lap all day like an invalid.
DOCTOR WALKER
I see, Donna. So you’re saying that you’re angry?
DONNA
Yes. I am very, very angry.
NOAH
Mommy, where Max?
DONNA
(Glaring at Noah) Maximus is not here, Noah! (Turning back to Doctor Walker) He’s talking about the dog. The fucking dog. It’s like, Noah’s here, but not really here. You know?
DOCTOR WALKER
Donna, I want you to tell Noah how it makes you feel when he doesn’t take his tremendous ability seriously.
DONNA
(Standing up, smoothing out her tracksuit bottoms with both hands, and looking down on Noah) Noah-
NOAH
Max in bic-yard?
DONNA
The damn dog is at home! We are at the therapist’s office! (She collapses back onto the couch) God! Why do I bother?
DOCTOR WALKER
Now, Donna, let’s stay on track here. Tell Noah how his selfishness makes you feel.
DONNA
(She takes a prolonged deep breath) Noah, honeybear, when Mommy gets up at five in the morning—before Pilates—and chalks the grass at Warren G. Harding Elementary, and then you just want to put woodchips in your mouth, it makes her really really upset.
DOCTOR WALKER
Donna, that’s good, but tell Noah about the physical manifestation of the feelings his cowardice brings up in you.
NOAH
Mommy, I have go pee-pee. I have-
DONNA
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Noah, Mommy’s about to have a breakthrough.
NOAH
Mommy? Pee-pee! (Noah’s expression abruptly turns sad)
DOCTOR WALKER
Now we’re getting somewhere. Go Donna. Run with it!
DONNA
Noah- (She begins to choke up) Honeybear, you…you have such a gift-
NOAH
Pee-pee!
DOCTOR WALKER
Noah, come on, pal. (Dropping the stress ball and raising his palm to Noah) Pull it together. We’re really making progress.
DONNA
(Through tears) When you squander your talent...it makes me burn…burn inside…want to burn to feel…want to press the hot curling iron onto my leg until I can smell the charred flesh. (She breaks down, sobbing into her hands)
DOCTOR WALKER
That’s it! Let it all out, Donna.
NOAH
Pee-pee!!!
DONNA
(Turning her entire body to Noah) You’re not my father! (Her lower lip quivers) I love you, honeybear.
DOCTOR WALKER
Yes!
NOAH
Mommy?!? (Looking down to his lap)
DONNA
(She leans forward to hug him, but retreats abruptly) Ew.
LIGHTS GO DOWN
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Fume le Cigare
“My question is whether a President Obama and a Secretary of State Clinton, given all that has gone down between them and their staffs, can have that kind of relationship, particularly with Mrs. Clinton always thinking four to eight years ahead, and the possibility that she may run again for the presidency. I just don’t know.”
-Thomas Friedman, in Madam Secretary?
I can’t quite get behind the appointment of Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State. I’m trying but I’m definitely not there yet. She doesn’t strike me as a team player, someone who will always have Barack’s back. I can already hear the passive-aggressive praise being dished out to foreign heads of state: “Yeah he sure can hoop it up, just don’t put a bowling ball in his hands;” “Americans do love him, especially the annoying ones with PhDs;” and “Of course he’s cool, he’s a black guy.” The real deal-breaker is that Hillary is reminiscent of the weaselly smart kid in class who, instead of simply refusing to let you copy his test, goes out of his way to pass you the answers. Except they are the wrong answers, handed over in a deliberate attempt to paint you as a moron…and if Martin Fitzenberger from Mrs. Kozak’s 5th grade class is reading this, you still have a beating coming.
Other than the Fitzenbergers of the world, the person who will reap the maximum benefit from this appointment is good ole Bill Clinton. I bet he’s already thinking about the official State visit to France…
While President Sarkozy and Secretary Clinton are busy discussing the state of Franco-American diplomacy, their respective partners, Carla Bruni and Slick Willy, will be ushered off to the spousal lounge. Can you imagine Bill Clinton alone with the First Lady of France in a room filled with aperitifs, cordials, and overstuffed horizontal furniture? You don’t need a black light to see this international incident coming. One can only hope that some Élysée Palace maid won’t have stocked the lounge with cigars.
-Thomas Friedman, in Madam Secretary?
I can’t quite get behind the appointment of Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State. I’m trying but I’m definitely not there yet. She doesn’t strike me as a team player, someone who will always have Barack’s back. I can already hear the passive-aggressive praise being dished out to foreign heads of state: “Yeah he sure can hoop it up, just don’t put a bowling ball in his hands;” “Americans do love him, especially the annoying ones with PhDs;” and “Of course he’s cool, he’s a black guy.” The real deal-breaker is that Hillary is reminiscent of the weaselly smart kid in class who, instead of simply refusing to let you copy his test, goes out of his way to pass you the answers. Except they are the wrong answers, handed over in a deliberate attempt to paint you as a moron…and if Martin Fitzenberger from Mrs. Kozak’s 5th grade class is reading this, you still have a beating coming.
Other than the Fitzenbergers of the world, the person who will reap the maximum benefit from this appointment is good ole Bill Clinton. I bet he’s already thinking about the official State visit to France…
While President Sarkozy and Secretary Clinton are busy discussing the state of Franco-American diplomacy, their respective partners, Carla Bruni and Slick Willy, will be ushered off to the spousal lounge. Can you imagine Bill Clinton alone with the First Lady of France in a room filled with aperitifs, cordials, and overstuffed horizontal furniture? You don’t need a black light to see this international incident coming. One can only hope that some Élysée Palace maid won’t have stocked the lounge with cigars.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Foreign Diplomacy
I received an interesting phone call from an old friend last night. We grew up together in Los Angeles. Dude is quite a character. Combine Larry David’s bluntness and lack and of tact with Will Ferrell’s physical demeanor and haplessness, and you’ve got an idea of the fellow I am talking about. Bad luck and worse judgment have frequently rendered him the victim of extraordinary circumstances. He stumbles into the kind of escalating pandemonium that no sensible person would ever have to face.
I could literally tell you thousands of ridiculous stories about this guy. I’ll dangle a short yarn, for background. In his early twenties, late one lonely night, my husky Jewish pal found himself wandering into an East Hollywood massage parlor. This was no day spa. No clients came in hoping to be wrapped in seaweed with cucumbers placed gently over their eyes. Upon being buzzed in through a steel door, customers were made to look into a video camera and recite: “I am not a law enforcement officer.”
