You Can't Spell "Sectarian Shooting Spree" without "Jesus," Dept.
Guns in church bill dies in Arkansas Senate panel - wtop.com:
From the page:
"Guns in church bill dies in Arkansas Senate panel
A state Senate panel has rejected a bill that would allow concealed handguns in Arkansas churches, a proposal that divided religious leaders.
The measure would have removed churches and other houses of worship from the list of places where concealed handguns are banned in Arkansas. Only churches and bars are on that list."
Gol-dang, lily-livered, Jesus-hatin', Huffington-lovin', pinko Adam'n'stEves!
How can a man show his face inside the Lord's House stripped of his shootin' irons?! That'd be like Samson shorn of the locks that gave him his muscles!
Now, imagine you're sittin' there in the pew, and the preacher-man's jawin' on about somethin' or another to do with Jesus, and it's kind of a hot day, heavy, y'know?, and *BANG!* in storms some Supralapsarian sumbitch or, even worse, a Mooslim! Now, if you ain't packin', son, you are lackin'! How're you gonna give that sumbitch a permanent part if your .357's locked up in some fool trunk or whatnot?! Scale a hymnal off 'is head, you won't even make 'im blink!
So, call your senator--'cause writin's for pointyheaded, latte-sippin', Hillary-huggin', Bolshevik sissy boys--and tear that sumbitch a new one.
Tell 'im you got a Biblical right to bear arms before the altar of the Lord! Tell 'im that!
Then tell 'im you know where his little blonde daughter goes to school and, my, ain't she a pretty, fragile li'l thing.
Do it.
Do it for Jesus, 'cause you know He'd do it for you.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Get Your Kicks on Route 69, Dept.
Transcript February 14, 2009
MODERATOR: My first question to you, then, is: how does one get from Intercourse, PA to Climax, SK?
What's that? Yes, "sweaty thrusting" is one possibility. Anyone else?
That's right, "crazy-weasel pumping" is another one. What else? Yes, you in the back with the, with the hair?
Well, yes, I think we can count "ramming the 5:15 into the station repeatedly until the headboard splinters."
But it seems that all these answers, valid though they may be, rely solely on brute animal force. How about some approaches that won't bedew your body entire with beads and rivulets of salty glass? Anyone? No?
Then, let me introduce you to something called Xtreme Oral Pleasuring™, or XOP.
Gentlemen and those ladies who wish Lea DeLaria weren't quite so girly, this adorable little button deserves more attention than a Midwest queen at Bloomingdale's 59th Street. Ladies and those fellows who wish Liza Minnelli were harmony triplets, this handsome knob needs the kind of TLC a puppy gives its owner the morning after he's been brought home from the pound.
I can hear you say, "But, sobsister, who is ignorant of the pleasures that the oral pleasuring brings in the way of pleasurable pleasure?" And I say, "No one besides ancient Romans and Hottentots." But are you aware of the many and numerous advantages that Xtreme Oral Pleasuring™ can offer you?
Aside from the fact that you can wear your best suit or frock without fear of pitting it something awful, imagine a fellatio session that lasts 18 hours! The grindingly painful erection aside, XOP offers both participants amazing weight loss benefits--you're probably not stuffing yourself with greasy fast food while someone's making a 14-course Chinese banquet of your junk or while you're scarfing down a cup of DNA juice!
Or think about a cunnilingus encounter that takes a weekend to complete! Ladies, the discomfort occasioned by dehydration and foot cramps is more than offset by the financial advantages you gain! Did you know that if you orgasm continuously for longer than 24 hours you are eligible to claim per diem? And that beaver botherers are eligible for Workmen's Comp for any buccolingual damage incurred while on their employer's premises?!
Check my Web site, www.mouth-organ.edu, to get updates on the availability of my book, Jaws of Life: Mandibular Endurance and Xtreme Oral Pleasuring™. It gives you 101 numbered tips on how to maintain feeling in your jaw, tongue and lips even as you run a marathon of oral gratification! The first 100 orders will receive a complimentary copy of Earn the Burn!: The Role of Capsicum in Xtreme Oral Training™, an $89.95 value itself, free. And if you order within the next 30 minutes, you'll receive at no additional charge a DVD copy of ShamWow® Bloopers!: America's Kraziest Outtakes!
America, put your money where your mouth should be! Get into Xtreme Oral Pleasuring™ now! For, it is far, far better to give than to receive. Unless you're giving and receiving at the same time. In which case, you are golden, motherfucker.
End transcript.
Transcript February 14, 2009
MODERATOR: My first question to you, then, is: how does one get from Intercourse, PA to Climax, SK?
What's that? Yes, "sweaty thrusting" is one possibility. Anyone else?
That's right, "crazy-weasel pumping" is another one. What else? Yes, you in the back with the, with the hair?
Well, yes, I think we can count "ramming the 5:15 into the station repeatedly until the headboard splinters."
But it seems that all these answers, valid though they may be, rely solely on brute animal force. How about some approaches that won't bedew your body entire with beads and rivulets of salty glass? Anyone? No?
Then, let me introduce you to something called Xtreme Oral Pleasuring™, or XOP.
Gentlemen and those ladies who wish Lea DeLaria weren't quite so girly, this adorable little button deserves more attention than a Midwest queen at Bloomingdale's 59th Street. Ladies and those fellows who wish Liza Minnelli were harmony triplets, this handsome knob needs the kind of TLC a puppy gives its owner the morning after he's been brought home from the pound.
I can hear you say, "But, sobsister, who is ignorant of the pleasures that the oral pleasuring brings in the way of pleasurable pleasure?" And I say, "No one besides ancient Romans and Hottentots." But are you aware of the many and numerous advantages that Xtreme Oral Pleasuring™ can offer you?
Aside from the fact that you can wear your best suit or frock without fear of pitting it something awful, imagine a fellatio session that lasts 18 hours! The grindingly painful erection aside, XOP offers both participants amazing weight loss benefits--you're probably not stuffing yourself with greasy fast food while someone's making a 14-course Chinese banquet of your junk or while you're scarfing down a cup of DNA juice!
Or think about a cunnilingus encounter that takes a weekend to complete! Ladies, the discomfort occasioned by dehydration and foot cramps is more than offset by the financial advantages you gain! Did you know that if you orgasm continuously for longer than 24 hours you are eligible to claim per diem? And that beaver botherers are eligible for Workmen's Comp for any buccolingual damage incurred while on their employer's premises?!
Check my Web site, www.mouth-organ.edu, to get updates on the availability of my book, Jaws of Life: Mandibular Endurance and Xtreme Oral Pleasuring™. It gives you 101 numbered tips on how to maintain feeling in your jaw, tongue and lips even as you run a marathon of oral gratification! The first 100 orders will receive a complimentary copy of Earn the Burn!: The Role of Capsicum in Xtreme Oral Training™, an $89.95 value itself, free. And if you order within the next 30 minutes, you'll receive at no additional charge a DVD copy of ShamWow® Bloopers!: America's Kraziest Outtakes!
America, put your money where your mouth should be! Get into Xtreme Oral Pleasuring™ now! For, it is far, far better to give than to receive. Unless you're giving and receiving at the same time. In which case, you are golden, motherfucker.
End transcript.
Hammer Time!, Dept.
Indulgences Return, and Heaven Moves a Step Closer for Catholics - NYTimes.com
From the page:
"For Catholics, a Door to Absolution Is Reopened
The announcement in church bulletins and on Web sites has been greeted with enthusiasm by some and wariness by others. But mainly, it has gone over the heads of a vast generation of Roman Catholics who have no idea what it means: 'Bishop Announces Plenary Indulgences.'
In recent months, dioceses around the world have been offering Catholics a spiritual benefit that fell out of favor decades ago -- the indulgence, a sort of amnesty from punishment in the afterlife -- and reminding them of the church's clout in mitigating the wages of sin."
That's the stuff! B-b-b-benny XVI rockin' the house ol' skool! Plenary indulgences...man, I don't know about you, but that takes me back...back...back to the town of Wittenberg, to whose church doors a brash monk by the name of Martin Luther is nailing some four score and fifteen theses.
Why, here are four of them right now to harmonize an instructional message! Sing it, theses 21 - 24!
21. Therefore those preachers of indulgences are in error, who say that by the pope's indulgences a man is freed from every penalty, and saved;
22. Whereas he remits to souls in purgatory no penalty which, according to the canons, they would have had to pay in this life.
23. If it is at all possible to grant to any one the remission of all penalties whatsoever, it is certain that this remission can be granted only to the most perfect, that is, to the very fewest.
24. It must needs be, therefore, that the greater part of the people are deceived by that indiscriminate and highsounding promise of release from penalty.
*ha ha!* Sounds like B-b-b-benny's trying to get money for old rope! Now, Ol' Crocodile-head isn't going to be selling the indulgences like his illustrious, sodomitical predecessors lurved to do. Or so he claims. The spokesman for the Diocese of Brooklyn, the Rev. Kieran Harrington, noted that it's about "acts of charity." Like, say, giving alms to rebuild St. Peter's Basilica? 'Cause that's why Pope Leo X--preceded by Pope Girls Gone Wild IX--authorized the sale of indulgences back in 1517. Which set that aforementioned brash monk a-hammerin'.
In a related story, the pope also reminded the faithful that Jews torture consecrated Hosts in blasphemous parodies of the Mass, that the Mussulmans unjustifiably occupies the birthplace of Our Lord and that women are foul cloacae who brought Original Sin into God's creation. He closed his message with a resounding "Deus vult!", unsheathed his sword, Widowmaker, and lopped the head off his Ganymedean altar boy.
In the words of Damn Yankees' Mr. Applegate: Those were the good old days!
Indulgences Return, and Heaven Moves a Step Closer for Catholics - NYTimes.com
From the page:
"For Catholics, a Door to Absolution Is Reopened
The announcement in church bulletins and on Web sites has been greeted with enthusiasm by some and wariness by others. But mainly, it has gone over the heads of a vast generation of Roman Catholics who have no idea what it means: 'Bishop Announces Plenary Indulgences.'
In recent months, dioceses around the world have been offering Catholics a spiritual benefit that fell out of favor decades ago -- the indulgence, a sort of amnesty from punishment in the afterlife -- and reminding them of the church's clout in mitigating the wages of sin."
That's the stuff! B-b-b-benny XVI rockin' the house ol' skool! Plenary indulgences...man, I don't know about you, but that takes me back...back...back to the town of Wittenberg, to whose church doors a brash monk by the name of Martin Luther is nailing some four score and fifteen theses.
Why, here are four of them right now to harmonize an instructional message! Sing it, theses 21 - 24!
21. Therefore those preachers of indulgences are in error, who say that by the pope's indulgences a man is freed from every penalty, and saved;
22. Whereas he remits to souls in purgatory no penalty which, according to the canons, they would have had to pay in this life.
23. If it is at all possible to grant to any one the remission of all penalties whatsoever, it is certain that this remission can be granted only to the most perfect, that is, to the very fewest.
24. It must needs be, therefore, that the greater part of the people are deceived by that indiscriminate and highsounding promise of release from penalty.
*ha ha!* Sounds like B-b-b-benny's trying to get money for old rope! Now, Ol' Crocodile-head isn't going to be selling the indulgences like his illustrious, sodomitical predecessors lurved to do. Or so he claims. The spokesman for the Diocese of Brooklyn, the Rev. Kieran Harrington, noted that it's about "acts of charity." Like, say, giving alms to rebuild St. Peter's Basilica? 'Cause that's why Pope Leo X--preceded by Pope Girls Gone Wild IX--authorized the sale of indulgences back in 1517. Which set that aforementioned brash monk a-hammerin'.
In a related story, the pope also reminded the faithful that Jews torture consecrated Hosts in blasphemous parodies of the Mass, that the Mussulmans unjustifiably occupies the birthplace of Our Lord and that women are foul cloacae who brought Original Sin into God's creation. He closed his message with a resounding "Deus vult!", unsheathed his sword, Widowmaker, and lopped the head off his Ganymedean altar boy.
In the words of Damn Yankees' Mr. Applegate: Those were the good old days!
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Me Am So Smart and Qualified!, Dept.
On Politics - New Face of G.O.P. Brings a Brash Style - NYTimes.com
Wow. So, the Republicans elected Michael Steele, a Black Senate aspirant, as head of the GOP. Except that he, you know, lost his Senate race in 2006, despite being supported financially and politically by Karl Rove and Dick Cheney--the moral equivalent of being welcomed to the neighborhood by the Manson Family. So, I guess you could say he was the Bizarro-Barack Obama.
And, in true Bizarro fashion, he just says the cutest ass-backwards things!
Like, last Saturday, he apparently congratulated House Republicans for denying President Obama any votes on his recovery package with the inspirational, ""The goose egg you laid on the president's desk was just beautiful." Nice one, Bizarro-Barack! Country's going down the shitter, but, instead of working to solve our problems, no reason not to score some cheapie points with the garbage snufflers on the GOP side of the aisle!
And then, in reference to President Obama, he said, "It's going to be an honor to spar with him," before apparently referencing Kool Moe Dee's "How Ya Like Me Now". Silly rabbit. If he's going to talk sparring and try to go old school, he obviously should've cited L.L. Cool J's "Mama Said Knock You Out."
Yeah. So, to review the bidding: a Black politico is hoisted up by the intellectually and ethically bankrupt GOP to lead their party. Except, unlike President Obama, he's a bigmouth who's failed at politics and who appears to have the moral compass of a child molester at a pre-K (funny story about how his campaign paid homeless people from Philadelphia to hand out flyers in Maryland containing fabricated information including non-existent endorsements of Steele by prominent Democrats and African-American leaders...*ha ha*...he so crazy)
And, kids, don't forget the Bizarro Code:
1. US DO OPPOSITE OF ALL EARTHLY THINGS!
2. US HATE BEAUTY! US LOVE UGLINESS!
3. IS BIG CRIME TO MAKE ANYTHING PERFECT ON BIZARRO WORLD!
On Politics - New Face of G.O.P. Brings a Brash Style - NYTimes.com
Wow. So, the Republicans elected Michael Steele, a Black Senate aspirant, as head of the GOP. Except that he, you know, lost his Senate race in 2006, despite being supported financially and politically by Karl Rove and Dick Cheney--the moral equivalent of being welcomed to the neighborhood by the Manson Family. So, I guess you could say he was the Bizarro-Barack Obama.
And, in true Bizarro fashion, he just says the cutest ass-backwards things!
Like, last Saturday, he apparently congratulated House Republicans for denying President Obama any votes on his recovery package with the inspirational, ""The goose egg you laid on the president's desk was just beautiful." Nice one, Bizarro-Barack! Country's going down the shitter, but, instead of working to solve our problems, no reason not to score some cheapie points with the garbage snufflers on the GOP side of the aisle!
And then, in reference to President Obama, he said, "It's going to be an honor to spar with him," before apparently referencing Kool Moe Dee's "How Ya Like Me Now". Silly rabbit. If he's going to talk sparring and try to go old school, he obviously should've cited L.L. Cool J's "Mama Said Knock You Out."
Yeah. So, to review the bidding: a Black politico is hoisted up by the intellectually and ethically bankrupt GOP to lead their party. Except, unlike President Obama, he's a bigmouth who's failed at politics and who appears to have the moral compass of a child molester at a pre-K (funny story about how his campaign paid homeless people from Philadelphia to hand out flyers in Maryland containing fabricated information including non-existent endorsements of Steele by prominent Democrats and African-American leaders...*ha ha*...he so crazy)
And, kids, don't forget the Bizarro Code:
1. US DO OPPOSITE OF ALL EARTHLY THINGS!
2. US HATE BEAUTY! US LOVE UGLINESS!
3. IS BIG CRIME TO MAKE ANYTHING PERFECT ON BIZARRO WORLD!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
I Did Not Have Sexual Relations with That Man, Dept.
Former church member: Haggard performed sex act - Yahoo! News
"Former Church Member: Haggard Performed Sex Act
A young man who formerly attended New Life Church says that then-pastor Ted Haggard performed a sex act in front of him in a hotel room in 2006 and sent him explicit text messages...In a statement earlier Monday, Haggard apologized for his 'inappropriate relationship' with the former church volunteer, but said it did not involve physical contact."
Oh, Ted, you Wile E. Coyote! Getting all Clintonian on us this late in the game. You acted "inappropriately" but said inappropriateness did not involve "physical contact" because you...what? jerked off in front of this fellow? performed an act of auto-fellatio? employed a butternut squash as a dildo? What, Ted, what?!
And "explicit text messages." Yes, because those have never come back to bite any public figure in the ass. Please share them with us, do. Were they all KJV-Biblical in tone? Did you offer to smite his buttocks with the righteous staff of your loins? Or were they skeevy sticky manporn? Did you at any point employ the phrase "hot stallion load" in describing the fruit of your efforts?
Oh, Ted! Splitting hairs and weaselwording isn't going to get you back into the pulpit and into the hearts of so very many gullible gomers! You have to abase yourself, indulge in a public act of self-flagellation, streak your pancake with hot tears and beg to be forgiven by that very same omnipotent and omniscient God you treat like an ATM at a convenience store.
But do give us the spicy-yet-degrading-yet-fascinating-yet-appalling details yourself. Have you forgotten, Ted? It's Schadenfreude Tuesday, and baby needs new shoes.
Former church member: Haggard performed sex act - Yahoo! News
"Former Church Member: Haggard Performed Sex Act
A young man who formerly attended New Life Church says that then-pastor Ted Haggard performed a sex act in front of him in a hotel room in 2006 and sent him explicit text messages...In a statement earlier Monday, Haggard apologized for his 'inappropriate relationship' with the former church volunteer, but said it did not involve physical contact."
Oh, Ted, you Wile E. Coyote! Getting all Clintonian on us this late in the game. You acted "inappropriately" but said inappropriateness did not involve "physical contact" because you...what? jerked off in front of this fellow? performed an act of auto-fellatio? employed a butternut squash as a dildo? What, Ted, what?!
And "explicit text messages." Yes, because those have never come back to bite any public figure in the ass. Please share them with us, do. Were they all KJV-Biblical in tone? Did you offer to smite his buttocks with the righteous staff of your loins? Or were they skeevy sticky manporn? Did you at any point employ the phrase "hot stallion load" in describing the fruit of your efforts?
Oh, Ted! Splitting hairs and weaselwording isn't going to get you back into the pulpit and into the hearts of so very many gullible gomers! You have to abase yourself, indulge in a public act of self-flagellation, streak your pancake with hot tears and beg to be forgiven by that very same omnipotent and omniscient God you treat like an ATM at a convenience store.
But do give us the spicy-yet-degrading-yet-fascinating-yet-appalling details yourself. Have you forgotten, Ted? It's Schadenfreude Tuesday, and baby needs new shoes.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Parting Is Such Sweet Sweetness, Dept.
