Sunday, May 31, 2009

NAWBLA Newsletter, Dept.

statutory rape night

Well, as ol' Gomer Pyle used to say, Sha-zam! Who says there are no second acts in American lives? Mary Kay Letorneau, America's Most Beloved Pedophile™, is getting work. Some of you may recall that MK made headlines back in '97 when the then-34-year-old married mother of four and elementary school teacher was arrested for boning one of her 12-year-old students. She was preggers with her toy boy's first child when she was arrested. She pleaded guilty to child rape and was sentenced to 7½ years in prison, with all but six months suspended. Talk about recidivisim, within weeks of leaving pokey, she was caught playing hide the salam' with Skeezix in her car and ordered to serve the remainder of her sentence. She was, of course, preg again and gave birth to their second child while in lockup.

Parenthetically, just in case you might be wondering how far the fruit fell from the tree here, MK's daddy, John G. Schmitz, was apparently a politico and hyperconservative loon of the first water (sample 1981 press release: "Senator Schmitz and His Committee Survive Attack of the Bulldykes"; I mean, when the John Birch Society expels you for "extremism," you know you're on the bleeding edge of batshit.). Catholic Marine Corps lieutentant colonel who banged two babies out of some GOP volunteer who, of course, was not his wedded wife.

Anyhoo, it appears that MK's studminimuffin is now aspiring to become a DJ; thus, this awesomely tasteful event. Now, reader commentary at the preceding link identifies what I would think to be the salient problem with this situation, and I quote: Ever wonder what would have happened if the teacher was Gary K. Letourneau and the student was female? What a double standard! Precisely. Kall me krazy, but I don't think that "DJ Headline"'s gig hosted by Father Flotsky, his spiritual adviser and former ass-splitter, would be entirely free of howling, pitchfork-bearing mobs.

It's like my daddy used to say to me when I was knee-high in grasshoppers (I had sworn off Sazeracs): "Leetel sobseester, een America, you can be anytheeng you wanna be, especially eef you are a semi-hot woman eenvolved een a sex crime." I don't know why he would impersonate Peter Lorre whenever he spoke with me, but that was mah daddy.

Now, I do not believe the blonde bimba in the above pic is MK herself. Here, in fact, is a pic of MK and her rape victim loving hubby bookended by two Rhodes scholars:

rapist and victim

Awww, ain't that puh-recious? I can just imagine, years from now, the scene at the Thanksgiving table:

-Gran'ma, how'd you an' Gran'pa meet?
-Well, little Tiffanee, back then I was married and had four little babies to take care of, just like you. But I was also criminally insane, so I fucked one of my boy students repeatedly until he put a baby of his own in my tummy. Now, who wants some more smashed potatoes?

It kinda gets ya...right here.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Now on Your Newsstands, Dept.

When I was considerably younger, I used to read New York magazine. Actually, I used to read the hardbound collections--such as Thank You for the Giant Sea Tortoise--of Mary Ann Madden's New York magazine competitions. They were clever and brainy and smart (in both senses of the word) and very much of a piece with the way the city felt to me at that time.

Those books aside, I've never been what one might call a regular reader of the magazine. Mainly to do with the fact that I no longer live there and the fact that I don't care about the disproportionate impact of Lizzie Grubman, her predecessors and her successors on any aspect of life in the city.

That said, I've just finished two New York articles that I'd like to share with you (ah, there's the point of all this...y'all know enough to wait a paragraph or two). The first, "The Benefits of Distraction and Overstimulation," is on attention or, more accurately, our fractured, fragmented lack of it as a society and a wired culture.

woody and larry

The second--the most recent cover story--is "Twilight of the Tummlers," an interesting examination of how Woody Allen's latest, Whatever Works starring Larry David, is a throwback to a style of Jewish comedy no longer being produced.

Now, I take exception to the title of the piece because neither Allen nor David is a tummler. A tummler is the guy at the Catskills resort who'll spray seltzer out his nose while imitating Mrs. Feinbaum doing the cha-cha. Jerry Lewis was the consummate tummler. Woody, not so much. But the article's a good read, and it introduced me to, which is like Beautiful Agony, only with shpritzing instead of spooging.