After confirming he was not wearing a wire, my friend insisted that he receive services from a Japanese masseuse. Eventually, following some bickering, the madam of the house told him that he would indeed be serviced by “a girl straight from Tokyo.” Instead, he was met at the massage table by a woman who was clearly not Asian, with a distinctly Mexican accent, wearing heavy eye makeup in an apparent effort to appear Japanese. The situation deteriorated rapidly from there. Suffice to say that his evening did not have a happy ending.
So last night, my friend told me about a conversation he recently had with his wife. The two of them had fallen into a spontaneous serious heart-to-heart talk. They spoke about their family together (two kids), career ambitions, and life in general, over multiple glasses of wine. Well into this dialogue, she nonchalantly throws out: “If you could change one thing about me, what would it be?” At first he wisely resists the question, but his wife eventually breaks him with, “I promise I won’t be mad at whatever you say. Just be honest.”
Now at this point any reasonable man would give a pat answer like: ‘I would make you less attractive because you are so incredibly beautiful that I can’t stop thinking about you all day and it distracts me at work.’ But instead, my forthright friend looks his wife in the eye and says, with sincerity, “If I could change one thing about you I’d make you Asian.”
His wife, who is in fact blonde and very fair-skinned, flips out. And in response to her fury, my old pal shrugs and says, “I was just being honest.” Un-fucking-believable.
Oh yeah, one other thing, they currently have a teenage Thai au pair living with them. No shit.
I don’t know exactly how to articulate the moral of this story. I do know, however, what holiday gift I’ll be giving my friend and his wife this year—his and hers kimonos.
I could literally tell you thousands of ridiculous stories about this guy. I’ll dangle a short yarn, for background. In his early twenties, late one lonely night, my husky Jewish pal found himself wandering into an East Hollywood massage parlor. This was no day spa. No clients came in hoping to be wrapped in seaweed with cucumbers placed gently over their eyes. Upon being buzzed in through a steel door, customers were made to look into a video camera and recite: “I am not a law enforcement officer.”
After confirming he was not wearing a wire, my friend insisted that he receive services from a Japanese masseuse. Eventually, following some bickering, the madam of the house told him that he would indeed be serviced by “a girl straight from Tokyo.” Instead, he was met at the massage table by a woman who was clearly not Asian, with a distinctly Mexican accent, wearing heavy eye makeup in an apparent effort to appear Japanese. The situation deteriorated rapidly from there. Suffice to say that his evening did not have a happy ending.
So last night, my friend told me about a conversation he recently had with his wife. The two of them had fallen into a spontaneous serious heart-to-heart talk. They spoke about their family together (two kids), career ambitions, and life in general, over multiple glasses of wine. Well into this dialogue, she nonchalantly throws out: “If you could change one thing about me, what would it be?” At first he wisely resists the question, but his wife eventually breaks him with, “I promise I won’t be mad at whatever you say. Just be honest.”
Now at this point any reasonable man would give a pat answer like: ‘I would make you less attractive because you are so incredibly beautiful that I can’t stop thinking about you all day and it distracts me at work.’ But instead, my forthright friend looks his wife in the eye and says, with sincerity, “If I could change one thing about you I’d make you Asian.”
His wife, who is in fact blonde and very fair-skinned, flips out. And in response to her fury, my old pal shrugs and says, “I was just being honest.” Un-fucking-believable.
Oh yeah, one other thing, they currently have a teenage Thai au pair living with them. No shit.
I don’t know exactly how to articulate the moral of this story. I do know, however, what holiday gift I’ll be giving my friend and his wife this year—his and hers kimonos.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Fowl News
You cannot beat the symbolism in this video: watch as a sassy smiling Sarah Palin rambles on aimlessly, completely oblivious to the carnage unfolding over her shoulder.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
A Well-Styled Bailout
“There’s a delicious irony in seeing private luxury jets flying into Washington, D.C., and people coming off of them with tin cups in their hands. It’s almost like seeing a guy show up at the soup kitchen in high-hat and tuxedo. . . .I mean, couldn’t you all have downgraded to first class or jet-pooled or something to get here?”
-Rep. Gary L. Ackerman (D-N.Y.), to the chief executives of the Big Three automakers arriving to beg for cash from the public.
I must admit, I’m torn over this auto bailout. I’m not torn over what to do to the CEOs of Chrysler, GM, and Ford. They should be publically drawn and quartered, but by American cars in lieu of horses. It would give them a sporting chance, and thus, make it more fun to watch.
On Tuesday, I read Mitt Romney’s New York Times Op-Ed, Let Detroit Go Bankrupt. I found myself nodding my head, thinking that he really made some valid points. And indeed he did. But every time I find myself agreeing with Mitt Romney, I secretly wonder if it’s his hair? I’m convinced that if I stared at his immaculately well-coiffed dome long enough, I’d stop drinking, put on a nametag, and start going door-to-door singing the praises of Jesus and that Smith guy. I might even have sex to procreate. The horror.
Then I remembered the Mitt Romney we all met circa January 2008. The Republican Presidential Candidate who told his native Michigan: “Look at Washington. What have they done to help the domestic auto industry? Look, you can't keep on throwing anvils at Michigan and the auto industry and then say, ‘How come they are not swimming well?’” and, “I hear people say, ‘It’s gone, those jobs are gone, transportation’s gone, it’s not coming back.’ I'm going to fight for every single job. I'm going to rebuild the industry. I'm going to take burdens off the back of the auto industry.”
It’s hard to remember everything Romney said during the Primary (again, the hair gets in my way), but I don’t recall him mentioning anything to the autoworkers about a massive catastrophically spiraling bankruptcy. Of course, handsome Mitt is no stranger to contradicting perspectives. Although he professes to believe that the consumption of alcohol is morally repugnant, he keeps a fully stocked bar in his house for entertaining. Go figure.
Ultimately, concerning the auto bailout, I think I’m steering towards the perspective of economist Jeffery Sachs. I won’t bother to re-articulate the argument he made this week in The Washington Post; you can read it here: A Bridge for the Carmakers. The opening of his last paragraph sums it up: “We face an unprecedented financial calamity, energy crisis and environmental threat. A vibrant, growing U.S. automobile industry should play an essential role in solving all three.”