"Grrr...how can I ruin that young idiot, George Bailey...?"
Oh, Dick, it's won't be the same not having a soulless, charmless ideologue-cum-chickenhawk-cum-defense industry incubus running the shadow government from an office by Charon's ticket booth, but, really, from the heart: fuck you. All the way back to Pottersville.
"Grrr...how can I ruin that young idiot, George Bailey...?"
Oh, Dick, it's won't be the same not having a soulless, charmless ideologue-cum-chickenhawk-cum-defense industry incubus running the shadow government from an office by Charon's ticket booth, but, really, from the heart: fuck you. All the way back to Pottersville.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Leather Pants: The New Cloth Coat, Dept.
A very few thoughts regarding yesterday's Obama concert on the National Mall:
1) GOD, Republicans must be hating this. I mean, like, imagine you walk into your bedroom, and some guy is banging your wife, and, instead of shooting him, you have to stand there and hear your wife, your kids, your neighbors and your family tell you how he's so much better for her than, you know, YOU.
2) Bruce was great, Mellencamp was great, Garth Brooks was great. And, for some reason, it had to do--at least in part--with the fact that they were each fronting a choir. I'm not normally a fan of the choir backdrop--particularly that wall o' gospel calculated to signify "grits'n'gravy/chicken'n'waffles" for European-American Singers--because it tends to be used to take songs to church that would be better taken to the in-store sound system at the Wal-Mart in West Hell. But the setting supported the big emotions, which, except for Joe Biden's flame-out on labor--I half expected him to break out into "I Dreamed I Saw Joe Hill Last Night" like Joan Baez in horrible drag--were expressed in a restrained and in no way Billy-"White Shoes"-Johnson-in-the-end-zone mood. I particularly loved seeing the Gay Men's Chorus of Washington behind Josh Groban and Heather Headley's "My Country 'Tis of Thee." Fuck YOU, McCain/Palin '08 in your entirety. I am not so admirably restrained and will do the Funky Chicken in your face.
3) Please, someone, ANYone: explain to me how will.i.am has a career in music.
4) "Sylvia's Mother" is an amazing song. For different reasons, at different times. And not even always amazing-good. Nothing to do with yesterday or Obama, really. It just is.
5) Garth Brooks and Ashley Judd are the only country personalities, outside the Dixie Chiclets, who'll show their face at a Dem event. I think the progressive movement needs to embrace and seduce Nashville. Because I think we know where
"I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you
The difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God"
got us.
6) Bettye Lavette. I slept on I've Got My Own Hell to Raise, but, after this performance and the one at the Kennedy Center Honors, I've got to own as much of this woman's oeuvre as I can afford. And I want to hear her sing "Black Coffee." Oh, and here's whom she doesn't need for a duet partner: Jon "Exit 13A" Bon Jovi. What, was Donny Osmond booked? Christ. Shifting from her to him in a duet is like you're enjoying a plate of boeuf bourguignon and, then, suddenly biting into a ball of aluminum foil.
7) Leon Russell's Carney is a great album. Again, nothing to do with yesterday or Obama. It just is.
8) Have I mentioned that I can't wait for Renée Fleming on Spectacle: Elvis Costello with... (and let me just say, yeah, I get the title--"spectacles," like Elvis' specs and like an elaborate show; that doesn't mean it isn't a crap title)? She did "You'll Never Walk Alone"--and it's so tainted by Jerry Lewis that I can't ever conceive of the song without him, bowtie undone, brilliantine helmet wilted, an hour left in the telethon broadcast, WILLING you to give him that last sawbuck--and I loved hearing it.
A very few thoughts regarding yesterday's Obama concert on the National Mall:
1) GOD, Republicans must be hating this. I mean, like, imagine you walk into your bedroom, and some guy is banging your wife, and, instead of shooting him, you have to stand there and hear your wife, your kids, your neighbors and your family tell you how he's so much better for her than, you know, YOU.
2) Bruce was great, Mellencamp was great, Garth Brooks was great. And, for some reason, it had to do--at least in part--with the fact that they were each fronting a choir. I'm not normally a fan of the choir backdrop--particularly that wall o' gospel calculated to signify "grits'n'gravy/chicken'n'waffles" for European-American Singers--because it tends to be used to take songs to church that would be better taken to the in-store sound system at the Wal-Mart in West Hell. But the setting supported the big emotions, which, except for Joe Biden's flame-out on labor--I half expected him to break out into "I Dreamed I Saw Joe Hill Last Night" like Joan Baez in horrible drag--were expressed in a restrained and in no way Billy-"White Shoes"-Johnson-in-the-end-zone mood. I particularly loved seeing the Gay Men's Chorus of Washington behind Josh Groban and Heather Headley's "My Country 'Tis of Thee." Fuck YOU, McCain/Palin '08 in your entirety. I am not so admirably restrained and will do the Funky Chicken in your face.
3) Please, someone, ANYone: explain to me how will.i.am has a career in music.
4) "Sylvia's Mother" is an amazing song. For different reasons, at different times. And not even always amazing-good. Nothing to do with yesterday or Obama, really. It just is.
5) Garth Brooks and Ashley Judd are the only country personalities, outside the Dixie Chiclets, who'll show their face at a Dem event. I think the progressive movement needs to embrace and seduce Nashville. Because I think we know where
"I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you
The difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God"
got us.
6) Bettye Lavette. I slept on I've Got My Own Hell to Raise, but, after this performance and the one at the Kennedy Center Honors, I've got to own as much of this woman's oeuvre as I can afford. And I want to hear her sing "Black Coffee." Oh, and here's whom she doesn't need for a duet partner: Jon "Exit 13A" Bon Jovi. What, was Donny Osmond booked? Christ. Shifting from her to him in a duet is like you're enjoying a plate of boeuf bourguignon and, then, suddenly biting into a ball of aluminum foil.
7) Leon Russell's Carney is a great album. Again, nothing to do with yesterday or Obama. It just is.
8) Have I mentioned that I can't wait for Renée Fleming on Spectacle: Elvis Costello with... (and let me just say, yeah, I get the title--"spectacles," like Elvis' specs and like an elaborate show; that doesn't mean it isn't a crap title)? She did "You'll Never Walk Alone"--and it's so tainted by Jerry Lewis that I can't ever conceive of the song without him, bowtie undone, brilliantine helmet wilted, an hour left in the telethon broadcast, WILLING you to give him that last sawbuck--and I loved hearing it.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
His Mother Would Be So Proud, Dept.
Britain's Prince Harry apologises for racist language - Yahoo! News:
"Britain's Prince Harry apologises for racist language
Britain's Prince Harry apologised for any offence caused after a self-filmed video was released showing him calling an army colleague a 'Paki' and telling another he looked like a 'raghead'.
The video, obtained by the News of the World weekly, plunges the 24-year-old army lieutenant, third in line to the throne, into fresh controversy four years after he sparked an outcry by wearing a Nazi swastika at a fancy dress party."
Ah, that's the fellow! "Paki" this and "raghead" that. Not to mention that colorful incident with the Nazi costume. Oh ho ho but that Prince Harry is a scamp! You should hear what he has to say about "nigger" colonials and "wog" takeaways, not to mention the "kike" bankers who really control everything, you know...it was all in this cunning little book he half-read, the "Protocols of the Elders" or somesuch. Brilliant stuff; all true, y'know, his granddad told him so.
Rule Brittania and all that. Britons never will be slaves. Just treat other people as if they were. Jolly good. Carry on.
Britain's Prince Harry apologises for racist language - Yahoo! News:
"Britain's Prince Harry apologises for racist language
Britain's Prince Harry apologised for any offence caused after a self-filmed video was released showing him calling an army colleague a 'Paki' and telling another he looked like a 'raghead'.
The video, obtained by the News of the World weekly, plunges the 24-year-old army lieutenant, third in line to the throne, into fresh controversy four years after he sparked an outcry by wearing a Nazi swastika at a fancy dress party."
Ah, that's the fellow! "Paki" this and "raghead" that. Not to mention that colorful incident with the Nazi costume. Oh ho ho but that Prince Harry is a scamp! You should hear what he has to say about "nigger" colonials and "wog" takeaways, not to mention the "kike" bankers who really control everything, you know...it was all in this cunning little book he half-read, the "Protocols of the Elders" or somesuch. Brilliant stuff; all true, y'know, his granddad told him so.
Rule Brittania and all that. Britons never will be slaves. Just treat other people as if they were. Jolly good. Carry on.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Velvet Gloves and Shit, Dept.
Israeli leader warns Hamas of 'iron fist' - Yahoo! News: "Israeli leader warns Hamas of 'iron fist'"
You know what I like? When my irony alarm rings so loud, it wakes people in Alabama.
Nothing like an Israeli PM using a term associated with Prussian leader Otto von Bismarck, a professed anti-Semite and self-interested promoter of German anti-Semitism.
*ha ha!* You wacky Israelis! Now, you get to be the oppressors! How do those big-ass boots feel? Good, huh? For a people who have reified the lemma "never forget," y'all sure have forgotten what it feels like to be treated like shit by a militarily superior power that doesn't really consider you much more than the unsightly blotch of skin and blood a flattened human being leaves on a bombarded sidewalk.
Should I quote that Pogo bit about meeting the enemy and he is us? Nah, I'll save it for some time when my irony alarm isn't giving me a headache.
Israeli leader warns Hamas of 'iron fist' - Yahoo! News: "Israeli leader warns Hamas of 'iron fist'"
You know what I like? When my irony alarm rings so loud, it wakes people in Alabama.
Nothing like an Israeli PM using a term associated with Prussian leader Otto von Bismarck, a professed anti-Semite and self-interested promoter of German anti-Semitism.
*ha ha!* You wacky Israelis! Now, you get to be the oppressors! How do those big-ass boots feel? Good, huh? For a people who have reified the lemma "never forget," y'all sure have forgotten what it feels like to be treated like shit by a militarily superior power that doesn't really consider you much more than the unsightly blotch of skin and blood a flattened human being leaves on a bombarded sidewalk.
Should I quote that Pogo bit about meeting the enemy and he is us? Nah, I'll save it for some time when my irony alarm isn't giving me a headache.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Dude, Where's My Cherry?, Dept.
found_objects: The Recently Deflowered Girl
Linking to a brilliantly brilliant Edward Gorey creation, The Recently Deflowered Girl. Handy etiquette tips for Young Women who have recently Shared their Maidenhead.
It's quite excellent in a variety of different ways, and, although I am not as big a fan of Gorey as some, I can recommend this book, co-created with Mel Juffe, unreservedly to you, irrespective of the recency of your own defloration.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I retire to my quarters to compose a Paean to Hymen.
UPDATE: new link here.
found_objects: The Recently Deflowered Girl
Linking to a brilliantly brilliant Edward Gorey creation, The Recently Deflowered Girl. Handy etiquette tips for Young Women who have recently Shared their Maidenhead.
It's quite excellent in a variety of different ways, and, although I am not as big a fan of Gorey as some, I can recommend this book, co-created with Mel Juffe, unreservedly to you, irrespective of the recency of your own defloration.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I retire to my quarters to compose a Paean to Hymen.
UPDATE: new link here.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Not Quite "Lemonade," More Like Tangy Piss, Dept.
From the page:
"Bristol: Pregnancy wasn't 'ideal'
Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin and her daughter Bristol sought to discourage teen pregnancy Friday in a statement posted on the governor's website welcoming her first grandchild, Tripp, into the family.
The Alaska governor said that the pregnancy was 'shocking news' but said the family is now 'over the moon with the arrival of this healthy, beautiful baby.'
'When Bristol and Levi first told us the shocking news that she was pregnant, to be honest, we all at first looked at the situation with some fear and a bit of despair,' Palin said. 'Isn't it just like God to turn those circumstances into such an amazing, joyful blessing when you ask Him to help you through?'"
Praise the Lord, yes! You, Jane Doe, you know that terrible meth addiction of yours? Look at it as the Lord's way to get you into those kicky size 2s you've been eyeing! And you, Joe Blow, still grieving about that child you lost to a drunk driver? How about using his room for that home gym you've been thinking about adding to the house? Heck, there's no fuckup on your part--or on anyone else's part, for that matter--that you can't spin into a blessing from our Lord and Savior! You think you've got a handful of shit, brother, but God is always there to turn it into fertilizer! Especially when your political career hangs on your ability to keep your name bobbing in the public eye. So, ask the press to please respect your family's privacy but grab some headlines as you try to transform this eight-pound rebuttal of the efficacy of your abstinence teachings into confirmation of your righteous role in God's Eternal Plan! As Clown Jesus hisself sang in Godspell's toe-tapping words, "Yes, it's all for the best."
Oh, Madam Governor, you are by no means a cretinous, self-serving, self-righteous whited sepulcher.
Oops, it's Backwards Day!
So, you actually are.
For real.
This just in: Jesus does not want you for a sunbeam.
Film at 11.
From the page:
"Bristol: Pregnancy wasn't 'ideal'
Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin and her daughter Bristol sought to discourage teen pregnancy Friday in a statement posted on the governor's website welcoming her first grandchild, Tripp, into the family.
The Alaska governor said that the pregnancy was 'shocking news' but said the family is now 'over the moon with the arrival of this healthy, beautiful baby.'
'When Bristol and Levi first told us the shocking news that she was pregnant, to be honest, we all at first looked at the situation with some fear and a bit of despair,' Palin said. 'Isn't it just like God to turn those circumstances into such an amazing, joyful blessing when you ask Him to help you through?'"
Praise the Lord, yes! You, Jane Doe, you know that terrible meth addiction of yours? Look at it as the Lord's way to get you into those kicky size 2s you've been eyeing! And you, Joe Blow, still grieving about that child you lost to a drunk driver? How about using his room for that home gym you've been thinking about adding to the house? Heck, there's no fuckup on your part--or on anyone else's part, for that matter--that you can't spin into a blessing from our Lord and Savior! You think you've got a handful of shit, brother, but God is always there to turn it into fertilizer! Especially when your political career hangs on your ability to keep your name bobbing in the public eye. So, ask the press to please respect your family's privacy but grab some headlines as you try to transform this eight-pound rebuttal of the efficacy of your abstinence teachings into confirmation of your righteous role in God's Eternal Plan! As Clown Jesus hisself sang in Godspell's toe-tapping words, "Yes, it's all for the best."
Oh, Madam Governor, you are by no means a cretinous, self-serving, self-righteous whited sepulcher.
Oops, it's Backwards Day!
So, you actually are.
For real.
This just in: Jesus does not want you for a sunbeam.
Film at 11.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
No, Not Quite the "Culture President," Dept.
Just finished watching the 2008 Kennedy Center Honors show I'd recorded last week. The honorees were Twyla Tharp, Morgan Freeman, Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey, Barbra Streisand and George Jones. A few thoughts.
- Lily Tomlin, for some reason, introduced Twyla Tharp, who did her best Buster Keaton impression. Or was it Calvin Coolidge? At any rate, she didn't crack a smile during the entirety of her tribute and, if anything, seemed a bit annoyed to be missing a Golden Girls marathon. The "Sinatra Suite" performed to her choreography and the Chairman of the Board's music was oh-kay; the dancers seeming underrehearsed and generating all the chemistry of a rock and an ice cube in a bucket.
- Denzel Washington introduced Morgan Freeman, who got a montage and some blues performances from Delta nonagenarians Honeyboy Edwards and Pinetop Perkins and from young whippersnapper B.B. King. More wow-they're-in-their-nineties than entertainment--I mean, it's cool that Honeyboy was with Robert Johnson the night he died, but either tell us those stories or bring on younger Delta blues players who can still, you know, play. All very Smithsonian-y, as these things tend to be.
- Jack Black introduced Daltrey and Townshend because...ummm...he's a famous guy who's a fan? On came Joss Stone, who really really really needn't cross the Pond to our shores because, you see, dear, we had a Janis Joplin and her name was "Janis Joplin." Consequently, to have a neo-hippie, British Janis-wannabe singing, for reasons that are probably clearer to the benighted producers of this show than to your sobsister, "My Generation" is a bit throw-uppy, yes? Daltrey and Townshend, incidentally, looked like their livers were being pecked out by large birds during her performance. Dave Grohl did an okay-if-rushed "Who Are You." Then Bettye LaVette arose, as if Venus, foam-flecked product of the music gods, and killed with a yearning, churning, burning "Love, Reign O'er Me" (start at 3:00 here). Then, poor bastard, Dave "I'm Not the Wendy's Guy" Thomas had to follow her, and that with a ho-hum "Baba O'Riley." He was only saved by the fact that a chorus of NYC firefighters and cops appeared near the end, in honor of The Who's post-9/11 tribute concert performance. But, no, really, she fucking killed. I've oversold it, but go see.
- Laura Bush, a woman who, despite eight years in the public eye, still sounds like a small-town librarian before the PTA, paid tribute to Ol' Possum, George Jones. Something about feeding the jukebox quarters to hear "The Race Is On" and how she has her own George and, excuse me, but you have the cream of the government's speechwriters from whom to choose and this is the best you could get? Her stiffness was cast in the shadows, however, by Caroline Kennedy's negative charisma. This is a woman who wants to represent New York in the SENATE?! Wow. She makes Hillary look like Tina Turner meets Sandra Bernhard at Liza Minnelli's house. Anyhoo, the country boys know how to respect their elders. Real nice work all down the line, including a great three-piece medley by Garth Brooks, all visible (in so-so quality) here. King George rules.
- Then, Queen Latifah appeared...and I know you've heard me ask this before, but what miracle worker is her agent?. Annie Sullivan has nothing on that motherfucker, because I cannot understand the continuing popularity of a woman whose only apparent talent is self-promotion. She’s like the black Oprah. Anyway, Queen blathered on for a while, praising Babs for paving the way for other, multi-talented, triple-threat superstars (herself? oh, she's far too modest to connect those dots for the audience. just.), then introduced the new generation of people influenced by La Streisand. On came Broadway star Idina Menzel—okay, makes sense—who did a decent "Don't Rain On My Parade." Looking a bit drag queenish, but in generally good voice when she didn’t push the notes. Then Beyoncé—whose charms and talents I find totally resistible and could someone explain to me what her link would be to Babs?—offered another performance wherein she didn’t so much sing a song as pose for us for three minutes with the song as a pretext for occupying the stage and the spotlight. I mean, if you’re going to drag us through “The Way We Were,” B, could you try—for me—to dig just a leetel below the surface of the song and give us just a smidgey-widge of, I don’t know…interpretation? Too much to ask? Perhaps. Every time I see Beyoncé perform, it’s like watching rain slide off glass. Truly, she is the anti-Bettye. Then, Ne-Yo—no, reallytruly, what possible claim to a Streisand heritage could this dude and his hat have?—did a short number backed by four chorus boys who actually pulled focus from this vacuity every time they shared a frame. We finished with Kelli O’Hara, a woman with actual B’way cred, and opera baritone Nathan Gunn, singing “Somewhere,” backed by every black choir in Choc City.