So, yay New York mag. I'm going to have to keep an eye out for their stories. I mean, it's not The New Yorker but, Christ, compared with Washingtonian magazine--which only seems to exist as a clearing house for plastic surgery ads and which is so unmoored from the day-to-day life of both the average subway rider and the world's most powerful city as to seem more like Palm Springs Life magazine--it's the London Review of Books.


Friday, May 15, 2009

Eight Million Stories on the Naked Titty, Dept.

When I first began this post, the story concerned a relatively unknown beauty pageant contestant from California who had (mis)spoken out about her opposition to gay marriage, an opposition rooted in her deeply held Christian beliefs. It then developed into a story about her surgically enhanced breasts, then about how the California pageant committee had paid for this enhancement. Expanding like the phallic bread dough in Lucy Ricardo's oven, it then concerned rumors of topless photos of the young woman, then her fervent denial and faith-based defense, then the online publication of one, then two, then more photos. Then revelations that the photos were recent, not years-old as had been claimed. And, throughout, there was the drumbeat of imminent dethronement and disgrace for having violated the cardinal rule of beauty pageantry: Don't show your nipples to the audience pipples. Or, don't flash your knockers at the alter kockers. Either way.

And in the eye of the swirl of speculation stood the man. Which man? The man with the most tragic hairpiece in creation. Ahhh. And the fate of this booby-baring bimba was in his hands. Would he conform to the rules and regulations of the pageant, which explicitly excluded prospective contestants who had had photographs taken of themselves nude or partially nude? Or would he do whatever made him the most money and guaranteed him the most column inches? Given that this wasn't just any lecherous, no-taste weasel of a real estate mogul but Miss USA pageant owner Donald Trump hisself, the mammary-sharing missy was allowed to keep her state title. Quoth the hairpiece, "We are in the 21st century. We have determined the pictures taken are some cases the pictures were lovely." (Can't you just picture him wiping the spittle from his lips as he recalls how the images of her supple mounds almost elicited an honest erection? Could the fallen beauty queen become Mrs. *ka-ching!* Trump v.4?) And this pronouncement itself prompted the executive director of the Miss California USA pageant--herself a former Miss USA--to resign.

Would that Wagner were still alive! Richard, not Honus. For, truly, this is an epic worthy of his overwrought Teutonic genius. Talk about a Gesamtkunstwerk! This story weaves together sex, greed, ambition, scandal, lies, bad hair, hypocrisy, titties and Jesus in a multimedia extravaganza of sight, sound and possibly scent!

Now, I'm a frugal sobsister, so I hate to waste perfectly good verbiage. So, following is the original work-in-progress post for your enjoyment. And, if not enjoyment, annoyance. Roll tape...

I'm not a religious person, as some of you may know. My formal observance is limited to taking, on occasion, the Rastafarian sacrament to the accompaniment of late-'50s stereo demonstration records (Wow, the bongo drums are on the right! Now, they're all the way on the left!). *ha ha* I kid. Boys and girls, lips that touch "maryjane" will only feel...very pain...ed. Whatever. At any rate, as a non-religious sobsister, I must take exception to beauty pageant contestant Miss California Carrie Prejean's well-publicized attempts to insert her interpretation of her Lord and Savior's policies vis-à-vis marriage into the secular province of beauty pageantry.

Why is Carrie Prejean (and, here, I must note my surprise at the somewhat pedestrian spelling of her given name; this young woman was clearly miscounselled in a number of ways, not least of which was the fact that, if she expects to excel in the bitch-mount-bitch world of pageantry, she needs to commit 110 percent to a first name such as "Carree" or "Karri" or, ideally, "Karree." Her current name just makes her look like she's not even trying, God love her.) speaking out against marriage for homosexuals? She talked, at the Miss USA pageant, of her support of "opposite marriage" (or "Bizarro marriage") over gay marriage. Which, you know, 1st Amendment and all, is fine. Yet, why is this young woman (and we're awaiting the test results that will confirm that) so adamant about some things that are contra naturam and not others?