-Rep. Gary L. Ackerman (D-N.Y.), to the chief executives of the Big Three automakers arriving to beg for cash from the public.
I must admit, I’m torn over this auto bailout. I’m not torn over what to do to the CEOs of Chrysler, GM, and Ford. They should be publically drawn and quartered, but by American cars in lieu of horses. It would give them a sporting chance, and thus, make it more fun to watch.
On Tuesday, I read Mitt Romney’s New York Times Op-Ed, Let Detroit Go Bankrupt. I found myself nodding my head, thinking that he really made some valid points. And indeed he did. But every time I find myself agreeing with Mitt Romney, I secretly wonder if it’s his hair? I’m convinced that if I stared at his immaculately well-coiffed dome long enough, I’d stop drinking, put on a nametag, and start going door-to-door singing the praises of Jesus and that Smith guy. I might even have sex to procreate. The horror.
Then I remembered the Mitt Romney we all met circa January 2008. The Republican Presidential Candidate who told his native Michigan: “Look at Washington. What have they done to help the domestic auto industry? Look, you can't keep on throwing anvils at Michigan and the auto industry and then say, ‘How come they are not swimming well?’” and, “I hear people say, ‘It’s gone, those jobs are gone, transportation’s gone, it’s not coming back.’ I'm going to fight for every single job. I'm going to rebuild the industry. I'm going to take burdens off the back of the auto industry.”
It’s hard to remember everything Romney said during the Primary (again, the hair gets in my way), but I don’t recall him mentioning anything to the autoworkers about a massive catastrophically spiraling bankruptcy. Of course, handsome Mitt is no stranger to contradicting perspectives. Although he professes to believe that the consumption of alcohol is morally repugnant, he keeps a fully stocked bar in his house for entertaining. Go figure.
Ultimately, concerning the auto bailout, I think I’m steering towards the perspective of economist Jeffery Sachs. I won’t bother to re-articulate the argument he made this week in The Washington Post; you can read it here: A Bridge for the Carmakers. The opening of his last paragraph sums it up: “We face an unprecedented financial calamity, energy crisis and environmental threat. A vibrant, growing U.S. automobile industry should play an essential role in solving all three.”
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
The Dark Underbelly
If you have four minutes and forty-four seconds to spare, you may want to check out Bill O’Reilly as he pontificates, supposedly, on the degenerative effects of San Francisco values. He opens this segment, entitled the “Unresolved Problem,” with the question, “Where will the new Obama administration take the country?” The video ends with the following illuminating exchange between O’Reilly and his producer, Jesse Watters:
WATTERS: Well, I found in Central Park at night now, at least after Rudy Giuliani, you can go out at night and walk around and feel safe. But in San Francisco, you don't even go near some of these parks at night.
O'REILLY: No, you wouldn't go to the Presidio at night in San Francisco. I wouldn't. So you felt that New York, or you feel that New York is much more under control than San Francisco?
WATTERS: It is. In New York, you know, you have your pockets of bad places. But in San Francisco, it's prevalent throughout a lot of the city.
O'REILLY: So wherever you went, Fisherman's Wharf and all that, you saw these guys?
WATTERS: Almost every single neighborhood has this dark underbelly that seeps into their regular society.
Here are my immediate observations:
1) I’m confident that Jesse Watters would be raped if he strolled through Central Park at night, perhaps even in the late afternoon.
2) I have no idea what this broadcast has to do with San Francisco, Barack Obama, or values—of any kind.
3) Given the deliberately selected cast of caricatured stereotypes depicted in the video, if I was one of “these guys,” to borrow O’Reilly’s code, I’d be very pleased with my decision not to vote Republican.
WATTERS: Well, I found in Central Park at night now, at least after Rudy Giuliani, you can go out at night and walk around and feel safe. But in San Francisco, you don't even go near some of these parks at night.
O'REILLY: No, you wouldn't go to the Presidio at night in San Francisco. I wouldn't. So you felt that New York, or you feel that New York is much more under control than San Francisco?
WATTERS: It is. In New York, you know, you have your pockets of bad places. But in San Francisco, it's prevalent throughout a lot of the city.
O'REILLY: So wherever you went, Fisherman's Wharf and all that, you saw these guys?
WATTERS: Almost every single neighborhood has this dark underbelly that seeps into their regular society.
Here are my immediate observations:
1) I’m confident that Jesse Watters would be raped if he strolled through Central Park at night, perhaps even in the late afternoon.
2) I have no idea what this broadcast has to do with San Francisco, Barack Obama, or values—of any kind.
3) Given the deliberately selected cast of caricatured stereotypes depicted in the video, if I was one of “these guys,” to borrow O’Reilly’s code, I’d be very pleased with my decision not to vote Republican.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Destination: Vernon, Alabama!
Today, I’ve decided to unveil my first new post in what hopefully will be a recurring blog segment: my very own ‘Travel Section.’
As I’m a refined and resourceful gentleman, I feel it’s my duty to occasionally spotlight one of the many delightful, and yet seldom visited, tucked-away municipalities that pepper the landscape of our wondrous nation. Without further ado, allow me to take you away to tranquil Vernon, Alabama.
According to the official Vernon website, maintained by the Vernon Volunteer Fire Department, it is “a city rich in history.” The foremost landmark is “the Jason Guin home, where the first elected Sheriff of the county kept his prisoners” circa 1860. I can’t help but admire the Sheriff’s devotion to law and order; as I understand it, there were a lot of “prisoners” trying to escape the South in the early 1860s.
According to the 2000 census, of the 2,143 people in Vernon, 86.2 percent identified themselves as “white,” 12.7 percent as “black.”
If you click on the ‘Southern Air’ tab on the Vernon homepage, you’ll discover that: “Here you will find true southern hospitality and charm. Where the ladies have honey dripping from every word.”
Here are some highlights from an article that mentions Vernon in yesterday’s New York Times, entitled: ‘For South, A Waning Hold on National Politics’ –
Race was a strong subtext in post-election conversations across the socioeconomic spectrum here in Vernon, the small, struggling seat of Lamar County on the Mississippi border.