- Caroline K. then reappeared to suck vampirically the charisma from all the choristers.
- Oh! I totally forgot to mention all the times the camera cut to Prez4Life Spongedrunk Smirkpants, wherein he looked a) bored, b) contemptuous, c) clueless, d) angry or e) impatient. It must suck for him to have to attend, you know, culture events with words and thoughts and shit. Especially when attending meant he didn’t get a chance to watch the YouTube video his aides cued up for him of a pig running riot through a wedding reception. It’s a hoot!
So, yeah, Kennedy Center Honors. A fair amount of sucking redeemed by Bettye LaVette. If they ever release this show on DVD, I suggest they use that as their tagline.
Just finished watching the 2008 Kennedy Center Honors show I'd recorded last week. The honorees were Twyla Tharp, Morgan Freeman, Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey, Barbra Streisand and George Jones. A few thoughts.
- Lily Tomlin, for some reason, introduced Twyla Tharp, who did her best Buster Keaton impression. Or was it Calvin Coolidge? At any rate, she didn't crack a smile during the entirety of her tribute and, if anything, seemed a bit annoyed to be missing a Golden Girls marathon. The "Sinatra Suite" performed to her choreography and the Chairman of the Board's music was oh-kay; the dancers seeming underrehearsed and generating all the chemistry of a rock and an ice cube in a bucket.
- Denzel Washington introduced Morgan Freeman, who got a montage and some blues performances from Delta nonagenarians Honeyboy Edwards and Pinetop Perkins and from young whippersnapper B.B. King. More wow-they're-in-their-nineties than entertainment--I mean, it's cool that Honeyboy was with Robert Johnson the night he died, but either tell us those stories or bring on younger Delta blues players who can still, you know, play. All very Smithsonian-y, as these things tend to be.
- Jack Black introduced Daltrey and Townshend because...ummm...he's a famous guy who's a fan? On came Joss Stone, who really really really needn't cross the Pond to our shores because, you see, dear, we had a Janis Joplin and her name was "Janis Joplin." Consequently, to have a neo-hippie, British Janis-wannabe singing, for reasons that are probably clearer to the benighted producers of this show than to your sobsister, "My Generation" is a bit throw-uppy, yes? Daltrey and Townshend, incidentally, looked like their livers were being pecked out by large birds during her performance. Dave Grohl did an okay-if-rushed "Who Are You." Then Bettye LaVette arose, as if Venus, foam-flecked product of the music gods, and killed with a yearning, churning, burning "Love, Reign O'er Me" (start at 3:00 here). Then, poor bastard, Dave "I'm Not the Wendy's Guy" Thomas had to follow her, and that with a ho-hum "Baba O'Riley." He was only saved by the fact that a chorus of NYC firefighters and cops appeared near the end, in honor of The Who's post-9/11 tribute concert performance. But, no, really, she fucking killed. I've oversold it, but go see.
- Laura Bush, a woman who, despite eight years in the public eye, still sounds like a small-town librarian before the PTA, paid tribute to Ol' Possum, George Jones. Something about feeding the jukebox quarters to hear "The Race Is On" and how she has her own George and, excuse me, but you have the cream of the government's speechwriters from whom to choose and this is the best you could get? Her stiffness was cast in the shadows, however, by Caroline Kennedy's negative charisma. This is a woman who wants to represent New York in the SENATE?! Wow. She makes Hillary look like Tina Turner meets Sandra Bernhard at Liza Minnelli's house. Anyhoo, the country boys know how to respect their elders. Real nice work all down the line, including a great three-piece medley by Garth Brooks, all visible (in so-so quality) here. King George rules.
- Then, Queen Latifah appeared...and I know you've heard me ask this before, but what miracle worker is her agent?. Annie Sullivan has nothing on that motherfucker, because I cannot understand the continuing popularity of a woman whose only apparent talent is self-promotion. She’s like the black Oprah. Anyway, Queen blathered on for a while, praising Babs for paving the way for other, multi-talented, triple-threat superstars (herself? oh, she's far too modest to connect those dots for the audience. just.), then introduced the new generation of people influenced by La Streisand. On came Broadway star Idina Menzel—okay, makes sense—who did a decent "Don't Rain On My Parade." Looking a bit drag queenish, but in generally good voice when she didn’t push the notes. Then Beyoncé—whose charms and talents I find totally resistible and could someone explain to me what her link would be to Babs?—offered another performance wherein she didn’t so much sing a song as pose for us for three minutes with the song as a pretext for occupying the stage and the spotlight. I mean, if you’re going to drag us through “The Way We Were,” B, could you try—for me—to dig just a leetel below the surface of the song and give us just a smidgey-widge of, I don’t know…interpretation? Too much to ask? Perhaps. Every time I see Beyoncé perform, it’s like watching rain slide off glass. Truly, she is the anti-Bettye. Then, Ne-Yo—no, reallytruly, what possible claim to a Streisand heritage could this dude and his hat have?—did a short number backed by four chorus boys who actually pulled focus from this vacuity every time they shared a frame. We finished with Kelli O’Hara, a woman with actual B’way cred, and opera baritone Nathan Gunn, singing “Somewhere,” backed by every black choir in Choc City.
- Caroline K. then reappeared to suck vampirically the charisma from all the choristers.
- Oh! I totally forgot to mention all the times the camera cut to Prez4Life Spongedrunk Smirkpants, wherein he looked a) bored, b) contemptuous, c) clueless, d) angry or e) impatient. It must suck for him to have to attend, you know, culture events with words and thoughts and shit. Especially when attending meant he didn’t get a chance to watch the YouTube video his aides cued up for him of a pig running riot through a wedding reception. It’s a hoot!
So, yeah, Kennedy Center Honors. A fair amount of sucking redeemed by Bettye LaVette. If they ever release this show on DVD, I suggest they use that as their tagline.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
And baby makes three...or four...depending, Dept.
From the page:
"Palin's daughter gives birth to son named Tripp"
Yes. So, let's review the bidding: the 18-year-old daughter of Alaska's governor gives birth to the bastard of a high school dropout whose mother is currently facing felony drug charges for attempting to sell OxyContin to police informants. And she names the child "Tripp." Presumably in order not to break the run of ass names started by her brother, Track, and brother/son, Trig. Now, let he who is without sin, yatta yatta, but FTW?!? I'm having a very hard time piecing together any additional fillips that could drag this further into Trailerpark Tragedie. I mean, Christ, Sarahcuda's already been accused of covering up her daughter's first pregnancy by claiming the child as her own. It's not like I have to festoon the case with transgender dwarf hookers to pass Jerry Springer's sniff test.
So, yeah. Li'l baby Tripp--I guess "Tramp" was already taken for Bristol's Secret Service tag--joined the world today. Can't wait for the nup-chals. They should make a chav wedding look like Charles and Diana at St. Paul's Cathedral, and a NASCAR tailgate party like Act One of The Importance of Being Earnest.
From the page:
"Palin's daughter gives birth to son named Tripp"
Yes. So, let's review the bidding: the 18-year-old daughter of Alaska's governor gives birth to the bastard of a high school dropout whose mother is currently facing felony drug charges for attempting to sell OxyContin to police informants. And she names the child "Tripp." Presumably in order not to break the run of ass names started by her brother, Track, and brother/son, Trig. Now, let he who is without sin, yatta yatta, but FTW?!? I'm having a very hard time piecing together any additional fillips that could drag this further into Trailerpark Tragedie. I mean, Christ, Sarahcuda's already been accused of covering up her daughter's first pregnancy by claiming the child as her own. It's not like I have to festoon the case with transgender dwarf hookers to pass Jerry Springer's sniff test.
So, yeah. Li'l baby Tripp--I guess "Tramp" was already taken for Bristol's Secret Service tag--joined the world today. Can't wait for the nup-chals. They should make a chav wedding look like Charles and Diana at St. Paul's Cathedral, and a NASCAR tailgate party like Act One of The Importance of Being Earnest.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Hey Paula, Dept.
I may have written in these pages about my opinion of Paula Cole's song, "Feelin' Love." My uncertainty is rooted in the fact that I can't be arsed to rummage about my archives, 'cause that's just the kind of lazy shitsack I am.
At any rate, Paula Cole. I myself was not a huge fan of hers back when dried semen on a blue dress was the greatest of this nation's problems. I didn't particularly like "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone" or "I Don't Want to Wait," but mine was a lonely dissenting voice in Lilith Fair America. Young women were discovering not only the magick of their bodies but also their God-given right to give vent, bitterly if tunefully, to their crippling penis envy. We owned the CD, heard those two songs and that was about that for the oeuvre of Paula Cole.
Fast-forward to the mid-Oughties. The country is, by this point, well and truly screwed without a smile. Your sobsister is aimlessly trawling the Webs, when I come upon a site at break.com. For those of you who are still here, having resisted the temptation to open a new tab and bail, break.com is aimed at those young fellows who find maxim.com a tad too intellectually rigorous. Features like "Dude Slips Pipe Inbetween (sic) Bikers (sic) Tire" and "Hot Chick Kicks Boyfriends (sic) Ass." Yes?
At any rate, I land there and see some sort of competition they sponsor. Videos of "babes" or "chix" or "gashes" or however they refer to women are voted upon, and one lucky damsel becomes "Break Girl of the Day." This was the winner the day I visited.
Yes. Lalita. La. Lee. Ta. Not to get all Vlad the Impaler on y'all. But I have to thank her for a number of things, not least of which is the fact that she burned "Feelin' Love" onto my musical motherboard. I'm usually not a huge fan of the YouTube Lipsync. Gawky girls flying their goofy flag high. Or smudgily aping moves kiped from BET videos. The 21st century equivalent of singing into a hairbrush while jumping up and down on the bed. But this particular effort I found...engaging. Yes. Engaging. All the more so given that it appears to have been shot in an attic closet. And, then, when I found out that homegirl is based here in Choc City, well, how could I help but admire her achievement. By which I mean her apparent ability to transcribe the Declaration of Independence by using a pen attached to her pelvis.
"Lalita" has a MySpace page where fellows can apparently implore her to slip their straining members from the surly bonds of denim, and on which she notes, "I'm a laid-back girl that can be girly as hell but I can also kick it wit da boys. So holla atcha girl if your interested in being friends or something more." Yes. Opening at Feinstein's next week.
But, yeah, "Feelin' Love." Hottest fucking song EVER. And the referenced a perfect video introduction to it. I have a newfound admiration for Paula Cole as a songwriter. To begin with.
The lyrics:
You make me feel like a sticky pistil leanin' into a stamen.
You make me feel like a Mr. Sunshine, himself.
You make me feel like splendor in the grass, while we're rollin'.
Damn skippy, baby!
You make me feel like the Amazon's runnin' between my thighs.
(Chorus)
You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love, love, love.
You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love-ah, love-ah.
You make me feel like a candy apple, red and horny.
You make me feel like I wanna be a dumb blonde in a centerfold,
the girl next door.
And I would open the door, and I'd be all wet,
With my tits soaking through this tiny flannel t-shirt
that I'm wearing,
And you would open the door and tie me up to the bed.
(Chorus)
Lover, I don't know who I am.
Am I Barry White, am I Isis?
Lover, I'm laced with your unconscience.
I will be your Desdemona.
(take you home)
Damn skippy, baby.
I may have written in these pages about my opinion of Paula Cole's song, "Feelin' Love." My uncertainty is rooted in the fact that I can't be arsed to rummage about my archives, 'cause that's just the kind of lazy shitsack I am.
At any rate, Paula Cole. I myself was not a huge fan of hers back when dried semen on a blue dress was the greatest of this nation's problems. I didn't particularly like "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone" or "I Don't Want to Wait," but mine was a lonely dissenting voice in Lilith Fair America. Young women were discovering not only the magick of their bodies but also their God-given right to give vent, bitterly if tunefully, to their crippling penis envy. We owned the CD, heard those two songs and that was about that for the oeuvre of Paula Cole.
Fast-forward to the mid-Oughties. The country is, by this point, well and truly screwed without a smile. Your sobsister is aimlessly trawling the Webs, when I come upon a site at break.com. For those of you who are still here, having resisted the temptation to open a new tab and bail, break.com is aimed at those young fellows who find maxim.com a tad too intellectually rigorous. Features like "Dude Slips Pipe Inbetween (sic) Bikers (sic) Tire" and "Hot Chick Kicks Boyfriends (sic) Ass." Yes?
At any rate, I land there and see some sort of competition they sponsor. Videos of "babes" or "chix" or "gashes" or however they refer to women are voted upon, and one lucky damsel becomes "Break Girl of the Day." This was the winner the day I visited.
Yes. Lalita. La. Lee. Ta. Not to get all Vlad the Impaler on y'all. But I have to thank her for a number of things, not least of which is the fact that she burned "Feelin' Love" onto my musical motherboard. I'm usually not a huge fan of the YouTube Lipsync. Gawky girls flying their goofy flag high. Or smudgily aping moves kiped from BET videos. The 21st century equivalent of singing into a hairbrush while jumping up and down on the bed. But this particular effort I found...engaging. Yes. Engaging. All the more so given that it appears to have been shot in an attic closet. And, then, when I found out that homegirl is based here in Choc City, well, how could I help but admire her achievement. By which I mean her apparent ability to transcribe the Declaration of Independence by using a pen attached to her pelvis.
"Lalita" has a MySpace page where fellows can apparently implore her to slip their straining members from the surly bonds of denim, and on which she notes, "I'm a laid-back girl that can be girly as hell but I can also kick it wit da boys. So holla atcha girl if your interested in being friends or something more." Yes. Opening at Feinstein's next week.
But, yeah, "Feelin' Love." Hottest fucking song EVER. And the referenced a perfect video introduction to it. I have a newfound admiration for Paula Cole as a songwriter. To begin with.
The lyrics:
You make me feel like a sticky pistil leanin' into a stamen.
You make me feel like a Mr. Sunshine, himself.
You make me feel like splendor in the grass, while we're rollin'.
Damn skippy, baby!
You make me feel like the Amazon's runnin' between my thighs.
(Chorus)
You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love, love, love.
You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love-ah, love-ah.
You make me feel like a candy apple, red and horny.
You make me feel like I wanna be a dumb blonde in a centerfold,
the girl next door.
And I would open the door, and I'd be all wet,
With my tits soaking through this tiny flannel t-shirt
that I'm wearing,
And you would open the door and tie me up to the bed.
(Chorus)
Lover, I don't know who I am.
Am I Barry White, am I Isis?
Lover, I'm laced with your unconscience.
I will be your Desdemona.
(take you home)
Damn skippy, baby.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
I Love My Cigar, Too, But I Take It Out of My Mouth Once in a While, Dept
From the page:
"Duggar Family Already Thinking About 19th Child
For Jim and Michelle Duggar, eighteen isn't enough.
After welcoming a 7-lb., 3 oz. daughter via C-section on Thursday to join their 17 other children, the proud papa tells the Associated Press: "We both would love to have more."
The Duggars now have 10 sons and eight daughters, ranging in age from 17 months to 20 years, all with first names starting with the letter J, including the newborn addition, Jordyn-Grace Makiya Duggar.
'The ultimate Christmas gift from God,' said Jim tells AP. 'She's just absolutely beautiful, like her mom and her sisters.'"
Yow. Seems like only yesterday Michelle squeezed out no.17, and I was all up in her shit about being a Jesus-bothering uterus with legs...and, wouldn't'cha know it! Out pops another one! Christ on a cracker, her snatch is like a clown car, isn't it? What else is up there? A set of World Book encyclopedias and a case of Budweiser, at a minimum.
Well, better enjoy this one fast 'cause she's got that look in her eye that says, "I'm a hollow vessel for my Lord Jim Bob's holy seed, and I need to be topped up right about now." Good thing she never found out about oral, huh, kids? Our nation would've been shy 18 fewer cult members.
And "Jordyn-Grace Makiya"...stripper or child bride? Stripper or child bride? Stripper or child bride? Wait! What about both?! Anything's possible when you come from a family so large that you have no sense of self or of anything, really, but the discipline that your egomaniacal father metes out in equal doses with camera-ready "affection."
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Jim Bob, keep that fucking thing in your pants, cowboy! Even the Lone Ranger holsters his gun sometimes! *ha ha!*
They make me want to puke.
From the page:
"Duggar Family Already Thinking About 19th Child
For Jim and Michelle Duggar, eighteen isn't enough.
After welcoming a 7-lb., 3 oz. daughter via C-section on Thursday to join their 17 other children, the proud papa tells the Associated Press: "We both would love to have more."
The Duggars now have 10 sons and eight daughters, ranging in age from 17 months to 20 years, all with first names starting with the letter J, including the newborn addition, Jordyn-Grace Makiya Duggar.
'The ultimate Christmas gift from God,' said Jim tells AP. 'She's just absolutely beautiful, like her mom and her sisters.'"
Yow. Seems like only yesterday Michelle squeezed out no.17, and I was all up in her shit about being a Jesus-bothering uterus with legs...and, wouldn't'cha know it! Out pops another one! Christ on a cracker, her snatch is like a clown car, isn't it? What else is up there? A set of World Book encyclopedias and a case of Budweiser, at a minimum.
Well, better enjoy this one fast 'cause she's got that look in her eye that says, "I'm a hollow vessel for my Lord Jim Bob's holy seed, and I need to be topped up right about now." Good thing she never found out about oral, huh, kids? Our nation would've been shy 18 fewer cult members.
And "Jordyn-Grace Makiya"...stripper or child bride? Stripper or child bride? Stripper or child bride? Wait! What about both?! Anything's possible when you come from a family so large that you have no sense of self or of anything, really, but the discipline that your egomaniacal father metes out in equal doses with camera-ready "affection."
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Jim Bob, keep that fucking thing in your pants, cowboy! Even the Lone Ranger holsters his gun sometimes! *ha ha!*
They make me want to puke.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Telling Shit from Shinola, Dept.
Arts, Briefly - That’s All, She Wrote - NYTimes.com
Who says the American public has the taste of a famished buzzard?