I speak, of course, of the fake rack she had installed--at Miss California Pageant expense--scant weeks before the Miss USA contest. Now, as alluded to above, I am no theologian (although I did play William of Ockham in a grade-school pageant titled Razor? YOU Raise Her!), but it strikes me that having a pair of grapefruit halves stuck under your skin in defiance of the Divine Plan for your bosom allotment must surely make the Babby Jayzus cry. It's like Christmas morning, getting a reindeer sweater from Grammy and tossing it back in her face, saying, "Take that tired shit back to Penney's and get me some'a that GTA IV, itch-bay!"

Yet Miss Prejean (no apparent relation to Sister Helen Prejean, except insofar as one has seen a "Dead Man Walking," while the other is a witless twat) seems not at all discomfited by this apparent bit of hypocrisy. And, so, I must ask her, here in this most public of fora:

Carrie Prejean, if the Good Lord Above assigned you to the itty-bitty titty camp, why, then, were you trying to tunnel under to Stalag C-Cup? There is no squint-eyed Sergeant Schultz on duty here, only the unblinking glare of your omnivident god.

Further, Miss Prejean, segueing neatly into the whited sepulchre sitting in the living room of a glass house dept., can you tell me, then, exactly how flashing your own unenhanced raclette at a number of cameras jibes with the precepts of a religion whose more repugnant biases you are using to deny fellow Americans equal treatment under the law? I reiterate my admission that I'm no theologian; that said, I believe that baring one's boobies unto someone other than your husband in anticipation of imminent impregnation is considered a Sin by them as know from Xtian sin. Your "spokesman"--oh, pleez, may I apply for that job when the incumbent converts to full-time at Chuck E. Cheese?!?--tried to make the best of what must be an elephant turd in the punch bowl of your life. Some blather about you having been 17 and naive. You yourself took a slightly different tack with: ""I am a Christian, and I am a model. Models pose for pictures, including lingerie and swimwear photos."

Yeah, sweetie. Models do pose for pictures. But Jesus-loving, God-fearing, Holy Spirit-conversing models don't do over-the-shoulder fuckmebigboy snaps that could incite a churchgoing fellow to play Onan in repertory. Nor do they lie about having taken said snaps in order to snake themselves around the pageant rules. Nor do they lie about the number of times they've had spicyspicycaliente pix taken of themselves. Or the age at which they had them taken. Et cetera, et cetera. You catch my drift, cupcake, right?

But, dang, there are just so many levels to this story--her father maybe was gay and that broke up her parents' marriage?!? Sweet Charles Foster Kane! stop the presses!!--that a measly post barely scratches the surface of analysis, exegesis and mockery for which this story begs like the beggingest beggar who ever begged. So, for now, Crimestoppers, today's takeaway special is this: Christian by convenience is like a hysterical pregnancy--sooner or later, people are going to figure out you're simply full of fetid gas. Mustard and duck sauce are in the bag, plus napkins. Enjoy.

Sunday, May 03, 2009

There Are Children in India Who'd Be Overjoyed with Your Year-old RAZR V3, Dept.

I was fondling my iPhone recently. A private moment. It was raining lightly outside. Because I'd asked that it stop raining, even lightly, inside.

As I traced its sleek lines with a finger, I thought about one thing. One thing only.

How is it that people have the stones to complain about the lack of features in iPhone apps that, on top of everything else and secondary to the point I'm about to make, are free or absurdly cheap?

Reading the reviews at the App Store is an eye-opening experience if you've ever harbored any illusions that people are easy to please. What, that 99-cent app doesn't alphabetize, cross-index or translate into Quechua and Amharic all the entries across your databases, while setting calendar alerts in Outlook?! By G*d, I rue the day they outlawed public horsewhipping!

I just want to call the people who post these, umm, somewhat demanding reviews and say, "Hello, do you mean to tell me that the fact that you can reorder your Netflix queue on your phone from a toilet stall in a bar doesn't drop you to your knees before the altar of Technology?! Did you want your winged horse in brown instead of white?! Does the pattern on your flying carpet clash with your shoes?!? You're just going to piss Technology off, and then she'll take all her shiny shit and split, and you'll be back to banging two rocks together for entertainment and saving acorns for counting beads. Ingrate."

Honestly. Monkeys is the kwaziest people.