One white woman said she feared that blacks would now become more “aggressive,” while another volunteered that she was bothered by the idea of a black man “over me” in the White House.
Don Dollar, the administrative assistant at City Hall, said bitterly that anyone not upset with Mr. Obama’s victory should seek religious forgiveness.
“This is a community that’s supposed to be filled with a bunch of Christian folks,” he said. “If they’re not disappointed, they need to be at the altar.”
“I am concerned,” Gail McDaniel, who owns a cosmetics business, said in the parking lot of the Shop and Save. “The abortion thing bothers me. Same-sex marriage.”
“I think there are going to be outbreaks from blacks,” she added. “From where I’m from, this is going to give them the right to be more aggressive.”
Thank you for allowing me to introduce you to this charming southern town. I’m hoping that we can plan a group weekend trip to Vernon in the near future. I’d like to visit soon, before 272 of its citizens start becoming aggressive.
As I’m a refined and resourceful gentleman, I feel it’s my duty to occasionally spotlight one of the many delightful, and yet seldom visited, tucked-away municipalities that pepper the landscape of our wondrous nation. Without further ado, allow me to take you away to tranquil Vernon, Alabama.
According to the official Vernon website, maintained by the Vernon Volunteer Fire Department, it is “a city rich in history.” The foremost landmark is “the Jason Guin home, where the first elected Sheriff of the county kept his prisoners” circa 1860. I can’t help but admire the Sheriff’s devotion to law and order; as I understand it, there were a lot of “prisoners” trying to escape the South in the early 1860s.
According to the 2000 census, of the 2,143 people in Vernon, 86.2 percent identified themselves as “white,” 12.7 percent as “black.”
If you click on the ‘Southern Air’ tab on the Vernon homepage, you’ll discover that: “Here you will find true southern hospitality and charm. Where the ladies have honey dripping from every word.”
Here are some highlights from an article that mentions Vernon in yesterday’s New York Times, entitled: ‘For South, A Waning Hold on National Politics’ –
Race was a strong subtext in post-election conversations across the socioeconomic spectrum here in Vernon, the small, struggling seat of Lamar County on the Mississippi border.
One white woman said she feared that blacks would now become more “aggressive,” while another volunteered that she was bothered by the idea of a black man “over me” in the White House.
Don Dollar, the administrative assistant at City Hall, said bitterly that anyone not upset with Mr. Obama’s victory should seek religious forgiveness.
“This is a community that’s supposed to be filled with a bunch of Christian folks,” he said. “If they’re not disappointed, they need to be at the altar.”
“I am concerned,” Gail McDaniel, who owns a cosmetics business, said in the parking lot of the Shop and Save. “The abortion thing bothers me. Same-sex marriage.”
“I think there are going to be outbreaks from blacks,” she added. “From where I’m from, this is going to give them the right to be more aggressive.”
Thank you for allowing me to introduce you to this charming southern town. I’m hoping that we can plan a group weekend trip to Vernon in the near future. I’d like to visit soon, before 272 of its citizens start becoming aggressive.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Gifted Children
Friday, November 7, 2008
Save the Bird
I woke up this morning to the vivid recollection of an event, a trauma really, from my childhood. It was jarring. I didn’t know why my subconscious had decided to begin my day with such a disturbing memory.
I was eight years old and living in a middle-class suburb of Chicago. Our modest neighborhood was abutted, at its northern border, by a sprawling, once grand, estate. This large wooded property was owned by a family who, long before, had possessed almost all the land in the entire township. Over the years they gradually sold parcels of their property to developers who snatched it up to build countless single-family homes. In the meantime, the remaining estate—a mansion, guest house, greenhouse, and pool, on roughly ten acres—became dilapidated and overgrown as the younger generation moved away. It had become a clandestine playground for mischievous boys in the neighborhood who would scale the imposing brick wall to escape the watchful eyes of their parents.
And so I found myself there often. On this day in particular I was with three friends: Jimmy and Scott, nine, and John, ten. Scott’s parents’ house was directly adjacent to the aged estate and his yard held a large oak tree that provided the cover and elevation we needed to propel ourselves over the red brick barrier. That afternoon’s activities were typical—shooting out windows of the greenhouse with a BB gun (which somebody usually had in tow), peeing into the opaque pool water, and reveling in the general mayhem that’s born of walled-off impunity.
At some point near dusk, after we tired of our roguish antics, we regrouped at a clearing in the trees near the hop-point back to Scott’s yard. It was our closing ritual; we always met in this place, our own hallowed ground.
As we sauntered up to the clearing we noticed a tiny baby bird flailing about in the dirt. The fledgling, clearly panicked, was chirping wildly. He looked weak and injured. We knew, undoubtedly, that he had fallen from a nest high above in the oak tree. We sat there for a minute, unsure of what to do. Then somebody, I don’t recall who, said that we should “put him out of his misery.”
Justifications followed: “I’ve got to get home.” “I don’t have time to help bring him somewhere.” “It will hurt him more if we move him.” “The mother bird probably will reject him now anyway.” and most resonant, “He’ll be better off this way.”
I said nothing. I really wanted to help him. I think that we all wanted to help him, but instead of finding the right solution, we grasped the easiest, one that offered the comfort of collective responsibility and the relief of instant gratification. In retrospect, our actions actually turned out to be the most difficult to deal with in the long run.
Jimmy, who was physically the largest, picked a huge rock. With both hands, he hoisted it up above his head. I remember wanting to dive forward, to cradle the bird in my hands and protect it from danger, but my body wouldn’t move.
The rock struck with a loud thud that reverberated off the brick wall behind us. It rolled off to the side. The little bird was still alive. It lay there bloodied and mangled, still moving its wings ever so slightly. Instantly, all of us scrambled together to raise the rock up and release it once more. Again the rock rolled off. This time the bird was crushed and no longer moving. I wanted to cry but held back.
None of us could speak. I couldn’t stop staring at the ground, at him. Eventually I turned away and followed my friends back over the wall. We never spoke about that day again.
Sitting here now, I know why I was hit with the memory this morning. It occurred to me while thinking about what I did last night before bed. I was online, reading the “Final Statement” from the No on Prop 8 Campaign. It conceded that California, the place I call home, “said yes to bigotry, yes to discrimination, and yes to second-class status for same-sex couples.” It made me feel ashamed, like that scared eight-year-old boy.