"That's All, She Wrote
Rosie O'Donnell's homage to television variety shows of the 1970s, Rosie Live, seems destined to be a one-night-only event. On the Ask Ro feature on the Web site, rosie.com, Ms. O'Donnell wrote, 'there will b no more' in response to a question about the future of the show, which was broadcast on NBC on Wednesday. The special was supposed to be a trial balloon and could have led to a series, depending on its success. But Rosie Live� which featured performances by Liza Minnelli, Alanis Morissette and others, attracted just five million viewers, according to Nielsen's estimates, finishing a distant third in the 8 p.m. hour. Ms. O'Donnell...responded to many messages on her Web site over the weekend, writing in her style that eschews traditional spellings. To another viewer she acknowledged, 'I gave it my best shot.' She also wrote that "its up to nbc," but added, 'bad ratings and reviews usually mean no more.'"
Arts, Briefly - That’s All, She Wrote - NYTimes.com
Who says the American public has the taste of a famished buzzard?
"That's All, She Wrote
Rosie O'Donnell's homage to television variety shows of the 1970s, Rosie Live, seems destined to be a one-night-only event. On the Ask Ro feature on the Web site, rosie.com, Ms. O'Donnell wrote, 'there will b no more' in response to a question about the future of the show, which was broadcast on NBC on Wednesday. The special was supposed to be a trial balloon and could have led to a series, depending on its success. But Rosie Live� which featured performances by Liza Minnelli, Alanis Morissette and others, attracted just five million viewers, according to Nielsen's estimates, finishing a distant third in the 8 p.m. hour. Ms. O'Donnell...responded to many messages on her Web site over the weekend, writing in her style that eschews traditional spellings. To another viewer she acknowledged, 'I gave it my best shot.' She also wrote that "its up to nbc," but added, 'bad ratings and reviews usually mean no more.'"
Friday, November 28, 2008
The Vacuum That Both Sucks and Blows, Dept.
Well, it's been a while--a mega-long, fucking while, children--since your sobsister viewed anything on network television as wretched as Friday's Rosie Live!. The "return" of the variety show. Or, as it turned out, the wooden stake, silver bullet and garlic shiv through the heart of the variety show format.
Christ, I mean, even the network felt compelled to weasel-word its P.R. puffery:
Just as Ed Sullivan, Carol Burnett and ROWAN & MARTIN'S LAUGH-IN, captivated the hearts of audiences across the country, the unpredictable Rosie O'Donnell will bring that grand tradition to a whole new level!
Would that "whole new level" be up or down? Who can say? Not the network, clearly.
Rosie will kick off the hour doing what she does best -- sounding off about current events, pop culture and whatever is on her mind. From there, anything can happen as Rosie, her celebrity friends and fans sing, dance, and laugh in a primetime variety show like no other.
Yes, it truly is "like no other." In the same way that a two-headed calf and a shit sandwich are sui generis.
But, sobsister, what exactly made it so relentlessly, irredeemably sucktastic, I hear you ask? Oh, very many things. So very goddamn many. For your convenience, here's a short list.
1) Rosie O'Donnell has zero fucking talent. She actually sucks talent out of those around her like a talent vampire. I remember watching her host Stand-Up Spotlight on VH-1 in the '90s and thinking she must've fucked the entire crew to get the gig. I mean, even the grips and crafts service. Because she was so unbelievably charmless and unfunny. And, now, America's Favorite Eternal Amateur™ is trying to bring back the variety show format that she supposedly loved as a child, but tragically forgetting that those shows were founded on entertainment. Not on an unbreakable fascination with one's self in the televisual equivalent of a dog licking its balls. For example, if you're hosting a renaissance of the variety show format, an opening monologue that describes in Proustian detail the undergarment you're wearing that reshapes your copious body fat into breasts is probably not the sort of material that Ed Sullivan would've chosen to deliver in a comparable situation. Your audience is no longer comprised exclusively of self-medicating housewives and graveyard shift stoners, Ro, and there's a significant difference between "host" and "star," so, before you vanish up the asshole of your self-regard, you may want to take into consideration the fact that, for example, no-one outside your immediate family ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever wants to see you sing and dance. Because--reality check and spoiler alert!-- you can't do either. Not even a little. I mean, you make Ashlee Simpson look and sound like the second coming of Ethel Merman, Mary Martin and Gwen Verdon, capeesh? And, honest, it's not enough that you're "trying." That shit flies on the tee ball field, but not on television and not on my time.
2) Liza Minnelli really needn't be seen in public any more. Leave me with the memory of Cabaret and Liza with a 'Z'. I mean, I can see how a prime time gig on a Big Three network would be attractive to her--the unenviable price being a duet with the Talent Vampire--but the unfortunate cosmetic work she's had done and the shit through which she's had to wade as a function of her illnesses and lifestyle have made her look and sound at least twenty years older than 62. It's like watching a high school hygiene film on the ravages of drugs, booze and neediness. And who was it, exactly, who thought that an opening number featuring a woman who can neither sing nor dance doing both and another woman whose appeal would seem to be founded entirely on how well she's doing, you know, considering would attract anyone outside a coterie of those who rubberneck at highway mishaps?
3) Who the fuck is Ne-Yo? Is he Usher's considerably less charismatic brother? And why is he on my screen? Did I lost a bet with Good Black Music?
4) The Talent Vampire actually has the brass knockers to feature a musical segment--featuring the otherwise-charming and -underutilized Jane Krakowski--in which she lists the crap she's giving away to audience members. So classy. She makes Oprah seem like Alistair Cooke at Edward R. Murrow's.
5) Ha ha! A segment with Clay Aiken in which both of them are cutesy-coy about being homosexuals! Oh, this must be considered ever so cosmopolitan and risqué by very, very old people in Des Moines.
6) Oh, Alanis Morrissette? 1995 called. Asked why you'd left your talent and appeal back there. She sang an interminable, nasally song about something. Life? Love? Wolverines? The sort of performance where the audience started applauding before she was finished. As a hint. Thanks a fucking load, Canada. Bastards
7) No, really, Rosie. This isn't your ghastly daytime show. You don't have to be in every number, sketch and scene. And you don't have to pretend to be even vaguely "turned on" by Alec Baldwin and Harry Connick Jr. You're a lesbian. We totally got that. And no shout-outs to your four children. This isn't PTA Talent Night at Commack High. Fuck, you're annoying.
8) Ah, novelty talent numbers. Jugglers. Acrobats. It's like watching European weekend programming. Or the lounge act at a Las Vegas hotel too chintzy to host a Cirque de Soleil spin-off. What, no quick-change artists? No human Slinkies? What a rip. I'm totally writing to the programming director at RAI.
9) Wow, a big finale with Gloria Estefan! I feel fifteen years younger! Is it time for President Clinton's first inauguration? *ha ha!* But seriously, the fact that it's been fifteen years since Li'l Gloria was even vaguely relevant doesn't in any way diminish the entertainment value of having her tell a couple of lame jokes and then do a duet--but, of course, a duet; Gawd forbid anyone should steal the Stand-Up Spotlight--with Rosie. (I wonder who else Rosie could feature in the handful of future episodes before network executives release themselves from the basement in which she's apparently locked them. The Baha Men? The Rico Suave guy? The ghost of the "where's the beef?" lady?) And, not content with a closing musical number that features both Gloria Estefan and boy dancers dressed as foodstuffs, she brings out Rachael "Ray-Ray" Ray! To sing!! Christ alfuckingmighty! Talk about a black hole of talent. I'm amazed that the audience didn't find its face sucked off by the vacuum on that stage.
Yes, indeed. Rosie O'Donnell "brought back" the variety show on Wednesday. Much like Jack Kevorkian offers wellness care to his patients. Or Hitler sponsoring a Hadassah summer camp. Sweet Jesus, it both sucked and blew. A hundred years of songwriters and entertainers spinning at 78 RPM in their graves. Catch it next time. It's so wretched, it'll clear your sinus passages like wasabi and your colon like an all-bran depth charge. And the Talent Vampire, having mutilated both the daytime talk show and the variety show, will surely soon decamp to feast on another genre.
Well, it's been a while--a mega-long, fucking while, children--since your sobsister viewed anything on network television as wretched as Friday's Rosie Live!. The "return" of the variety show. Or, as it turned out, the wooden stake, silver bullet and garlic shiv through the heart of the variety show format.
Christ, I mean, even the network felt compelled to weasel-word its P.R. puffery:
Just as Ed Sullivan, Carol Burnett and ROWAN & MARTIN'S LAUGH-IN, captivated the hearts of audiences across the country, the unpredictable Rosie O'Donnell will bring that grand tradition to a whole new level!
Would that "whole new level" be up or down? Who can say? Not the network, clearly.
Rosie will kick off the hour doing what she does best -- sounding off about current events, pop culture and whatever is on her mind. From there, anything can happen as Rosie, her celebrity friends and fans sing, dance, and laugh in a primetime variety show like no other.
Yes, it truly is "like no other." In the same way that a two-headed calf and a shit sandwich are sui generis.
But, sobsister, what exactly made it so relentlessly, irredeemably sucktastic, I hear you ask? Oh, very many things. So very goddamn many. For your convenience, here's a short list.
1) Rosie O'Donnell has zero fucking talent. She actually sucks talent out of those around her like a talent vampire. I remember watching her host Stand-Up Spotlight on VH-1 in the '90s and thinking she must've fucked the entire crew to get the gig. I mean, even the grips and crafts service. Because she was so unbelievably charmless and unfunny. And, now, America's Favorite Eternal Amateur™ is trying to bring back the variety show format that she supposedly loved as a child, but tragically forgetting that those shows were founded on entertainment. Not on an unbreakable fascination with one's self in the televisual equivalent of a dog licking its balls. For example, if you're hosting a renaissance of the variety show format, an opening monologue that describes in Proustian detail the undergarment you're wearing that reshapes your copious body fat into breasts is probably not the sort of material that Ed Sullivan would've chosen to deliver in a comparable situation. Your audience is no longer comprised exclusively of self-medicating housewives and graveyard shift stoners, Ro, and there's a significant difference between "host" and "star," so, before you vanish up the asshole of your self-regard, you may want to take into consideration the fact that, for example, no-one outside your immediate family ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever wants to see you sing and dance. Because--reality check and spoiler alert!-- you can't do either. Not even a little. I mean, you make Ashlee Simpson look and sound like the second coming of Ethel Merman, Mary Martin and Gwen Verdon, capeesh? And, honest, it's not enough that you're "trying." That shit flies on the tee ball field, but not on television and not on my time.
2) Liza Minnelli really needn't be seen in public any more. Leave me with the memory of Cabaret and Liza with a 'Z'. I mean, I can see how a prime time gig on a Big Three network would be attractive to her--the unenviable price being a duet with the Talent Vampire--but the unfortunate cosmetic work she's had done and the shit through which she's had to wade as a function of her illnesses and lifestyle have made her look and sound at least twenty years older than 62. It's like watching a high school hygiene film on the ravages of drugs, booze and neediness. And who was it, exactly, who thought that an opening number featuring a woman who can neither sing nor dance doing both and another woman whose appeal would seem to be founded entirely on how well she's doing, you know, considering would attract anyone outside a coterie of those who rubberneck at highway mishaps?
3) Who the fuck is Ne-Yo? Is he Usher's considerably less charismatic brother? And why is he on my screen? Did I lost a bet with Good Black Music?
4) The Talent Vampire actually has the brass knockers to feature a musical segment--featuring the otherwise-charming and -underutilized Jane Krakowski--in which she lists the crap she's giving away to audience members. So classy. She makes Oprah seem like Alistair Cooke at Edward R. Murrow's.
5) Ha ha! A segment with Clay Aiken in which both of them are cutesy-coy about being homosexuals! Oh, this must be considered ever so cosmopolitan and risqué by very, very old people in Des Moines.
6) Oh, Alanis Morrissette? 1995 called. Asked why you'd left your talent and appeal back there. She sang an interminable, nasally song about something. Life? Love? Wolverines? The sort of performance where the audience started applauding before she was finished. As a hint. Thanks a fucking load, Canada. Bastards
7) No, really, Rosie. This isn't your ghastly daytime show. You don't have to be in every number, sketch and scene. And you don't have to pretend to be even vaguely "turned on" by Alec Baldwin and Harry Connick Jr. You're a lesbian. We totally got that. And no shout-outs to your four children. This isn't PTA Talent Night at Commack High. Fuck, you're annoying.
8) Ah, novelty talent numbers. Jugglers. Acrobats. It's like watching European weekend programming. Or the lounge act at a Las Vegas hotel too chintzy to host a Cirque de Soleil spin-off. What, no quick-change artists? No human Slinkies? What a rip. I'm totally writing to the programming director at RAI.
9) Wow, a big finale with Gloria Estefan! I feel fifteen years younger! Is it time for President Clinton's first inauguration? *ha ha!* But seriously, the fact that it's been fifteen years since Li'l Gloria was even vaguely relevant doesn't in any way diminish the entertainment value of having her tell a couple of lame jokes and then do a duet--but, of course, a duet; Gawd forbid anyone should steal the Stand-Up Spotlight--with Rosie. (I wonder who else Rosie could feature in the handful of future episodes before network executives release themselves from the basement in which she's apparently locked them. The Baha Men? The Rico Suave guy? The ghost of the "where's the beef?" lady?) And, not content with a closing musical number that features both Gloria Estefan and boy dancers dressed as foodstuffs, she brings out Rachael "Ray-Ray" Ray! To sing!! Christ alfuckingmighty! Talk about a black hole of talent. I'm amazed that the audience didn't find its face sucked off by the vacuum on that stage.
Yes, indeed. Rosie O'Donnell "brought back" the variety show on Wednesday. Much like Jack Kevorkian offers wellness care to his patients. Or Hitler sponsoring a Hadassah summer camp. Sweet Jesus, it both sucked and blew. A hundred years of songwriters and entertainers spinning at 78 RPM in their graves. Catch it next time. It's so wretched, it'll clear your sinus passages like wasabi and your colon like an all-bran depth charge. And the Talent Vampire, having mutilated both the daytime talk show and the variety show, will surely soon decamp to feast on another genre.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Clueless, Dept.
Now, you know that your sobsister is all about the local television commercial programming. Particularly as regards advertising. None of this high-concept, CGI-heavy, oil-slick eyewash. Just guys and gals in ill-considered outfits standing next to quality, previously owned Fords, Hondas and Subarus in footage that appears to have been shot on Super 8 and dubbed over a bad cell connection. And, hey, their messages haven't been "focus grouped" or "audience tested" or "edited." It's just straight-talking shovel-fisted entrepreneurialism, podner!
Case in point for your consideration: your sobsister is seated before the teevee after having watched another episode of Jeopardy! and again marveled at how many degrees off geosynchronous orbit Alex Trebek, on occasion, can be.
An ad comes on.
A fellow in a cheapass knockoff of a London chimney sweep's uniform ca. Mary Poppins IV: Supercalifuckingpointless pulls up to the curb in front of a suburban house and hops out.
Quick cut to the interior of the house.
Three teenage girls are playing "Clue." We know it's "Clue," because one of them is helpfully propping the box up on her knees for our edification.
Over this action, a toy piano is doubling a woman's tuneless voice chantsinging, "A step in time, a step in time, gonna make your chimneys shine." The kind of performance that usually precedes all the children in the village taking up pitchforks against the unsuspecting adults.
Exterior shot: he rings the doorbell.
If it weren't for the grating jingle, I'd expect the chick-waka-waka-boom porn soundtrack to kick in: "Morning, ladies. I heard someone needed their chimney poled."
Inside, one of the three little louts--who clearly can't be arsed to answer the door three feet away--screams, "Hey, MOMMM! The chimney sweep is here!!"
Down the stairs comes "Mom" under a big load...of laundry. Chick-waka-waka-boom.
She lets the sweep in her...house. He proceeds to look up her...fireplace, then up the ladder outside to pound her...chimney with his long, black...brush.
Wow, this is like Porn Mad Libs! More fun to make than they are to read, I bet!
Anyhoo, he finishes his work, shakes her hand and drives off. The screen dissolves to this still:
Ummm...exsqueeze me, but is that a fish next to the Web address for this business? What is that, the chimney sweep's prison tat? Did a teardrop not make for a good graphic?
I'm sorry...what's that you say?
He's a Christian?
Ohhh...that explains ever so much. Is this what we're coming to in post-secular America? Flagging one's religious affiliation in teevee spots for knowing co-religionists? Is that what the teen mannequin was doing? Giving us a "clue" as to the chimbley sweep's post-Rapture forwarding address?
Subtle.
I hope to see similarly subtle hints in future advertisements. A smiling cow for a Hindu-owned clothing store. A frowny brain for a zombie-owned dry cleaner.
Heck, why stop at religious affiliation? I'd like to see an erect cock advertising a gay-owned business. Or a flatline EEG for a Republican-owned business.
Yes, I say! Let us all give each other a "clue" as to our leanings in our television advertisements. Otherwise, how will we know to whom to give our custom? "Quality"? "Customer service"? "Value"? Yeah. How're things in Cloud Cuckoo Land, Fantasy Boy?
I don't know about you, but I'm voting with my wallet and supporting Pornstar Xtian Chimney Dude. He may or may not know shit about chimneys or pleasuring suburban housewives, but at least I know where he stands on salvation.
Now, you know that your sobsister is all about the local television commercial programming. Particularly as regards advertising. None of this high-concept, CGI-heavy, oil-slick eyewash. Just guys and gals in ill-considered outfits standing next to quality, previously owned Fords, Hondas and Subarus in footage that appears to have been shot on Super 8 and dubbed over a bad cell connection. And, hey, their messages haven't been "focus grouped" or "audience tested" or "edited." It's just straight-talking shovel-fisted entrepreneurialism, podner!
Case in point for your consideration: your sobsister is seated before the teevee after having watched another episode of Jeopardy! and again marveled at how many degrees off geosynchronous orbit Alex Trebek, on occasion, can be.
An ad comes on.
A fellow in a cheapass knockoff of a London chimney sweep's uniform ca. Mary Poppins IV: Supercalifuckingpointless pulls up to the curb in front of a suburban house and hops out.
Quick cut to the interior of the house.
Three teenage girls are playing "Clue." We know it's "Clue," because one of them is helpfully propping the box up on her knees for our edification.
Over this action, a toy piano is doubling a woman's tuneless voice chantsinging, "A step in time, a step in time, gonna make your chimneys shine." The kind of performance that usually precedes all the children in the village taking up pitchforks against the unsuspecting adults.
Exterior shot: he rings the doorbell.
If it weren't for the grating jingle, I'd expect the chick-waka-waka-boom porn soundtrack to kick in: "Morning, ladies. I heard someone needed their chimney poled."
Inside, one of the three little louts--who clearly can't be arsed to answer the door three feet away--screams, "Hey, MOMMM! The chimney sweep is here!!"
Down the stairs comes "Mom" under a big load...of laundry. Chick-waka-waka-boom.
She lets the sweep in her...house. He proceeds to look up her...fireplace, then up the ladder outside to pound her...chimney with his long, black...brush.
Wow, this is like Porn Mad Libs! More fun to make than they are to read, I bet!
Anyhoo, he finishes his work, shakes her hand and drives off. The screen dissolves to this still:
Ummm...exsqueeze me, but is that a fish next to the Web address for this business? What is that, the chimney sweep's prison tat? Did a teardrop not make for a good graphic?
I'm sorry...what's that you say?
He's a Christian?
Ohhh...that explains ever so much. Is this what we're coming to in post-secular America? Flagging one's religious affiliation in teevee spots for knowing co-religionists? Is that what the teen mannequin was doing? Giving us a "clue" as to the chimbley sweep's post-Rapture forwarding address?
Subtle.
I hope to see similarly subtle hints in future advertisements. A smiling cow for a Hindu-owned clothing store. A frowny brain for a zombie-owned dry cleaner.
Heck, why stop at religious affiliation? I'd like to see an erect cock advertising a gay-owned business. Or a flatline EEG for a Republican-owned business.
Yes, I say! Let us all give each other a "clue" as to our leanings in our television advertisements. Otherwise, how will we know to whom to give our custom? "Quality"? "Customer service"? "Value"? Yeah. How're things in Cloud Cuckoo Land, Fantasy Boy?
I don't know about you, but I'm voting with my wallet and supporting Pornstar Xtian Chimney Dude. He may or may not know shit about chimneys or pleasuring suburban housewives, but at least I know where he stands on salvation.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Shout Bam-a-Lam!, Dept.
As afterglow fades into sweet memory, a few thoughts about the events of Tuesday night.
1) A lot of folks are waxing poetic--which is somewhere along the taint--about how "classy" Johnny Mac's concession speech was, how he nobly quieted those among his audience who booed the very mention of Barry's name, how he divided the fishes and loaves to feed the multitude. To them I say, Hooey! I also say, Nertz! Before I fall completely into 1944, I'll also say that them as says that are speaking through their posteriors, because offering your rape victim a breath mint don't make you a gentleman, capeesh? I've read no end of commentary to the tune of "This was the McCain of 2000" and "Where was this John McCain?" and, really, I'm...not "amused," not "bemused"...what's the word I'm thinking of...? Right: I'm gobsmacked that, after months of hearing Johnny Mac impugn every and anything about Barack Obama short of his manhood, anyone would be suckered in by this 11th hour show of "sportsmanship." Oh, yes, he quieted the selfsame crowds he'd been goosing to take up pitchfork, torch and noose. Why, he's practically Gandhi meets Mother Teresa at Albert Schweitzer's house!
Dick.
2) Much more satisfying was watching the extreme discomfiture of Sarahcuda even as Cholly Chipmunk played the Good Loser. This was just like losing Miss Alaska! Only, this time, there were actual people watching! Not just tundra fauna and a grizzled prospector beating his jerky. You could just see the wheels turning behind her bitter, briny, streaky face: Fuckity fuck FUCK!!, plucky Sarah-Pie thought to herself, Now, I have to go back to the ass-end of the Ass-End of Nowhere with this clodhopping jagoff, four kids and two grandkids! And there's no Neiman for, like, ten thousand miles! And I have to eat Dinty Moore out of the fucking can with Sasquatch here when I could've been dining on foie gras mousse and porcini en croute with Condi Rice at Citronelle! FUCK!! My agent better get me that daytime talk show, or I'm going to kick Grandpa over there so hard in the goolies, he's going to have two sets of eyeballs!
3) Telling contrast of the evening: the demographics of the crowd at the McCain election night bash at the Arizona Biltmore versus those of the Obama crowd at Grant Park. The Obama crowd was, in the man's words, "young and old, rich and poor...black, white, Latino, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled." The McCain crowd, on the other hand, looked like they still can't quite understand why there's a federal holiday in January honoring an uppity nigger.
4) Related to the preceding, as your sobsister looks at the electoral map and the electoral figures, the ineluctable question nudges and pokes me: were 46 percent of Americans so retarded as to think that McCain/Palin was anything short of a screaming Kazakhstani clusterfuck? I mean, yeah, I'm all for a Big Tent and divergent views and honest disagreement but, really? Honest to dingdong goodness?! Y'all, hands to the Bible, really thought this doddering weasel with the twitching ethics impairment and the chuckleheaded mannequin who made most of the English-speaking world plus Jesus want to slap the aw-shucks out of her mouth represented our best hope for leadership in our nation's most trying period in 75 years?!?
Get out of my country.
Now.
And leave the cows, corn and cotton.
5) I only switched to FOX once, but they looked and sounded like they were trying to call the best game possible for the Washington Generals even as all five Globetrotters did the elastic ball trick. Not to worry about these viperfanged guys and gals, though. They're backing the calumny, disinformation and untruth trucks up to the FOX warehouse. `Cause feeding on your own is fun, but slashing at the legs of those trying to climb is even funner.
6) That Obama feller, he can talk right purty.
As afterglow fades into sweet memory, a few thoughts about the events of Tuesday night.
1) A lot of folks are waxing poetic--which is somewhere along the taint--about how "classy" Johnny Mac's concession speech was, how he nobly quieted those among his audience who booed the very mention of Barry's name, how he divided the fishes and loaves to feed the multitude. To them I say, Hooey! I also say, Nertz! Before I fall completely into 1944, I'll also say that them as says that are speaking through their posteriors, because offering your rape victim a breath mint don't make you a gentleman, capeesh? I've read no end of commentary to the tune of "This was the McCain of 2000" and "Where was this John McCain?" and, really, I'm...not "amused," not "bemused"...what's the word I'm thinking of...? Right: I'm gobsmacked that, after months of hearing Johnny Mac impugn every and anything about Barack Obama short of his manhood, anyone would be suckered in by this 11th hour show of "sportsmanship." Oh, yes, he quieted the selfsame crowds he'd been goosing to take up pitchfork, torch and noose. Why, he's practically Gandhi meets Mother Teresa at Albert Schweitzer's house!
Dick.
2) Much more satisfying was watching the extreme discomfiture of Sarahcuda even as Cholly Chipmunk played the Good Loser. This was just like losing Miss Alaska! Only, this time, there were actual people watching! Not just tundra fauna and a grizzled prospector beating his jerky. You could just see the wheels turning behind her bitter, briny, streaky face: Fuckity fuck FUCK!!, plucky Sarah-Pie thought to herself, Now, I have to go back to the ass-end of the Ass-End of Nowhere with this clodhopping jagoff, four kids and two grandkids! And there's no Neiman for, like, ten thousand miles! And I have to eat Dinty Moore out of the fucking can with Sasquatch here when I could've been dining on foie gras mousse and porcini en croute with Condi Rice at Citronelle! FUCK!! My agent better get me that daytime talk show, or I'm going to kick Grandpa over there so hard in the goolies, he's going to have two sets of eyeballs!
3) Telling contrast of the evening: the demographics of the crowd at the McCain election night bash at the Arizona Biltmore versus those of the Obama crowd at Grant Park. The Obama crowd was, in the man's words, "young and old, rich and poor...black, white, Latino, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled." The McCain crowd, on the other hand, looked like they still can't quite understand why there's a federal holiday in January honoring an uppity nigger.
4) Related to the preceding, as your sobsister looks at the electoral map and the electoral figures, the ineluctable question nudges and pokes me: were 46 percent of Americans so retarded as to think that McCain/Palin was anything short of a screaming Kazakhstani clusterfuck? I mean, yeah, I'm all for a Big Tent and divergent views and honest disagreement but, really? Honest to dingdong goodness?! Y'all, hands to the Bible, really thought this doddering weasel with the twitching ethics impairment and the chuckleheaded mannequin who made most of the English-speaking world plus Jesus want to slap the aw-shucks out of her mouth represented our best hope for leadership in our nation's most trying period in 75 years?!?
Get out of my country.
Now.
And leave the cows, corn and cotton.
5) I only switched to FOX once, but they looked and sounded like they were trying to call the best game possible for the Washington Generals even as all five Globetrotters did the elastic ball trick. Not to worry about these viperfanged guys and gals, though. They're backing the calumny, disinformation and untruth trucks up to the FOX warehouse. `Cause feeding on your own is fun, but slashing at the legs of those trying to climb is even funner.
6) That Obama feller, he can talk right purty.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, Dept.
If we, as a civilization, have plucked from the storehouse of eastern Mediterranean myth and legend the name of Oedipus to represent Freud's urge to kill his father and bone his mother, and the name of Sisyphus to symbolize profound frustration and fruitless endeavor, then where in that storehouse can we find a figure to represent the ingrained need on the part of mothers to throw out their sons' valuable shit?
Case in point: I know a guy who came home from college to learn his mother had thrown out his entire baseball card collection. That he didn't express his pique with the business end of a Louisville Slugger is unimpeachable testimony to his saintly forebearance. But, really, no foolin': what sort of confluence of bad chemicals, bad juju and bad judgment could possibly cause a person to do such a thing? "Tum-te-tum, just cleaning up my son's room, tum-te-tum, oh, look, here are several boxes of those baseball cards he loves so much, he's worked so hard to collect them all, how he used to save his lawnmowing money just to buy them, I remember the twinkle in his eye when he'd run back to the car, so excited to see which cards he'd gotten, such memories... welp, I guess I'll chuck them all out and then go shave the cat."
Such tales are Legion, for they are many. I, too, have had my life blighted by this scourge of maternal malice enrobed in cluelessness wrapped in a tissue of lies. After your sobsister graduated from college, I left my hometown to attend graduate school and then begin work. A few years passed, during which I was mostly overseas. Then, once back in the States, I thought to relieve my parents of the books and things I'd left with them. I went through several closets and retrieved books, mainly paperbacks that had formed part of a collegiate corpus of Required Reading that I'd taken great pains to avoid but also some of my old favorites from high school and college days. But danged if I could find my stash of Harlan Ellison novels and anthologies.
I had been a huge Harlan Ellison fan. I had first bought his better-known collections of speculative fiction, then his books of essays, then went back and bought his early novels. It was at a science-fiction convention that I'd had the opportunity to approach the Great Man, who was accompanied by a tall and leggy brunette I utterly ignored in my bedazzlement at the Presence, and ask him, tremulously, for an autograph. He smiled, took the book I'd just bought--one of his earliest novels, bound as a two-fer with someone else's equally minor work--and whipped off the dedication, "This is a terrible book and I apologize - Harlan Ellison."
This collection of paperbacks by my once-favorite author, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is what I was seeking in the closets and boxes of my parents' apartment. After opening and peering and moving and craning, I asked my mother where my Harlan Ellison books were. With the very eyes of guilelessness, she responded that she didn't know. Hadn't you taken them? No, mater, if I had taken them, I wouldn't be rearranging family-size bags of Cheez Doodles in the upper reaches of your storage areas. Well, you must've taken them; I haven't touched them.
At this point, I began to feel much as I imagine Orestes felt before Clytemnestra or, possibly, Stewie before Lois. The berserker fury was building in my head like pitcher beer in a puny bladder. Everything before me snapped into razorsharp focus then turned deep red. I remember little of what ensued, except, I think, I was fairly peckish and dinner was ready.
I cannot explain her behavior. I cannot explain the behavior of any mother who would so despoil the treasures of her son's youth. Is it payback for leaving the maternal bosom? Is it punishment for ineffaceable stretch marks? Is it transitory menopausal dementia? Wiser minds than mine may know, and they ain't saying. All I can offer by way of conclusion is this: don't leave your good shit in your mother's care. Ever. Because maternal instinct does not extend to your possessions, and if your boxes of near-mint Golden Age comic books are blocking her access to the Swiffer, kiss your run of All Star Comics goodbye, brother.
Oh, and I'm nominating Medea.
If we, as a civilization, have plucked from the storehouse of eastern Mediterranean myth and legend the name of Oedipus to represent Freud's urge to kill his father and bone his mother, and the name of Sisyphus to symbolize profound frustration and fruitless endeavor, then where in that storehouse can we find a figure to represent the ingrained need on the part of mothers to throw out their sons' valuable shit?
Case in point: I know a guy who came home from college to learn his mother had thrown out his entire baseball card collection. That he didn't express his pique with the business end of a Louisville Slugger is unimpeachable testimony to his saintly forebearance. But, really, no foolin': what sort of confluence of bad chemicals, bad juju and bad judgment could possibly cause a person to do such a thing? "Tum-te-tum, just cleaning up my son's room, tum-te-tum, oh, look, here are several boxes of those baseball cards he loves so much, he's worked so hard to collect them all, how he used to save his lawnmowing money just to buy them, I remember the twinkle in his eye when he'd run back to the car, so excited to see which cards he'd gotten, such memories... welp, I guess I'll chuck them all out and then go shave the cat."
Such tales are Legion, for they are many. I, too, have had my life blighted by this scourge of maternal malice enrobed in cluelessness wrapped in a tissue of lies. After your sobsister graduated from college, I left my hometown to attend graduate school and then begin work. A few years passed, during which I was mostly overseas. Then, once back in the States, I thought to relieve my parents of the books and things I'd left with them. I went through several closets and retrieved books, mainly paperbacks that had formed part of a collegiate corpus of Required Reading that I'd taken great pains to avoid but also some of my old favorites from high school and college days. But danged if I could find my stash of Harlan Ellison novels and anthologies.
I had been a huge Harlan Ellison fan. I had first bought his better-known collections of speculative fiction, then his books of essays, then went back and bought his early novels. It was at a science-fiction convention that I'd had the opportunity to approach the Great Man, who was accompanied by a tall and leggy brunette I utterly ignored in my bedazzlement at the Presence, and ask him, tremulously, for an autograph. He smiled, took the book I'd just bought--one of his earliest novels, bound as a two-fer with someone else's equally minor work--and whipped off the dedication, "This is a terrible book and I apologize - Harlan Ellison."
This collection of paperbacks by my once-favorite author, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is what I was seeking in the closets and boxes of my parents' apartment. After opening and peering and moving and craning, I asked my mother where my Harlan Ellison books were. With the very eyes of guilelessness, she responded that she didn't know. Hadn't you taken them? No, mater, if I had taken them, I wouldn't be rearranging family-size bags of Cheez Doodles in the upper reaches of your storage areas. Well, you must've taken them; I haven't touched them.
At this point, I began to feel much as I imagine Orestes felt before Clytemnestra or, possibly, Stewie before Lois. The berserker fury was building in my head like pitcher beer in a puny bladder. Everything before me snapped into razorsharp focus then turned deep red. I remember little of what ensued, except, I think, I was fairly peckish and dinner was ready.
I cannot explain her behavior. I cannot explain the behavior of any mother who would so despoil the treasures of her son's youth. Is it payback for leaving the maternal bosom? Is it punishment for ineffaceable stretch marks? Is it transitory menopausal dementia? Wiser minds than mine may know, and they ain't saying. All I can offer by way of conclusion is this: don't leave your good shit in your mother's care. Ever. Because maternal instinct does not extend to your possessions, and if your boxes of near-mint Golden Age comic books are blocking her access to the Swiffer, kiss your run of All Star Comics goodbye, brother.
Oh, and I'm nominating Medea.
Friday, October 31, 2008
?taerT ro kcirT, Dept.
Yeah. This is the shit.
Family fucking Circus plunges into the Coney Island whitefish-infested waters of political humor by having li'l Dolly dress as Sarah "What, Me Talent?" Palin in celebration of a repurposed pagan holiday of darkness. And Jeffy as some sort of 19th-century stage imagining of Mephistopheles, Lord of Darkness. Wait...I'm picking up a theme here...fuck, what's going on inside the house? Is Thel cutting herself while listening to The Cure? Is Bill whacking it to The Shining?
Damn, this shit is hardcore! Props to Bil "All hail Lord Satan!" Keane.
Yeah. This is the shit.
Family fucking Circus plunges into the Coney Island whitefish-infested waters of political humor by having li'l Dolly dress as Sarah "What, Me Talent?" Palin in celebration of a repurposed pagan holiday of darkness. And Jeffy as some sort of 19th-century stage imagining of Mephistopheles, Lord of Darkness. Wait...I'm picking up a theme here...fuck, what's going on inside the house? Is Thel cutting herself while listening to The Cure? Is Bill whacking it to The Shining?
Damn, this shit is hardcore! Props to Bil "All hail Lord Satan!" Keane.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Does This Orange Jumpsuit Make My Liver Spots Look Big?, Dept.
And in other news, noted irascible fuckwit, technophobe and influence whore, Sen. Ted Stevens, was found guilty by a jury of his peers. By whom, I don't mean "12 corrupt coots who think Wi-Fi is where you play your Lawrence Welk records."
Unfortunately, Teddy Boy will most likely see no jail time, and, given the mindbogglingly bad judgment of Alaskan voters, will probably be re-elected next Tuesday. But, still...the Eternal Black Mark on his long record of public service humping the porkbarrel on behalf of the Rogue State...it is, you guessed it, Schadenfreude Monday chez sobsister.
And in other news, noted irascible fuckwit, technophobe and influence whore, Sen. Ted Stevens, was found guilty by a jury of his peers. By whom, I don't mean "12 corrupt coots who think Wi-Fi is where you play your Lawrence Welk records."
Unfortunately, Teddy Boy will most likely see no jail time, and, given the mindbogglingly bad judgment of Alaskan voters, will probably be re-elected next Tuesday. But, still...the Eternal Black Mark on his long record of public service humping the porkbarrel on behalf of the Rogue State...it is, you guessed it, Schadenfreude Monday chez sobsister.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
An LCD Screen..."Lowest Common Denominator," Amirite?!?, Dept.
After the liberation of Paris, Sarge and his men are on liberty one evening, looking for the brothels of which they'd heard their doughboy fathers and uncles speak. They wander the streets and boulevards with no luck, until, finally, they enter a saloon of sorts and approach the bartender. Dumbshow and loud English both fail to communicate their need to their froggish interlocutor. Finally, frustrated beyond human endurance, Sarge drops his pants and thwacks his member onto the zinc bar. "Ah, oui, oui!", exclaims the Frenchman. "Wee-wee, my ass!", retorts Sarge, "It's the biggest one in the regiment!"
*ha ha*
Yes. I wish I could claim authorship of that gem, but it was actually delivered by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, on the occasion of the Golden Jubilee of her ascension to the throne. It's funnier with corgis.
At any rate and speaking of humor, that cruel and seductive mistress, I finally watched Sarahcuda's appearance on Saturday Night Live (available here for the time being), and I must say that, contrary to my initial impression of her as a talentless mannequin hoisted onto the national stage by cynical political paymasters on break from boning the blind underage prostitutes they shortchange with fins they claim are dubs, she is, instead, a solid candidate for her own afternoon talk show, perhaps to be carried by one of the religious channels I invariably surf past as they feature Time-Life CD sets with names like "Songs of Faith, Songs of Hope," featuring tunes with oddly defensive titles like "My Savior Lives" and "I Love My Redeemer."