Given the chance to do the right thing, to simply allow a bird to live its life, I failed. I stood by complicit, ignoring my instincts, and allowed my voice to be silenced by the voices of others.
I was eight years old and living in a middle-class suburb of Chicago. Our modest neighborhood was abutted, at its northern border, by a sprawling, once grand, estate. This large wooded property was owned by a family who, long before, had possessed almost all the land in the entire township. Over the years they gradually sold parcels of their property to developers who snatched it up to build countless single-family homes. In the meantime, the remaining estate—a mansion, guest house, greenhouse, and pool, on roughly ten acres—became dilapidated and overgrown as the younger generation moved away. It had become a clandestine playground for mischievous boys in the neighborhood who would scale the imposing brick wall to escape the watchful eyes of their parents.
And so I found myself there often. On this day in particular I was with three friends: Jimmy and Scott, nine, and John, ten. Scott’s parents’ house was directly adjacent to the aged estate and his yard held a large oak tree that provided the cover and elevation we needed to propel ourselves over the red brick barrier. That afternoon’s activities were typical—shooting out windows of the greenhouse with a BB gun (which somebody usually had in tow), peeing into the opaque pool water, and reveling in the general mayhem that’s born of walled-off impunity.
At some point near dusk, after we tired of our roguish antics, we regrouped at a clearing in the trees near the hop-point back to Scott’s yard. It was our closing ritual; we always met in this place, our own hallowed ground.
As we sauntered up to the clearing we noticed a tiny baby bird flailing about in the dirt. The fledgling, clearly panicked, was chirping wildly. He looked weak and injured. We knew, undoubtedly, that he had fallen from a nest high above in the oak tree. We sat there for a minute, unsure of what to do. Then somebody, I don’t recall who, said that we should “put him out of his misery.”
Justifications followed: “I’ve got to get home.” “I don’t have time to help bring him somewhere.” “It will hurt him more if we move him.” “The mother bird probably will reject him now anyway.” and most resonant, “He’ll be better off this way.”
I said nothing. I really wanted to help him. I think that we all wanted to help him, but instead of finding the right solution, we grasped the easiest, one that offered the comfort of collective responsibility and the relief of instant gratification. In retrospect, our actions actually turned out to be the most difficult to deal with in the long run.
Jimmy, who was physically the largest, picked a huge rock. With both hands, he hoisted it up above his head. I remember wanting to dive forward, to cradle the bird in my hands and protect it from danger, but my body wouldn’t move.
The rock struck with a loud thud that reverberated off the brick wall behind us. It rolled off to the side. The little bird was still alive. It lay there bloodied and mangled, still moving its wings ever so slightly. Instantly, all of us scrambled together to raise the rock up and release it once more. Again the rock rolled off. This time the bird was crushed and no longer moving. I wanted to cry but held back.
None of us could speak. I couldn’t stop staring at the ground, at him. Eventually I turned away and followed my friends back over the wall. We never spoke about that day again.
Sitting here now, I know why I was hit with the memory this morning. It occurred to me while thinking about what I did last night before bed. I was online, reading the “Final Statement” from the No on Prop 8 Campaign. It conceded that California, the place I call home, “said yes to bigotry, yes to discrimination, and yes to second-class status for same-sex couples.” It made me feel ashamed, like that scared eight-year-old boy.
Given the chance to do the right thing, to simply allow a bird to live its life, I failed. I stood by complicit, ignoring my instincts, and allowed my voice to be silenced by the voices of others.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Political Strategery
As we bid farewell to another campaign season, I wanted to take a moment to review my favorite political ads:
Please don't annihilate my child
Picking up dog poop = Experience
Hosed
Dude, I'm the Peace Czar
San Francisco soiree, in Missouri?
Please don't annihilate my child
Picking up dog poop = Experience
Hosed
Dude, I'm the Peace Czar
San Francisco soiree, in Missouri?
Lusting for Knowledge
Congratulations to Barack Obama, the next President of the United States of America! I won’t attempt to articulate the enormous significance of this event; plenty of others will do it far more eloquently. I will simply say that I cannot recall starting a day with a feeling of such overwhelming elation and optimism since the morning after my wedding…and on that morning, I was still really drunk.
In addition to cheering for the election winner, I’d like to take a moment to welcome back the real John McCain. Senator McCain gave a graceful and heartfelt concession speech last night. I look forward to hearing his candid thoughts now that he’s unshackled from the hacks running his campaign. I’m hopeful that the old maverick will revisit some of his previous declarations, like this one on the religious fringe: “Neither party should be defined by pandering to the outer reaches of American politics and the agents of intolerance.”
On a related note, I sure will miss seeing Sarah Palin in the media everyday. Oh I’m sure she won’t disappear. We’ll occasionally be treated to a spontaneous quote on the diplomatic expertise that comes from geographical proximity. Maybe, if we’re lucky, some pervy kid will catch a Palin nipple slip with his iPhone and post it online. If nothing else, she has reinvigorated a classic icon—the naughty librarian. All over the country, droves of adolescent boys will be fighting for cubicle space and cramming their backpacks full-o-books in an effort to catch a glimpse of the bespectacled moms behind their local checkout counters. In between frantic lusty gawking, sweaty palms, and uncomfortably adjusting their pants, these kids might actually learn something. For that, Governor, I thank you.
In addition to cheering for the election winner, I’d like to take a moment to welcome back the real John McCain. Senator McCain gave a graceful and heartfelt concession speech last night. I look forward to hearing his candid thoughts now that he’s unshackled from the hacks running his campaign. I’m hopeful that the old maverick will revisit some of his previous declarations, like this one on the religious fringe: “Neither party should be defined by pandering to the outer reaches of American politics and the agents of intolerance.”