I can totally see it.
It would, of course, be called "Sarah!" and would feature a live studio audience of women of all races, White and Other, in ill-fitting foundation wear poorly masked by synthetics-rich sportswear and pantsuits. Her theme would be just funky enough to not be mistaken for a hymn but not funky enough to encourage rhythmic movement while seated, lest those stretch pants rub the devil's eraser unduly. Her sidekick would be a bubbly young man, deeply closeted, to the extent that he'd have a wife and six children, all blond, named after cities in Texas. Thus, through the magical medium of television, she'd have an echo chamber in which to bray her wrongheaded notions of religion, sexuality, politics, society, media, education, science, economics and culture, and no-one would need be harmed, save the hapless members of her studio audience, who might profitably be drawn from the nation's penal population in a sort of "Dirty Dozen" program.
Next on "Sarah!": Did Jesus Ride a Dinosaur?, plus abstinence-ready fashions and three black people you'd be proud to have over for dinner!
After the liberation of Paris, Sarge and his men are on liberty one evening, looking for the brothels of which they'd heard their doughboy fathers and uncles speak. They wander the streets and boulevards with no luck, until, finally, they enter a saloon of sorts and approach the bartender. Dumbshow and loud English both fail to communicate their need to their froggish interlocutor. Finally, frustrated beyond human endurance, Sarge drops his pants and thwacks his member onto the zinc bar. "Ah, oui, oui!", exclaims the Frenchman. "Wee-wee, my ass!", retorts Sarge, "It's the biggest one in the regiment!"
*ha ha*
Yes. I wish I could claim authorship of that gem, but it was actually delivered by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, on the occasion of the Golden Jubilee of her ascension to the throne. It's funnier with corgis.
At any rate and speaking of humor, that cruel and seductive mistress, I finally watched Sarahcuda's appearance on Saturday Night Live (available here for the time being), and I must say that, contrary to my initial impression of her as a talentless mannequin hoisted onto the national stage by cynical political paymasters on break from boning the blind underage prostitutes they shortchange with fins they claim are dubs, she is, instead, a solid candidate for her own afternoon talk show, perhaps to be carried by one of the religious channels I invariably surf past as they feature Time-Life CD sets with names like "Songs of Faith, Songs of Hope," featuring tunes with oddly defensive titles like "My Savior Lives" and "I Love My Redeemer."
I can totally see it.
It would, of course, be called "Sarah!" and would feature a live studio audience of women of all races, White and Other, in ill-fitting foundation wear poorly masked by synthetics-rich sportswear and pantsuits. Her theme would be just funky enough to not be mistaken for a hymn but not funky enough to encourage rhythmic movement while seated, lest those stretch pants rub the devil's eraser unduly. Her sidekick would be a bubbly young man, deeply closeted, to the extent that he'd have a wife and six children, all blond, named after cities in Texas. Thus, through the magical medium of television, she'd have an echo chamber in which to bray her wrongheaded notions of religion, sexuality, politics, society, media, education, science, economics and culture, and no-one would need be harmed, save the hapless members of her studio audience, who might profitably be drawn from the nation's penal population in a sort of "Dirty Dozen" program.
Next on "Sarah!": Did Jesus Ride a Dinosaur?, plus abstinence-ready fashions and three black people you'd be proud to have over for dinner!
Sunday, October 19, 2008
A Rue with a View, Dept.
But not everything is about The Divine Sarah (although I do like how the Wicked Witch of the North let her Babymakin' Man, Todd, help with the governance of the WTF? State. Were I a resident of Alaska, I'd feel better knowing that the First D00d is on the case. He's won a flock of snowmobile races, don'tchaknow, yah, you betcha, and worked in the oil fields, too. Take THAT, Jill Biden, with your lah-dee-dah Doctorate of Education and your Snobby McSnobshoes breast health awareness programs.)
No, instead, I thought today I might share with you some thoughts on our recent vacation. Your sobsister spent a week in Gay Paree, a leather bar just outside Waukesha, Wisconsin...*ha ha* I'm just joshing; I am so much more into Asian twinks than leathermen...*ha ha* just joshing again; I am totally into leather, especially on long-stemmed Lithuanian supermodels who'll show me what a worm I truly am...*ha ha* the law of diminishing comedic returns is truly making its presence felt.
Seriously, though, we were in Paris for six lovely days. And following are some snapshots of, and observations on, this lovely land of the lovely–
1) do the French exile their fat people to Corsica? Devil's Island? Alabama? Because, really, the herds of the morbidly obese who galumph around Choc City and its suburban dewlaps do not find an analogue in the Big Brioche. Now, I myself ate much in the way of animal fat enrobed in rich sauces, chased by agglomerations of sugar, cream and chocolate or nuts (the "Paris-Brest" at Le Bistro Paul Bert...nomnomnom) and returned home to find I'd lost a pound-and-a-half. So, yeah, maybe French calories work in reverse. Like French tanks! *ha ha* See how I worked in that trenchant reference to Gallic failures on the field of manly combat? It's in honor of the upcoming bicentennial. 200 years since France has won a war. There's gonna be parades'n'everything.
2) now, one possible reason behind your sobsister's weight loss might've been the vigorous exercise regimen to which I subjected myself once arrived in Paris. Each day, as we walked down the street, I would aerobically whip my head right and left to catch the lovely mam'zelles in their softflesh'd trajectories, the same question trailing behind each of them: "Avez-vous des frites pour accompagner ce milk-shake?"
3) in that vein, we're walking behind a family on the Quai Anatole France: a guy, mid-40s; his little son, eight or so; and his daughter, 16 or a smidge older. The guy is Pierre Average, wearing some schlubby jacket, noticeably middle-class in tony Saint-Germain-des-Prés; the boy is a good-looking little fellow, not wearing anything particularly distinctive; and the daughter...yes, the daughter. Honey hair just below shoulder length, blue eyes, bright smile; she's dressed quite fashionably or, at least, well. Suede-ish jacket, tan miniskirt, kneehigh boots. What makes this vignette memorable in my foie gras-bleared memory is the fact that this young woman was possessed of an ass like you read about. Particularly if you're the sort of person who reads books or periodicals featuring post-pubescent heroines with asses like a) two puppies playing in a sack, b) two melons on a miniature see-saw or c) you read about. In short, she was an eye magnet. Not that your sobsister is personally into that whole Lolita/Barely Legal/Daddy's Little Hotbox continuum of sclerotica. I am merely a camera. More Brownie than Hasselblad, perhaps, with just a hint of Lomo, but there you have it. At any rate, down the street walks this happy family scene: schlubby père, playful fils, eye magnet fille. Little Pierre (which sounds like a sweet pet name for a fella's tallywhacker) is hopping up and down and running all around, just a bundle of energy. So, he starts playing with his sister. By spanking her and running away. Spanking her and running away. Spanking her and running away. She's laughing and trying to avoid him. But he always manages to land solid spanks on her ass. I turn from this spectacle to observe grown men, chainsmoking, weeping with bitter envy. The ghost of Maurice Chevalier croons, "Sank heffen foor lee-tall gurrls..." And...scene.
4) as intimated above, the women of Paris wore boots, mostly knee-high, some higher. Leather, brown or black. Or they wore Chucks a/k/a Cons née the Chuck Taylor® All-Star®, in a wide variety of colors and heights. Here's what they didn't wear: UGGs and flip-flops. Here's what else they didn't wear: baggy sweats with their alma mater's name stamped on their ass. Here's a generalization: women in upscale Paris do not allow childbirth or childrearing to interfere with their patriotic duty to look fabulous. Mom fashion dans la ville: knee-high boots, skintight jeans, snug top, leather jacket. Grandma fashion: leather pumps, leather pants, silk blouse or cashmere sweater, leather jacket, Jackie O sunglasses. Here's what I didn't see in Paris: muffintops. Even on muffins.
5) on the flight over, the Eastern European fellow to my left asked me if he could have my half-eaten salad. (And here I would normally launch into an extended diatribe about how astonishingly crap United's food is, but, instead, I'll content myself with noting that the "balsamic vinegarette" accompanying said salad was both offputtingly peppery and searingly acidic; perhaps originally intended to prime furniture or repel garden varmints but repurposed for human, or, at least, "coach passenger," consumption.) I gladly gave him my leavings, which he quickly wolfed down. Later and in the same spirit, I asked a passenger a few rows back if I could have his wife, whom he'd barely touched. His hatred of me was palpable.
6) one of my personal sightseeing highlights for the trip: the catacombs of Paris. While not recommended as an excursion for those who might have "issues" with being 100 feet underground in a seemingly interminable low, dark, narrow passageway scored by seeping water or in a labyrinth of rooms lined with the skulls and bones of six million dead Parisians, it is an enjoyable escape from the commonplace tourist scene. Plaques in each room, written in the three languages of educated man--Latin, Greek, French--offer useful advice from the Bible and the classical canon regarding one's ineluctable proximity to death. All in all, a lovely getaway for the whole family, particularly if the whole family enjoys being reminded of its mortality. Not, as I mentioned previously, for the bathophobic...and I don't mean HIPPIES! AMIRITE?!
7) the Louvre is full of many people of all descriptions. No small percentage Asian. Like, a LOT. We walked up the long staircase to the Winged Victory of Samothrace, weaving around and past large clots of humanity, ascent arrested, to hear their tour guide's energetic explanation of what those big-nosed barbarians were up to, exactly. I'd love to know, for the participants, how this all fits into their cultural and intellectual cabinet. Does everyone know the Mona Lisa and Liberty Leading the People? Is it a Big Deal to have schlepped all the way from Busan or Shanghai or Osaka to have seen it and other Old Masters? Or is it simply the Sort of Thing One Does when abroad? After leaving the museum, we stood across a narrow internal road from two Asian couples. If I had to guess: Chinese. And by "Chinese," I mean: vice-assistant manager at the No. 3 People's Melamine and Lead Paint Collective. The men were both dressed in the kind of generic gray suit that, despite pants and jacket being cut from the same cloth, still looks mismatched. The kind of suit a Zhejiang farmer wears to a court date, with the label of a brand like "Flying Dragon" still visible on the sleeve just above the wrist. The women both had dyed orange hair--and I mean, Halloween orange--permed to full curl. They were dressed in snug red wool dresses that combined with their hair color to poke onlookers in the eye. What does "Paris" as reality and concept mean to them? I would've asked them, but, after staring into that maelstrom of red and orange, it took a while for my eyesight to return.
8) you can buy things in Paris that you can't find back home. Like "Pall Mall" and "Lucky Strike" cigarette rolling tobacco. They probably also have Everclear baby formula, but I didn't see any. As a nation, we're pretty laissez-faire. Which is quite French-sounding, I know. Translated, it means that we sell things overseas whose toxicity would feed a dozen law firms for years.
9) dang, but those Frenchies make good bread!
At any rate, just a taste of your sobsister's sojourn into deepest Paris. Or at least arrondissements one through 13. With that, our whirlwind trip to the City of Lights sputters, coughs and comes to a noisy little end. As they say on the Champs Elysees, À bientôt. Which, spelled backwards, is "Natures."
But not everything is about The Divine Sarah (although I do like how the Wicked Witch of the North let her Babymakin' Man, Todd, help with the governance of the WTF? State. Were I a resident of Alaska, I'd feel better knowing that the First D00d is on the case. He's won a flock of snowmobile races, don'tchaknow, yah, you betcha, and worked in the oil fields, too. Take THAT, Jill Biden, with your lah-dee-dah Doctorate of Education and your Snobby McSnobshoes breast health awareness programs.)
No, instead, I thought today I might share with you some thoughts on our recent vacation. Your sobsister spent a week in Gay Paree, a leather bar just outside Waukesha, Wisconsin...*ha ha* I'm just joshing; I am so much more into Asian twinks than leathermen...*ha ha* just joshing again; I am totally into leather, especially on long-stemmed Lithuanian supermodels who'll show me what a worm I truly am...*ha ha* the law of diminishing comedic returns is truly making its presence felt.
Seriously, though, we were in Paris for six lovely days. And following are some snapshots of, and observations on, this lovely land of the lovely–
1) do the French exile their fat people to Corsica? Devil's Island? Alabama? Because, really, the herds of the morbidly obese who galumph around Choc City and its suburban dewlaps do not find an analogue in the Big Brioche. Now, I myself ate much in the way of animal fat enrobed in rich sauces, chased by agglomerations of sugar, cream and chocolate or nuts (the "Paris-Brest" at Le Bistro Paul Bert...nomnomnom) and returned home to find I'd lost a pound-and-a-half. So, yeah, maybe French calories work in reverse. Like French tanks! *ha ha* See how I worked in that trenchant reference to Gallic failures on the field of manly combat? It's in honor of the upcoming bicentennial. 200 years since France has won a war. There's gonna be parades'n'everything.
2) now, one possible reason behind your sobsister's weight loss might've been the vigorous exercise regimen to which I subjected myself once arrived in Paris. Each day, as we walked down the street, I would aerobically whip my head right and left to catch the lovely mam'zelles in their softflesh'd trajectories, the same question trailing behind each of them: "Avez-vous des frites pour accompagner ce milk-shake?"
3) in that vein, we're walking behind a family on the Quai Anatole France: a guy, mid-40s; his little son, eight or so; and his daughter, 16 or a smidge older. The guy is Pierre Average, wearing some schlubby jacket, noticeably middle-class in tony Saint-Germain-des-Prés; the boy is a good-looking little fellow, not wearing anything particularly distinctive; and the daughter...yes, the daughter. Honey hair just below shoulder length, blue eyes, bright smile; she's dressed quite fashionably or, at least, well. Suede-ish jacket, tan miniskirt, kneehigh boots. What makes this vignette memorable in my foie gras-bleared memory is the fact that this young woman was possessed of an ass like you read about. Particularly if you're the sort of person who reads books or periodicals featuring post-pubescent heroines with asses like a) two puppies playing in a sack, b) two melons on a miniature see-saw or c) you read about. In short, she was an eye magnet. Not that your sobsister is personally into that whole Lolita/Barely Legal/Daddy's Little Hotbox continuum of sclerotica. I am merely a camera. More Brownie than Hasselblad, perhaps, with just a hint of Lomo, but there you have it. At any rate, down the street walks this happy family scene: schlubby père, playful fils, eye magnet fille. Little Pierre (which sounds like a sweet pet name for a fella's tallywhacker) is hopping up and down and running all around, just a bundle of energy. So, he starts playing with his sister. By spanking her and running away. Spanking her and running away. Spanking her and running away. She's laughing and trying to avoid him. But he always manages to land solid spanks on her ass. I turn from this spectacle to observe grown men, chainsmoking, weeping with bitter envy. The ghost of Maurice Chevalier croons, "Sank heffen foor lee-tall gurrls..." And...scene.
4) as intimated above, the women of Paris wore boots, mostly knee-high, some higher. Leather, brown or black. Or they wore Chucks a/k/a Cons née the Chuck Taylor® All-Star®, in a wide variety of colors and heights. Here's what they didn't wear: UGGs and flip-flops. Here's what else they didn't wear: baggy sweats with their alma mater's name stamped on their ass. Here's a generalization: women in upscale Paris do not allow childbirth or childrearing to interfere with their patriotic duty to look fabulous. Mom fashion dans la ville: knee-high boots, skintight jeans, snug top, leather jacket. Grandma fashion: leather pumps, leather pants, silk blouse or cashmere sweater, leather jacket, Jackie O sunglasses. Here's what I didn't see in Paris: muffintops. Even on muffins.
5) on the flight over, the Eastern European fellow to my left asked me if he could have my half-eaten salad. (And here I would normally launch into an extended diatribe about how astonishingly crap United's food is, but, instead, I'll content myself with noting that the "balsamic vinegarette" accompanying said salad was both offputtingly peppery and searingly acidic; perhaps originally intended to prime furniture or repel garden varmints but repurposed for human, or, at least, "coach passenger," consumption.) I gladly gave him my leavings, which he quickly wolfed down. Later and in the same spirit, I asked a passenger a few rows back if I could have his wife, whom he'd barely touched. His hatred of me was palpable.
6) one of my personal sightseeing highlights for the trip: the catacombs of Paris. While not recommended as an excursion for those who might have "issues" with being 100 feet underground in a seemingly interminable low, dark, narrow passageway scored by seeping water or in a labyrinth of rooms lined with the skulls and bones of six million dead Parisians, it is an enjoyable escape from the commonplace tourist scene. Plaques in each room, written in the three languages of educated man--Latin, Greek, French--offer useful advice from the Bible and the classical canon regarding one's ineluctable proximity to death. All in all, a lovely getaway for the whole family, particularly if the whole family enjoys being reminded of its mortality. Not, as I mentioned previously, for the bathophobic...and I don't mean HIPPIES! AMIRITE?!
7) the Louvre is full of many people of all descriptions. No small percentage Asian. Like, a LOT. We walked up the long staircase to the Winged Victory of Samothrace, weaving around and past large clots of humanity, ascent arrested, to hear their tour guide's energetic explanation of what those big-nosed barbarians were up to, exactly. I'd love to know, for the participants, how this all fits into their cultural and intellectual cabinet. Does everyone know the Mona Lisa and Liberty Leading the People? Is it a Big Deal to have schlepped all the way from Busan or Shanghai or Osaka to have seen it and other Old Masters? Or is it simply the Sort of Thing One Does when abroad? After leaving the museum, we stood across a narrow internal road from two Asian couples. If I had to guess: Chinese. And by "Chinese," I mean: vice-assistant manager at the No. 3 People's Melamine and Lead Paint Collective. The men were both dressed in the kind of generic gray suit that, despite pants and jacket being cut from the same cloth, still looks mismatched. The kind of suit a Zhejiang farmer wears to a court date, with the label of a brand like "Flying Dragon" still visible on the sleeve just above the wrist. The women both had dyed orange hair--and I mean, Halloween orange--permed to full curl. They were dressed in snug red wool dresses that combined with their hair color to poke onlookers in the eye. What does "Paris" as reality and concept mean to them? I would've asked them, but, after staring into that maelstrom of red and orange, it took a while for my eyesight to return.
8) you can buy things in Paris that you can't find back home. Like "Pall Mall" and "Lucky Strike" cigarette rolling tobacco. They probably also have Everclear baby formula, but I didn't see any. As a nation, we're pretty laissez-faire. Which is quite French-sounding, I know. Translated, it means that we sell things overseas whose toxicity would feed a dozen law firms for years.
9) dang, but those Frenchies make good bread!
At any rate, just a taste of your sobsister's sojourn into deepest Paris. Or at least arrondissements one through 13. With that, our whirlwind trip to the City of Lights sputters, coughs and comes to a noisy little end. As they say on the Champs Elysees, À bientôt. Which, spelled backwards, is "Natures."