On a related note, I sure will miss seeing Sarah Palin in the media everyday. Oh I’m sure she won’t disappear. We’ll occasionally be treated to a spontaneous quote on the diplomatic expertise that comes from geographical proximity. Maybe, if we’re lucky, some pervy kid will catch a Palin nipple slip with his iPhone and post it online. If nothing else, she has reinvigorated a classic icon—the naughty librarian. All over the country, droves of adolescent boys will be fighting for cubicle space and cramming their backpacks full-o-books in an effort to catch a glimpse of the bespectacled moms behind their local checkout counters. In between frantic lusty gawking, sweaty palms, and uncomfortably adjusting their pants, these kids might actually learn something. For that, Governor, I thank you.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Revelation on the Dance Floor
If you are a registered California voter and govern your decisions, even in part, by logic and rational thinking, then I thank you for voting ‘No’ on Proposition 8.
For today’s post, I’ve decided to write a letter to the devout and dedicated folks at “ProtectMarriage.com,” to be delivered on Wednesday, November 5th.
Dear Sirs:
Hello, Hallelujah, and God Bless You! I am writing for two reasons: first, to offer my condolences in this time of defeat. Though Prop 8 failed to pass, Our Lord and Savior will most certainly not fail to pass judgment on the gays. We’ll see how much they enjoy sodomy once they realize that it will be eternally thrust upon them by Satan—with his fiery pronged penis!
Second, I would like to volunteer to assist your organization in the continued struggle against sexual deviants, heathens, and career-minded women. I believe that my unique personal perspective could be useful in liberating people from homosexuality. Though in my youth I always partook in masculine activities (Boy Scouts, Greco-Roman wrestling team, pledging a fraternity, etc.), I have occasionally been tempted to stray from the path of righteousness. I don’t mean this in the traditional sense; I have never had a male appendage inserted into my rectum, other than the finger of a doctor (it was only later that I found out he held a PhD in Comparative Literature). My problem is that I am musically gay.
Alone in the shower I belt out Whitney Houston. There are multiple Britney Spears CDs tucked under the driver’s seat of my car. And I really, really like the mixes they play where I workout, at Gold’s Gym in the Castro. Worse yet, I often find my body moving to the beat against my will, as if the Devil himself has possessed my hips. Dance is wrong, it is not Christian; I know because I’ve seen the movie “Footloose” a dozen times. But gloriously, in these moments of quivering temptation, I bite my lower lip, beg for Him, and He comes: Jesus Christ! Really, He does. Sometimes at the gym when an ABBA song is playing, I conclude a fierce bench pressing with jazz hands. Ashamed, I pray to Him. I know He hears me because every time I’m able to overcome the yearning to flutter my fingers. Then He rewards me by giving me the strength to climactically push up a grunting vein-popping new single-rep max.
Recently it occurred to me that I could strategically harness my spiritual weakness for use in battle against the gays. The gays are drawn to music and dancing, or so I am told. Thus, I propose that, with your help, I produce and direct a “musical” (a play that contains musical numbers and dancing) in the heart of their stronghold—San Francisco. Ostensibly, this will be just another colorful theater performance with chiseled men in unitards. But beneath the surface, the musical will deliver a subliminal message in support of traditional marriage: salvation lies within the vagina.
The title of our production will be “Revelation on the Dance Floor.” The stage will be set for apocalyptic battle as we reenact the Book of Revelation with song and dance. Rather than attaching the entire script and illustrated choreography (which is currently being printed in Bible Script font at Kinkos), I will summarize the final scene so that you can get an idea of how the message will be conveyed.
The trumpets will sound as the four horsemen stand, clad solely in chaps, hands-on-hips, in the corners of the stage. Blinding bright light will expose the pagans to the rapture. The naked bodies of the non-believers (representing Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and that pesky Tom Cruise with his army of space druids) will writhe in agony as judgment cometh. [Casting note: the backup dancers will double as the non-believers.] As the Devil prods the heathens, who are now laid out collectively to form a human dance floor, Jesus will be lowered onto the stage. It turns out, however, that Jesus has updated His appearance…I have a feeling that the gays will really appreciate His makeover.
In lieu of flowing white linen robes, JC will be clad in the manliest of outfits: a wrestling singlet. He will be tone, fit, and muscular. I mean, what else is there to do but lift weights while you’re waiting for the rapture? Gone will be His long flaxen hair. Instead, He will sport a strawberry blond faux-hawk (apparently, these are quite popular with the sodomites). Strobe lights will flash as Christ begins to slowly tap His feet on top of the non-believers. The momentum will rise up His leg and His pelvis will begin to gyrate. The Devil’s eyes will grow wide with fear as he senses the power of dancing Jesus. Resurrected Christ will hold up His hand and the light from the disco ball will shine through the holes in His palms and He’ll say something hip like, “In your face, Satan!” The cowering Devil will plunge down through a trapdoor in the stage, leaving a glistening well-built Jesus victorious atop the heap of non-believers (backup dancers now in the fetal position).
An image this raw and vital will undoubtedly have a spellbinding effect on an audience full of the gays. As the spotlight dims on dancing Jesus, the photograph of a massive immaculately-groomed vagina will be projected across the white stage backdrop. The image of our strapping Savior merging into the giant vagina will leave the spectators hypnotically entranced. They will exit the musical inexplicably lusting after female genitalia. And they will find themselves married and producing soldiers for the Lord before they can snap their fingers and say “eternal damnation.”
Anyway, I hope you now have faith in my plan to rehabilitate these lost souls. Please do not question my methods. We must convert them by any means necessary. Deceptive manipulation is perfectly acceptable when used for righteousness. Our values will improve their lives.
Ultimately, we must prevent them from imposing their way of life on everyone else.
Thank you for your time.
For today’s post, I’ve decided to write a letter to the devout and dedicated folks at “ProtectMarriage.com,” to be delivered on Wednesday, November 5th.
Dear Sirs:
Hello, Hallelujah, and God Bless You! I am writing for two reasons: first, to offer my condolences in this time of defeat. Though Prop 8 failed to pass, Our Lord and Savior will most certainly not fail to pass judgment on the gays. We’ll see how much they enjoy sodomy once they realize that it will be eternally thrust upon them by Satan—with his fiery pronged penis!
Second, I would like to volunteer to assist your organization in the continued struggle against sexual deviants, heathens, and career-minded women. I believe that my unique personal perspective could be useful in liberating people from homosexuality. Though in my youth I always partook in masculine activities (Boy Scouts, Greco-Roman wrestling team, pledging a fraternity, etc.), I have occasionally been tempted to stray from the path of righteousness. I don’t mean this in the traditional sense; I have never had a male appendage inserted into my rectum, other than the finger of a doctor (it was only later that I found out he held a PhD in Comparative Literature). My problem is that I am musically gay.