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Que Sarah, Sarah, Dept.
Your sobsister was watching the teevee just the other day, some televisual feast or another, possibly involving puppies dressed as U.S. presidents. And, just after viewing puppy Coolidge, the network cut to an ad.
In it, people were having the kind of fun one only associates with New Year's Eve, the last day of school and Heaven. All sorts of people: white, young, attractive, white. And the reason they were so rooty-toot-tootin' happy was because they were glugging down some Sunny D!
Sunny Delight, the announcer brayed, it contains five percent real juice!
And two things immediately sprang to mind. The first was: who the fuck brags about a fruit juice product that only features five percent real juice? Doesn't that immediately--and, no, I'm not going to say "beg the question"--raise the question: what comprises the other 95 percent?
Though one might default to "bull semen," one might be wrong, both because bull semen is frightfully expensive and because Sunny D's ingredients are, in fact, as follows--
Water, High Fructose Corn Syrup and 2% or Less of Each of the Following: Concentrated Juices (Orange, Tangerine, Apple, Lime, Grapefruit). Citric Acid, Ascorbic Acid (Vitamin C), Beta-Carotene, Thiamin Hydrochloride (Vitamin B1), Natural Flavors, Food Starch-Modified, Canola Oil, Cellulose Gum, Xanthan Gum, Sodium Hexametaphosphate, Sodium Benzoate To Protect Flavor, Yellow #5, Yellow #6
"Hey, Mom, can I have some more sodium hexametaphosphate?!?"
"Well, Billy, it is used in industry as a thinning agent for suspensions and slurries, such as might be used in certain ceramic techniques; as a whitening ingredient in dental hygiene products; and as a dispersing agent to break down certain soil types...so, yes, darling, pour yourself another tall, icy-cold glass!"
Upon further reflection on Sunny D, a beverage perfectly and absolutely repellent in concept and execution--why drink actual, you know, fucking juice when you can drink a micturition of water, high fructose corn syrup and less fruit than the vermouth one waves over a bone-dry martini?--I had a moment of sweet epiphany, the second of the two things that, as I mentioned way up there, sprang to mind.
Sarah Palin is the Sunny D of American politics. Sure, you see people of every description--white, bigoted, illiterate, benighted, white--having heaps and heaps of fun around her. But when you look at what comprises Sarah P, you realize that the sweetness is artificial, the substance is minimal and the balance is repurposed toxicity.
"More Sarah P., Mom, pleeez?!?"
"Billy, you little scamp! If I weren't so numb to the degrading conditions that comprise my existence, I'd brain you with this frying pan. But, more to the point, drink a case of Sarah P., my beamish boy! Maybe you, too, will grow up to be a crack'd vessel for the bile and nightblack humours of powerful men."
Your sobsister was watching the teevee just the other day, some televisual feast or another, possibly involving puppies dressed as U.S. presidents. And, just after viewing puppy Coolidge, the network cut to an ad.
In it, people were having the kind of fun one only associates with New Year's Eve, the last day of school and Heaven. All sorts of people: white, young, attractive, white. And the reason they were so rooty-toot-tootin' happy was because they were glugging down some Sunny D!
Sunny Delight, the announcer brayed, it contains five percent real juice!
And two things immediately sprang to mind. The first was: who the fuck brags about a fruit juice product that only features five percent real juice? Doesn't that immediately--and, no, I'm not going to say "beg the question"--raise the question: what comprises the other 95 percent?
Though one might default to "bull semen," one might be wrong, both because bull semen is frightfully expensive and because Sunny D's ingredients are, in fact, as follows--
Water, High Fructose Corn Syrup and 2% or Less of Each of the Following: Concentrated Juices (Orange, Tangerine, Apple, Lime, Grapefruit). Citric Acid, Ascorbic Acid (Vitamin C), Beta-Carotene, Thiamin Hydrochloride (Vitamin B1), Natural Flavors, Food Starch-Modified, Canola Oil, Cellulose Gum, Xanthan Gum, Sodium Hexametaphosphate, Sodium Benzoate To Protect Flavor, Yellow #5, Yellow #6
"Hey, Mom, can I have some more sodium hexametaphosphate?!?"
"Well, Billy, it is used in industry as a thinning agent for suspensions and slurries, such as might be used in certain ceramic techniques; as a whitening ingredient in dental hygiene products; and as a dispersing agent to break down certain soil types...so, yes, darling, pour yourself another tall, icy-cold glass!"
Upon further reflection on Sunny D, a beverage perfectly and absolutely repellent in concept and execution--why drink actual, you know, fucking juice when you can drink a micturition of water, high fructose corn syrup and less fruit than the vermouth one waves over a bone-dry martini?--I had a moment of sweet epiphany, the second of the two things that, as I mentioned way up there, sprang to mind.
Sarah Palin is the Sunny D of American politics. Sure, you see people of every description--white, bigoted, illiterate, benighted, white--having heaps and heaps of fun around her. But when you look at what comprises Sarah P, you realize that the sweetness is artificial, the substance is minimal and the balance is repurposed toxicity.
"More Sarah P., Mom, pleeez?!?"
"Billy, you little scamp! If I weren't so numb to the degrading conditions that comprise my existence, I'd brain you with this frying pan. But, more to the point, drink a case of Sarah P., my beamish boy! Maybe you, too, will grow up to be a crack'd vessel for the bile and nightblack humours of powerful men."
Saturday, October 04, 2008
From the page:
"NEED SARAH PALIN LOOKALIKE ASAP FOR ADULT FILM (LA)
Looking for a Sarah Palin lookalike for an adult film to be shot in next 10 days.
Major adult studio.
Please send pix, stats etc. ASAP
Pay: $2000-3000
No anal required"
Boy...I bet Sarah P. wishes she'd seen this advert before she took her current gig, which makes her do book-larnin' and thinkin' and stuff. And the très ironique bitch of it is: her current gig does require anal! Who'da thunk, right?
What the ad doesn't mention, however, is that this film will also feature adult cinema legend Lexington Steele in the role of "Barack Oh-Bang'er."
Baked Alaska!, coming soon to your local stroke emporium.
"NEED SARAH PALIN LOOKALIKE ASAP FOR ADULT FILM (LA)
Looking for a Sarah Palin lookalike for an adult film to be shot in next 10 days.
Major adult studio.
Please send pix, stats etc. ASAP
Pay: $2000-3000
No anal required"
Boy...I bet Sarah P. wishes she'd seen this advert before she took her current gig, which makes her do book-larnin' and thinkin' and stuff. And the très ironique bitch of it is: her current gig does require anal! Who'da thunk, right?
What the ad doesn't mention, however, is that this film will also feature adult cinema legend Lexington Steele in the role of "Barack Oh-Bang'er."
Baked Alaska!, coming soon to your local stroke emporium.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Palin, Garbage Out, Dept.
Y'know, I haven't posted in a little bit. A cold and work and a bunch of other petty shit about which I could tug on your coattails ad infifuckingnitum. But I just wanted to say one li'l thing this cool Wednesday evening.
My incredulity in any viability at all of a vice-presidential bid by a person whose apparent qualifications for the post consist of a clear day's view of a U.S. rival, a working uterus and a belief system that involves rolling your eyes up into your head while babbling warga-warga in a church pew, beggars description, people. You might as well have tried to convince me two months ago that John McCain was going to select a half-eaten Domino's pizza for his running mate. Or a ball-peen hammer. Or the word "marzipan."
She's not a MILF. She's not a GILF. I can't imagine that anyone could even tolerate sharing an elevator for five flights with this nasal, ignorant harpy, much less convening sexual congress.
I'm starting my novena tonight. I'm asking God to let the National Enquirer find out exactly where the bodies are buried in Wasilla. I was going to ask that the upcoming Spirit movie not suck, but I'm sacrificing on everyone's behalf.
Thank you for your time and attention. In the saccharine phrase with which Red Skelton rotted my baby teeth, "Good night and may Gawd bless."
.
.
.
.
Oh, oh, wait! I have a joke. I have a joke. Listen, here it is:
What's the difference between the Panama Canal and Sarah Palin?
One's an international waterway and the other's a dizzy bitch.
*ha ha!* Oh, laughter is the best medicine, isn't it?
Except for herpes. You can laugh your ass off, that shit ain't going away.
.
.
.
.
Oh wait, wait! I remembered my other joke! I did! Listen, listen:
What's the difference between the Panama Canal and Sarah Palin?
One's a busy ditch and the other's an overreaching opportunist with little or no education, little or no culture, little or no sense, little or no experience and few or no scruples.
*ha ha!* It's all in the delivery, y'know? That half beat between "experience" and "and." It makes or breaks the fucking thing.
My name is the sobsister and I approved this message.
Y'know, I haven't posted in a little bit. A cold and work and a bunch of other petty shit about which I could tug on your coattails ad infifuckingnitum. But I just wanted to say one li'l thing this cool Wednesday evening.
My incredulity in any viability at all of a vice-presidential bid by a person whose apparent qualifications for the post consist of a clear day's view of a U.S. rival, a working uterus and a belief system that involves rolling your eyes up into your head while babbling warga-warga in a church pew, beggars description, people. You might as well have tried to convince me two months ago that John McCain was going to select a half-eaten Domino's pizza for his running mate. Or a ball-peen hammer. Or the word "marzipan."
She's not a MILF. She's not a GILF. I can't imagine that anyone could even tolerate sharing an elevator for five flights with this nasal, ignorant harpy, much less convening sexual congress.
I'm starting my novena tonight. I'm asking God to let the National Enquirer find out exactly where the bodies are buried in Wasilla. I was going to ask that the upcoming Spirit movie not suck, but I'm sacrificing on everyone's behalf.
Thank you for your time and attention. In the saccharine phrase with which Red Skelton rotted my baby teeth, "Good night and may Gawd bless."
.
.
.
.
Oh, oh, wait! I have a joke. I have a joke. Listen, here it is:
What's the difference between the Panama Canal and Sarah Palin?
One's an international waterway and the other's a dizzy bitch.
*ha ha!* Oh, laughter is the best medicine, isn't it?
Except for herpes. You can laugh your ass off, that shit ain't going away.
.
.
.
.
Oh wait, wait! I remembered my other joke! I did! Listen, listen:
What's the difference between the Panama Canal and Sarah Palin?
One's a busy ditch and the other's an overreaching opportunist with little or no education, little or no culture, little or no sense, little or no experience and few or no scruples.
*ha ha!* It's all in the delivery, y'know? That half beat between "experience" and "and." It makes or breaks the fucking thing.
My name is the sobsister and I approved this message.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Ted Mack's Original Amateur Hour, Dept.
On tonight's episode of Love That Sarah!
-But, Mom, Jamie Lynn Spears and those 17 girls in Gloucester, Mass., they all got pregnant before they were old enough to vote!
-Young lady, if your friends all jumped off the Bridge to Nowhere, would you jump too?
-Oh, Mommmm...!!
(raucous audience laughter and applause)
Yeah.
A short burst of thought on this Bible-bothering, backwater bluenose.
If, at one of the most critical junctures in our nation's history, the Republican Party views the American political system and the future of our way of life with enough bilious contempt that it nominates for our country's second-highest position of power, just behind a 72-year-old man with one foot in the grave and the other on a can of WD-40, a malicious smalltown busybody whose opportunism and ambition swamp the natural modesty that would cause anyone short of an attention whore in six-inch platforms, a fuchsia tube top and fishnets to demur when offered a position for which they are manifestly unqualified by even the most generous measure, and whose qualifications for national service would be trumped by those of the humblest junior-year political science major enjoying a boozy year abroad, all I can say is that the entirety of that party's leadership should be pilloried, caned and hot-iron branded as traitors to absolutely everything for which this country has ever purported to stand.
If I thought the eight benighted, bemerded and bedamned years of the Idiot Bush's administration were a blight on the American dream, the nomination of Doddering Gaffer and Eve Harrington in mukluks is the GOP skullfucking the Statue of Liberty.
On tonight's episode of Love That Sarah!
-But, Mom, Jamie Lynn Spears and those 17 girls in Gloucester, Mass., they all got pregnant before they were old enough to vote!
-Young lady, if your friends all jumped off the Bridge to Nowhere, would you jump too?
-Oh, Mommmm...!!
(raucous audience laughter and applause)
Yeah.
A short burst of thought on this Bible-bothering, backwater bluenose.
If, at one of the most critical junctures in our nation's history, the Republican Party views the American political system and the future of our way of life with enough bilious contempt that it nominates for our country's second-highest position of power, just behind a 72-year-old man with one foot in the grave and the other on a can of WD-40, a malicious smalltown busybody whose opportunism and ambition swamp the natural modesty that would cause anyone short of an attention whore in six-inch platforms, a fuchsia tube top and fishnets to demur when offered a position for which they are manifestly unqualified by even the most generous measure, and whose qualifications for national service would be trumped by those of the humblest junior-year political science major enjoying a boozy year abroad, all I can say is that the entirety of that party's leadership should be pilloried, caned and hot-iron branded as traitors to absolutely everything for which this country has ever purported to stand.
If I thought the eight benighted, bemerded and bedamned years of the Idiot Bush's administration were a blight on the American dream, the nomination of Doddering Gaffer and Eve Harrington in mukluks is the GOP skullfucking the Statue of Liberty.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
The Cream of the Glass Teat, Dept.
Okay, there're only two reasons why you haven't been watching the premiere season of The Middleman.
You either a) do not have cable television in your home, or b) you hate puppies and the Baby Jesus.
Because any show that features a cute, deadpan, Latina smartgirl like Natalie Morales, a Dudley Do-Right dead-on classic like Matt Keeslar and jokes that riff on, say, Gene Colan's run on Tomb of Dracula and Stan Sakai's rabbit ronin Usagi Yojimbo is playing to the band BIGfuckingtime.
I came in halfway through the season, and me likee bookoo.
So, watch it.
Because every time you do, an angel gets HBO.
Okay, there're only two reasons why you haven't been watching the premiere season of The Middleman.
You either a) do not have cable television in your home, or b) you hate puppies and the Baby Jesus.
Because any show that features a cute, deadpan, Latina smartgirl like Natalie Morales, a Dudley Do-Right dead-on classic like Matt Keeslar and jokes that riff on, say, Gene Colan's run on Tomb of Dracula and Stan Sakai's rabbit ronin Usagi Yojimbo is playing to the band BIGfuckingtime.
I came in halfway through the season, and me likee bookoo.
So, watch it.
Because every time you do, an angel gets HBO.
The Snowman Goeth, Dept.
Well, the Good Lord gathered unto Hisself one of our nation's fine'n'funky pickers. Jerry Reed passed on August 31.
Now, somewhere in Sobsister Manor, there is a box. A record box, like you used to use to keep all your bestest and most favoreet 45s. And inside this box that has defied my every motherfrackin' effort to find it are a number of classic bits of vinyl. Nestled there, maybe cheek by jowl with "Rain Dance" and "Mr. Big Stuff" and other klassic kuts, is "Amos Moses," as fonky a slab of Southern fatback as you could ever hope to find.
Now, I didn't know Mr. Jerry Reed from his movies like Smokey and the Bandit or Hot Stuff or High Ballin', films that I know have won a warm spot in the collective heart of those who enjoy seeing the humiliation of stupid sheriffs and the unassisted flight of 18-wheelers and the like. But this one plateful of chicken-pickin' heaven alone etched Mr. Reed indelibly into my brainbox.
So, now, direct from deepest, darkest nineteen-hundred and seventy-one, Amos Moses.
I double-dog dare you not to bobblehead to this one.
Well, the Good Lord gathered unto Hisself one of our nation's fine'n'funky pickers. Jerry Reed passed on August 31.
Now, somewhere in Sobsister Manor, there is a box. A record box, like you used to use to keep all your bestest and most favoreet 45s. And inside this box that has defied my every motherfrackin' effort to find it are a number of classic bits of vinyl. Nestled there, maybe cheek by jowl with "Rain Dance" and "Mr. Big Stuff" and other klassic kuts, is "Amos Moses," as fonky a slab of Southern fatback as you could ever hope to find.
Now, I didn't know Mr. Jerry Reed from his movies like Smokey and the Bandit or Hot Stuff or High Ballin', films that I know have won a warm spot in the collective heart of those who enjoy seeing the humiliation of stupid sheriffs and the unassisted flight of 18-wheelers and the like. But this one plateful of chicken-pickin' heaven alone etched Mr. Reed indelibly into my brainbox.
So, now, direct from deepest, darkest nineteen-hundred and seventy-one, Amos Moses.
I double-dog dare you not to bobblehead to this one.
Dick's Picks, Dept.
Y'know, your sobsister doesn't post the pink. Nothing against them as does, but the children, you know, are our future, and I hate to think that little Johnny and Janie's introduction to the sacred and guilt-inducing act would be my posting of a bukkake glue-fest.
That said, I offer this in the spirit of something in the prurient vein (from L. prurire via pres. part. pruriens, "to itch," as in the one you cannot scratch because Jessica Alba not only is never going to answer your letters, but she wouldn't fuck you if it came down to the two of you repopulating a devasted Earth) for y'all to enjoy.
The animated story of Eveready Horton (aka "Eveready Harton" or "Eveready Hardon"), a fellow with rather a long, you know, thing, and the misadventures into which his concupiscence leads him.
Perhaps the first "blue" cartoon, it is close kin to the "Tijuana bibles" that were seeing their Golden Age just around that time. For the uninitiated, Tijuana bibles were crudely drawn pornographic comic books, usually eight pages long, which featured celebrities, both real and fictional, fucking and sucking in ways more usually depicted in Japanese shunga than in Hollywood fodder.
No, don't thank me. Your sweaty-palmed happiness is thanks enough.
Y'know, your sobsister doesn't post the pink. Nothing against them as does, but the children, you know, are our future, and I hate to think that little Johnny and Janie's introduction to the sacred and guilt-inducing act would be my posting of a bukkake glue-fest.
That said, I offer this in the spirit of something in the prurient vein (from L. prurire via pres. part. pruriens, "to itch," as in the one you cannot scratch because Jessica Alba not only is never going to answer your letters, but she wouldn't fuck you if it came down to the two of you repopulating a devasted Earth) for y'all to enjoy.
The animated story of Eveready Horton (aka "Eveready Harton" or "Eveready Hardon"), a fellow with rather a long, you know, thing, and the misadventures into which his concupiscence leads him.
Perhaps the first "blue" cartoon, it is close kin to the "Tijuana bibles" that were seeing their Golden Age just around that time. For the uninitiated, Tijuana bibles were crudely drawn pornographic comic books, usually eight pages long, which featured celebrities, both real and fictional, fucking and sucking in ways more usually depicted in Japanese shunga than in Hollywood fodder.