Alone in the shower I belt out Whitney Houston. There are multiple Britney Spears CDs tucked under the driver’s seat of my car. And I really, really like the mixes they play where I workout, at Gold’s Gym in the Castro. Worse yet, I often find my body moving to the beat against my will, as if the Devil himself has possessed my hips. Dance is wrong, it is not Christian; I know because I’ve seen the movie “Footloose” a dozen times. But gloriously, in these moments of quivering temptation, I bite my lower lip, beg for Him, and He comes: Jesus Christ! Really, He does. Sometimes at the gym when an ABBA song is playing, I conclude a fierce bench pressing with jazz hands. Ashamed, I pray to Him. I know He hears me because every time I’m able to overcome the yearning to flutter my fingers. Then He rewards me by giving me the strength to climactically push up a grunting vein-popping new single-rep max.
Recently it occurred to me that I could strategically harness my spiritual weakness for use in battle against the gays. The gays are drawn to music and dancing, or so I am told. Thus, I propose that, with your help, I produce and direct a “musical” (a play that contains musical numbers and dancing) in the heart of their stronghold—San Francisco. Ostensibly, this will be just another colorful theater performance with chiseled men in unitards. But beneath the surface, the musical will deliver a subliminal message in support of traditional marriage: salvation lies within the vagina.
The title of our production will be “Revelation on the Dance Floor.” The stage will be set for apocalyptic battle as we reenact the Book of Revelation with song and dance. Rather than attaching the entire script and illustrated choreography (which is currently being printed in Bible Script font at Kinkos), I will summarize the final scene so that you can get an idea of how the message will be conveyed.
The trumpets will sound as the four horsemen stand, clad solely in chaps, hands-on-hips, in the corners of the stage. Blinding bright light will expose the pagans to the rapture. The naked bodies of the non-believers (representing Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and that pesky Tom Cruise with his army of space druids) will writhe in agony as judgment cometh. [Casting note: the backup dancers will double as the non-believers.] As the Devil prods the heathens, who are now laid out collectively to form a human dance floor, Jesus will be lowered onto the stage. It turns out, however, that Jesus has updated His appearance…I have a feeling that the gays will really appreciate His makeover.
In lieu of flowing white linen robes, JC will be clad in the manliest of outfits: a wrestling singlet. He will be tone, fit, and muscular. I mean, what else is there to do but lift weights while you’re waiting for the rapture? Gone will be His long flaxen hair. Instead, He will sport a strawberry blond faux-hawk (apparently, these are quite popular with the sodomites). Strobe lights will flash as Christ begins to slowly tap His feet on top of the non-believers. The momentum will rise up His leg and His pelvis will begin to gyrate. The Devil’s eyes will grow wide with fear as he senses the power of dancing Jesus. Resurrected Christ will hold up His hand and the light from the disco ball will shine through the holes in His palms and He’ll say something hip like, “In your face, Satan!” The cowering Devil will plunge down through a trapdoor in the stage, leaving a glistening well-built Jesus victorious atop the heap of non-believers (backup dancers now in the fetal position).
An image this raw and vital will undoubtedly have a spellbinding effect on an audience full of the gays. As the spotlight dims on dancing Jesus, the photograph of a massive immaculately-groomed vagina will be projected across the white stage backdrop. The image of our strapping Savior merging into the giant vagina will leave the spectators hypnotically entranced. They will exit the musical inexplicably lusting after female genitalia. And they will find themselves married and producing soldiers for the Lord before they can snap their fingers and say “eternal damnation.”
Anyway, I hope you now have faith in my plan to rehabilitate these lost souls. Please do not question my methods. We must convert them by any means necessary. Deceptive manipulation is perfectly acceptable when used for righteousness. Our values will improve their lives.
Ultimately, we must prevent them from imposing their way of life on everyone else.
Thank you for your time.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Introduction
I’m starting a blog. It was my wife’s suggestion. Apparently, I have a lot to say first thing in the morning. Though my wife assures me that my daybreak dialogue is both clever and insightful, it seems to often coincide with her “quiet time.” Thus, I intend to record my thoughts so that she can take them in at her leisure. Consequently, all of you will be able to experience what it’s like to start your day with Brian—minus the visual of me in underwear with an erection.
Yesterday I prepared two mini-essays as openers for the blog. However, after careful review and counsel from my wife, I’ve decided to begin with something less controversial, containing fewer mentions of sexually explicit acts. In any event, today I will not be posting: “Joe Six-Pack: Suckling from Palin’s Teat,” nor will you get to read “Jesus is my Backdoor Man,” a lively discussion of California Ballot Proposition 8 (the “California Marriage Protection Act”). These writings may resurface at some point…
Now onto my first post entitled: Jews for Jesus.
On my way to work I often pass through the intersection of California and Fillmore Streets. This is a busy thoroughfare in San Francisco, particularly for pedestrians. It comes as no surprise that, on any given day, this junction is chock-full of overzealous college-age canvassers wielding clip-boards and reeking of the kind of smugness that comes from believing no one else cares quite as much as you do. They all “work” for some ostensibly altruistic group that is in immediate desperate need of YOUR donation. Ironically, they would bring in more revenue if they simply donated their earnings from a part-time minimum-wage job. But ya know, it’s about gettin’ the message out there, man. Sure. I refer to all of these people, regardless of organizational affiliation, as Jews for Jesus.
The euphemism stems from the movie “Airplane!” There’s a classic scene depicting the character “Rex Kramer,” making his way through an airport terminal when he is repeatedly approached by aggressive solicitors shouting their affiliations (Jehovah’s Witness, Jerry’s Kids, Scientology, etc), the most audible being Jews for Jesus. Kramer violently retaliates and incapacitates every jackass offering him a pamphlet or flower or gesture of goodwill, all the while continuing to move forward on the way to more important matters. Rex Kramer has become my fictitious hero; the various Jews for Jesus are my nemeses.
In lieu of responding to the J4Js I encounter with abrupt merciless violence, which is always tempting, I’ve developed a game that not only diffuses my rage, but allows me to turn the tables—predator becomes prey. Basically, you respond to their questions with more questions, gradually increasing in creepiness until they become overwhelmed and abandon talking to you altogether. The ultimate goal, of course, is to get them to throw down their clipboard and nametag and flee the scene in horror, never to return.
Much like illegitimate children and Jewish grandmothers, the J4Js always initiate conversation with a question designed to elicit guilt, like: Do you have a minute to help place abused three-legged blind puppies in a warm and loving home? If you instinctively started nodding your head while reading that last sentence, slap yourself hard in the face and pay attention. Here are some hypothetical interactions:
Example 1
J4J: Will you help sponsor an at-risk child?
You: Oh wow, of course, I love children. Are there volunteer opportunities?
J4J: Yes. We actually have a local shelter for homeless teenagers. I’d like to-
You: Are there boys ages five to nine there?
J4J: Uh…I’m not sure.
You: Is there a lot of one-on-one time with the boys?
J4J: I…uh…you can help us today by making a cash donation, and I will give-
You: Do they do background checks?
J4J: What?
You: Well, when you signed up, did they fingerprint you?
J4J: What?!?
Example 2
J4J: Can I count on you to help stop big oil from polluting the environment?
You: Yes. (stepping extremely close to the J4J) How did you get involved with such a beautiful cause?
J4J: Well... (stepping back)…after I graduated from Bryn Mawr-
You: (stepping forward) The minute you spoke to me I felt a connection between us. Did you feel it too?
J4J: Uh…(stepping back)…I think a lot of people are mad at the oil companies because-
You: (stepping forward) Yeah. Yeah. Crazy mad. Crazy. What kind of shampoo do you use?
J4J: Can I just get you to sign this-
You: Are you out here alone or do you work with a partner?
J4J: (stepping way back) Uh…
You: I’ll make a donation if you tell me where you live. (holding out $20) What’s your address?
J4J: I took a defensive awareness class the summer before my junior year.
Anyway, I’m sure you get the point. I sincerely hope you will join me in playing this game at every available opportunity. Together we can stop these canvassers from wasting our time and theirs. It’s a moral and ethical imperative. If you’re reluctant, ask yourself: Do you have five minutes to help steer young people off the streets?
Yesterday I prepared two mini-essays as openers for the blog. However, after careful review and counsel from my wife, I’ve decided to begin with something less controversial, containing fewer mentions of sexually explicit acts. In any event, today I will not be posting: “Joe Six-Pack: Suckling from Palin’s Teat,” nor will you get to read “Jesus is my Backdoor Man,” a lively discussion of California Ballot Proposition 8 (the “California Marriage Protection Act”). These writings may resurface at some point…
Now onto my first post entitled: Jews for Jesus.
On my way to work I often pass through the intersection of California and Fillmore Streets. This is a busy thoroughfare in San Francisco, particularly for pedestrians. It comes as no surprise that, on any given day, this junction is chock-full of overzealous college-age canvassers wielding clip-boards and reeking of the kind of smugness that comes from believing no one else cares quite as much as you do. They all “work” for some ostensibly altruistic group that is in immediate desperate need of YOUR donation. Ironically, they would bring in more revenue if they simply donated their earnings from a part-time minimum-wage job. But ya know, it’s about gettin’ the message out there, man. Sure. I refer to all of these people, regardless of organizational affiliation, as Jews for Jesus.
The euphemism stems from the movie “Airplane!” There’s a classic scene depicting the character “Rex Kramer,” making his way through an airport terminal when he is repeatedly approached by aggressive solicitors shouting their affiliations (Jehovah’s Witness, Jerry’s Kids, Scientology, etc), the most audible being Jews for Jesus. Kramer violently retaliates and incapacitates every jackass offering him a pamphlet or flower or gesture of goodwill, all the while continuing to move forward on the way to more important matters. Rex Kramer has become my fictitious hero; the various Jews for Jesus are my nemeses.
In lieu of responding to the J4Js I encounter with abrupt merciless violence, which is always tempting, I’ve developed a game that not only diffuses my rage, but allows me to turn the tables—predator becomes prey. Basically, you respond to their questions with more questions, gradually increasing in creepiness until they become overwhelmed and abandon talking to you altogether. The ultimate goal, of course, is to get them to throw down their clipboard and nametag and flee the scene in horror, never to return.
Much like illegitimate children and Jewish grandmothers, the J4Js always initiate conversation with a question designed to elicit guilt, like: Do you have a minute to help place abused three-legged blind puppies in a warm and loving home? If you instinctively started nodding your head while reading that last sentence, slap yourself hard in the face and pay attention. Here are some hypothetical interactions:
Example 1
J4J: Will you help sponsor an at-risk child?
You: Oh wow, of course, I love children. Are there volunteer opportunities?
J4J: Yes. We actually have a local shelter for homeless teenagers. I’d like to-
You: Are there boys ages five to nine there?
J4J: Uh…I’m not sure.
You: Is there a lot of one-on-one time with the boys?
J4J: I…uh…you can help us today by making a cash donation, and I will give-
You: Do they do background checks?
J4J: What?
You: Well, when you signed up, did they fingerprint you?
J4J: What?!?
Example 2
J4J: Can I count on you to help stop big oil from polluting the environment?
You: Yes. (stepping extremely close to the J4J) How did you get involved with such a beautiful cause?
J4J: Well... (stepping back)…after I graduated from Bryn Mawr-
You: (stepping forward) The minute you spoke to me I felt a connection between us. Did you feel it too?
J4J: Uh…(stepping back)…I think a lot of people are mad at the oil companies because-
You: (stepping forward) Yeah. Yeah. Crazy mad. Crazy. What kind of shampoo do you use?
J4J: Can I just get you to sign this-
You: Are you out here alone or do you work with a partner?
J4J: (stepping way back) Uh…
You: I’ll make a donation if you tell me where you live. (holding out $20) What’s your address?
J4J: I took a defensive awareness class the summer before my junior year.
Anyway, I’m sure you get the point. I sincerely hope you will join me in playing this game at every available opportunity. Together we can stop these canvassers from wasting our time and theirs. It’s a moral and ethical imperative. If you’re reluctant, ask yourself: Do you have five minutes to help steer young people off the streets?
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