No, don't thank me. Your sweaty-palmed happiness is thanks enough.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Mama Don't Preach, Dept.
Gol-DINGUS! If this ain't the most humoresk campaign season in many a moon, I'll salt a possum and eat it!
So, Bristol Palin, daughter of GOP Veep-wannabe Sarah and her half-man/half-wolf Inuit shaman superhero husband, is, umm, how you say...enceinte? Yes? She took ze weewee of ze boy in her woowoo and now ze baby, he grows big in her 17-year-old belly.
Man oh Manischewitz! Some might look at this turn of events as li'l Bristol squattin' over Mama's punch bowl at the Sunday social and gruntin' out a big ol' turd right into the dipper. Ah, but not the Unsinkable Sarah P. Quoth she:
"Our beautiful daughter Bristol came to us with news that as parents we knew would make her grow up faster than we had ever planned."
Talk about taking lemons and making a horribly astringent lemon-scented douche out of them! I mean, sure, something like, say...college, just to pluck an example out of thin air, might have made li'l Bristol grow up faster than they'd planned. But, fuck, why bother with book larnin' when you can just do what comes natural? I can only imagine Gov. Palin's rose-colored view of shitstorms could be pretty darn handy should she ascend to national service. "Well, yes, that reactor meltdown did kill millions...but parking downtown is now a breeze! Tee hee." But, yeah, "Our beautiful daughter..." Sweet, right? Translated with the Sobsister Alethiometer, it reads, "Jesus Hashimoto Christ on a crumpet, young lady! You are grounded with no texting and no VeggieTales until the Rapture!!"
So, yeah. Li'l Bristol preggers at 17. She will, of course, marry her baby daddy, 'cause if abstinence-only education has taught us anything, besides the worthlessness of abstinence-only education, it's that two wrongs most definitely make a right. Poor, dumb bastid. He could've just gone for the b.j., but, nooo, he had to get all ambitious an' whatnot...
I bet Hill'n'Bill are soooo glad they welded Chelsea's knees shut when she turned 12.
Gol-DINGUS! If this ain't the most humoresk campaign season in many a moon, I'll salt a possum and eat it!
So, Bristol Palin, daughter of GOP Veep-wannabe Sarah and her half-man/half-wolf Inuit shaman superhero husband, is, umm, how you say...enceinte? Yes? She took ze weewee of ze boy in her woowoo and now ze baby, he grows big in her 17-year-old belly.
Man oh Manischewitz! Some might look at this turn of events as li'l Bristol squattin' over Mama's punch bowl at the Sunday social and gruntin' out a big ol' turd right into the dipper. Ah, but not the Unsinkable Sarah P. Quoth she:
"Our beautiful daughter Bristol came to us with news that as parents we knew would make her grow up faster than we had ever planned."
Talk about taking lemons and making a horribly astringent lemon-scented douche out of them! I mean, sure, something like, say...college, just to pluck an example out of thin air, might have made li'l Bristol grow up faster than they'd planned. But, fuck, why bother with book larnin' when you can just do what comes natural? I can only imagine Gov. Palin's rose-colored view of shitstorms could be pretty darn handy should she ascend to national service. "Well, yes, that reactor meltdown did kill millions...but parking downtown is now a breeze! Tee hee." But, yeah, "Our beautiful daughter..." Sweet, right? Translated with the Sobsister Alethiometer, it reads, "Jesus Hashimoto Christ on a crumpet, young lady! You are grounded with no texting and no VeggieTales until the Rapture!!"
So, yeah. Li'l Bristol preggers at 17. She will, of course, marry her baby daddy, 'cause if abstinence-only education has taught us anything, besides the worthlessness of abstinence-only education, it's that two wrongs most definitely make a right. Poor, dumb bastid. He could've just gone for the b.j., but, nooo, he had to get all ambitious an' whatnot...
I bet Hill'n'Bill are soooo glad they welded Chelsea's knees shut when she turned 12.
Friday, August 29, 2008
That GILF!, Dept.
Yeah, she's a pro-life beauty queen who hunts and supports the teaching of creationism.
It's like Karl Rove found a bottle on the shore, rubbed it and out she wiggled with a ruby in her navel.
Well, maybe not. But somewhere in there, the story involves Karl Rove rubbing it.
I wish Jack Kirby were alive. He could totally draw...the Anti-Hillary!!!!
Yeah, she's a pro-life beauty queen who hunts and supports the teaching of creationism.
It's like Karl Rove found a bottle on the shore, rubbed it and out she wiggled with a ruby in her navel.
Well, maybe not. But somewhere in there, the story involves Karl Rove rubbing it.
I wish Jack Kirby were alive. He could totally draw...the Anti-Hillary!!!!
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Look at me, I'm Cassandra Dee, Dept.
My powers of mystic prognostication have manifested themselves in a way that even I, with my powers of mystic prognostication, could not have predicted.
On August 9, I posited–and you'll have to take my word on this–that the only way London would be able to follow Beijing's budget-shattering, quasi-Biblical opening ceremonies extravaganza would be to have, in 2012, Led Zeppelin parachute into Wembley while playing.
August 24, the closing ceremonies at the "Bird's Nest" stadium in Beijing. Jimmy Page of, yes, of course, Led Zeppelin launches into "Whola Lotta Love," with Leona Lewis on vocals.
Watch this space, as I'll be revealing the Powerball numbers in advance of Wednesday's drawing.
My powers of mystic prognostication have manifested themselves in a way that even I, with my powers of mystic prognostication, could not have predicted.
On August 9, I posited–and you'll have to take my word on this–that the only way London would be able to follow Beijing's budget-shattering, quasi-Biblical opening ceremonies extravaganza would be to have, in 2012, Led Zeppelin parachute into Wembley while playing.
August 24, the closing ceremonies at the "Bird's Nest" stadium in Beijing. Jimmy Page of, yes, of course, Led Zeppelin launches into "Whola Lotta Love," with Leona Lewis on vocals.
Watch this space, as I'll be revealing the Powerball numbers in advance of Wednesday's drawing.
The Erotics of Flying Hoops, Dept.
As the Olympics of Compassionate Totalitarianism wind down, a few thoughts on viewing the rhythmic gymnastics team finals this afternoon (I missed the individual event finals last night, darn it to heck, because NBC decided to show the fucking marathon or some shit. Yeah, go Eritrea! Or Kenya. Or Ethiopia. Or whichever country breeds champion long-distance runners by maintaining a political, social and economic environment of such shitastic dimensions that citizens are required to run 26.2 miles each day to obtain potable water.).
At any rate, five lovelies each from a flock of countries where cars are built with lawnmower engines and a wad of bubblewrap substitutes for an airbag. And Italy. Where cars are built with lawnmower engines and the smokin' hot raggaza on your lap substitutes for an airbag.
Two rounds, they showed. The first involved what appeared to be jump ropes; the second hoops and Indian clubs. At first, I was disappointed that I'd missed the individual finals, which, as I've previously noted, involve women--and, yes, actual women compete, versus the barely pubescent children in "regular", big-Wheaties-money gymnastics--performing floor exercises that borrow as much from the Ars Amatoria as from any bible of tumbling passes. But, as the performances unfurled, particularly that of the Russian team, I was frackin' amazed at the timing, skill and agility of these teams.
One woman throws four clubs with one hand and has them land spot on four different receivers.
One woman throws a hoop and three women extend a leg apiece to snag it like a brass ring off a carousel.
Two hoops go twenty, thirty feet in the air, then land to bounce off the back or foot or whatever of two women only to go flying exactly into the hands of two of their colleagues.
Not a single major mistake, absolutely amazing given the amount of shit flying up, down and across. Why they insist on showing children mincing through cutesy-poo floor routines when they could be airing this in primetime, I'm sure I cannot say. But rhythmic gymnastics rule school.
The Rooskies won gold, btw, totally deservedly so. Their routine was complex and artistic. The host country won silver, despite a minor fuckup. Belarus won silver. And the lovely ladies of Italia, despite their fetching neo-togas and excellent, excellent performances, wuz totally robbed by the Chinese.
I shall presently be starting a petition to get rhythmic gymnastics the primetime coverage it so richly deserves at the 2012 London Games. I invite you to sign it.
As the Olympics of Compassionate Totalitarianism wind down, a few thoughts on viewing the rhythmic gymnastics team finals this afternoon (I missed the individual event finals last night, darn it to heck, because NBC decided to show the fucking marathon or some shit. Yeah, go Eritrea! Or Kenya. Or Ethiopia. Or whichever country breeds champion long-distance runners by maintaining a political, social and economic environment of such shitastic dimensions that citizens are required to run 26.2 miles each day to obtain potable water.).
At any rate, five lovelies each from a flock of countries where cars are built with lawnmower engines and a wad of bubblewrap substitutes for an airbag. And Italy. Where cars are built with lawnmower engines and the smokin' hot raggaza on your lap substitutes for an airbag.
Two rounds, they showed. The first involved what appeared to be jump ropes; the second hoops and Indian clubs. At first, I was disappointed that I'd missed the individual finals, which, as I've previously noted, involve women--and, yes, actual women compete, versus the barely pubescent children in "regular", big-Wheaties-money gymnastics--performing floor exercises that borrow as much from the Ars Amatoria as from any bible of tumbling passes. But, as the performances unfurled, particularly that of the Russian team, I was frackin' amazed at the timing, skill and agility of these teams.
One woman throws four clubs with one hand and has them land spot on four different receivers.
One woman throws a hoop and three women extend a leg apiece to snag it like a brass ring off a carousel.
Two hoops go twenty, thirty feet in the air, then land to bounce off the back or foot or whatever of two women only to go flying exactly into the hands of two of their colleagues.
Not a single major mistake, absolutely amazing given the amount of shit flying up, down and across. Why they insist on showing children mincing through cutesy-poo floor routines when they could be airing this in primetime, I'm sure I cannot say. But rhythmic gymnastics rule school.
The Rooskies won gold, btw, totally deservedly so. Their routine was complex and artistic. The host country won silver, despite a minor fuckup. Belarus won silver. And the lovely ladies of Italia, despite their fetching neo-togas and excellent, excellent performances, wuz totally robbed by the Chinese.
I shall presently be starting a petition to get rhythmic gymnastics the primetime coverage it so richly deserves at the 2012 London Games. I invite you to sign it.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Follow the Bouncing Ball, Dept.
Right, so we flick on the televisual apparatus on Monday 'cause we're shakin' with Olympic Fever™. Oh, and there's women's beach volleyball. Kerri Walsh and Misty May. We're told they're major players on the gridiron or in the sandbox or however sports scribes characterize the field of bikini-bound battle. Sure enough, they're kicking some lesser nation-state's ass. Okay. Interesting enough.
We flick on the apparatus on Tuesday and...oh, there's women's beach volleyball again. Misty and Kerri. They're in the middle of some major win streak. They're apparently the '92 Chicago Bulls-meets-the-'45 Château Haut-Brion of volleyball, except with firmer tannins, leaner mouthfeel and zero black people. So, yeah, they're still playing and still winning on the teevee.
Come Wednesday and...hoppla! it's beach volleyball bingo! Now it's a couple of dudes. They're winning too.
Thursday, hey, it's Mistyvision, now with Kerriophonic sound!
Friday, indoor men's volleyball!
Ummm...I don't want to piss in anyone's punchbowl but what the fuck, amigos? I mean, I totally get that U.S. women's beach volleyball combines two of our nation's defining themes, i.e., scantily clad women and crushing sports superiority, but aren't there, like, other, less-Tom-Hanks-evocative events we could be viewing?
For example, whatever happened to the most erotic of all Olympic events: rhythmic gymnastics (and please dial down the astonishingly crap soundtrack on the linked clip and substitute something like Prince's Gett Off)? I mean, can anything top a sport that instantly conjures up the Expert chapters of the Kama Sutra? Short answer: no. Longer answer: move over, chump, you're blocking my view of that lithe, gorgeous woman who can touch the tips of her toes to her chin. From behind.
I mean, mad props to Kerri and Misty (possibly also to Brandi, Kaylee, Shauntay and all the girls down at the Hard Knight's Day Gentlemen's Club) but I have needs, you know? And among them is the need to see something other than beach/indoor/underwater/freefall/transwarp volleyball every time I turn on my furshlugginer television.
But, in our Syllogism of the Day:
i) you can't argue with success and bikinis
ii) Kerri/Misty are undeniably successful, ergo
iii) Olympic Fever™: Go Pound Sand, America!
QED.
Right, so we flick on the televisual apparatus on Monday 'cause we're shakin' with Olympic Fever™. Oh, and there's women's beach volleyball. Kerri Walsh and Misty May. We're told they're major players on the gridiron or in the sandbox or however sports scribes characterize the field of bikini-bound battle. Sure enough, they're kicking some lesser nation-state's ass. Okay. Interesting enough.
We flick on the apparatus on Tuesday and...oh, there's women's beach volleyball again. Misty and Kerri. They're in the middle of some major win streak. They're apparently the '92 Chicago Bulls-meets-the-'45 Château Haut-Brion of volleyball, except with firmer tannins, leaner mouthfeel and zero black people. So, yeah, they're still playing and still winning on the teevee.
Come Wednesday and...hoppla! it's beach volleyball bingo! Now it's a couple of dudes. They're winning too.
Thursday, hey, it's Mistyvision, now with Kerriophonic sound!
Friday, indoor men's volleyball!
Ummm...I don't want to piss in anyone's punchbowl but what the fuck, amigos? I mean, I totally get that U.S. women's beach volleyball combines two of our nation's defining themes, i.e., scantily clad women and crushing sports superiority, but aren't there, like, other, less-Tom-Hanks-evocative events we could be viewing?
For example, whatever happened to the most erotic of all Olympic events: rhythmic gymnastics (and please dial down the astonishingly crap soundtrack on the linked clip and substitute something like Prince's Gett Off)? I mean, can anything top a sport that instantly conjures up the Expert chapters of the Kama Sutra? Short answer: no. Longer answer: move over, chump, you're blocking my view of that lithe, gorgeous woman who can touch the tips of her toes to her chin. From behind.
I mean, mad props to Kerri and Misty (possibly also to Brandi, Kaylee, Shauntay and all the girls down at the Hard Knight's Day Gentlemen's Club) but I have needs, you know? And among them is the need to see something other than beach/indoor/underwater/freefall/transwarp volleyball every time I turn on my furshlugginer television.
But, in our Syllogism of the Day:
i) you can't argue with success and bikinis
ii) Kerri/Misty are undeniably successful, ergo
iii) Olympic Fever™: Go Pound Sand, America!
QED.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Penis Envoy, Dept.
Ummm...what the fuck, John Edwards? I mean, Bubba Clinton I understand; Jesse Jackson I understand; Christ, Strom Thurmond I understand. But I actually thought Edwards and his wife were bulletproof in the scandalous adultery department.
Was I not on distro for the memo? You know...the one that said political office is carte blanche to bang any/everything with a pulse and a perm? I mean, I have not walked a mile in John Edwards' shoes, so who am I to judge...BUT I'm kind of an asshole, so I will. "Rielle Hunter" née Lisa Druck--and I'm sure that reinvention is a tale worth hearing over a saucy Chardonnay or twelve--may be a fascinating conversationalist or a conversant fellatrix, I don't know. But godDAMN, motherfucker, why exactly would you be slipping the salam' to some bim just around the time, you know, YOU'RE RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT?!? Did he figure, "eh, between the black dude and the hag, who's gonna notice me porking off the reservation?" And "Rielle" (apparently pronounced "Riley" for no discernible reason; might as well pronounce it "Throat Warbler Mangrove") apparently has quite the backstory. From what I understand, she ended up in Jay McInerney's crowd in the mid-'80s. She apparently "intrigued and appalled" the novelist. And she apparently was no stranger to Hoovering up piles of inspiration off saliva-sticky mirrors.
So, yeah.
Go Johnny go!
That better've been some mad pussy you got, given that it's put paid to your political career.
My favorite part of the story? "Rielle" bears a child out of wedlock in February 2008. Everyone thinks Big John is the paterfamilias. Nuh-uh, Crimestoppers! It's apparently/supposedly/reportedly some other dude who worked for the Edwards campaign!!
Shit, tit and caramba! That must've been one block-rockin' campaign bus. What'd, they pass "Rielle" around like a blunt?
Ah, Johnny, we hardly knew ye. But, damn, motherfucker, what we did know of ye did not prepare me for this shit.
Ummm...what the fuck, John Edwards? I mean, Bubba Clinton I understand; Jesse Jackson I understand; Christ, Strom Thurmond I understand. But I actually thought Edwards and his wife were bulletproof in the scandalous adultery department.
Was I not on distro for the memo? You know...the one that said political office is carte blanche to bang any/everything with a pulse and a perm? I mean, I have not walked a mile in John Edwards' shoes, so who am I to judge...BUT I'm kind of an asshole, so I will. "Rielle Hunter" née Lisa Druck--and I'm sure that reinvention is a tale worth hearing over a saucy Chardonnay or twelve--may be a fascinating conversationalist or a conversant fellatrix, I don't know. But godDAMN, motherfucker, why exactly would you be slipping the salam' to some bim just around the time, you know, YOU'RE RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT?!? Did he figure, "eh, between the black dude and the hag, who's gonna notice me porking off the reservation?" And "Rielle" (apparently pronounced "Riley" for no discernible reason; might as well pronounce it "Throat Warbler Mangrove") apparently has quite the backstory. From what I understand, she ended up in Jay McInerney's crowd in the mid-'80s. She apparently "intrigued and appalled" the novelist. And she apparently was no stranger to Hoovering up piles of inspiration off saliva-sticky mirrors.
So, yeah.
Go Johnny go!
That better've been some mad pussy you got, given that it's put paid to your political career.
My favorite part of the story? "Rielle" bears a child out of wedlock in February 2008. Everyone thinks Big John is the paterfamilias. Nuh-uh, Crimestoppers! It's apparently/supposedly/reportedly some other dude who worked for the Edwards campaign!!
Shit, tit and caramba! That must've been one block-rockin' campaign bus. What'd, they pass "Rielle" around like a blunt?
Ah, Johnny, we hardly knew ye. But, damn, motherfucker, what we did know of ye did not prepare me for this shit.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Only the Good Die Young, Dept.
And now I managed to miss the entire month of June. Linear time, what up?
But I break my blogfast with truly important news: Senator Jesse Helms kicked the Whites-Only bucket yesterday at age 86.
Now, on the one hand, some may say that he was a venomous bigot, a homophobe, a cretinous conservative ideologue, a rabidly censorious know-nothing, a smarmy, frogfaced mudslinger and rabble rouser who ran polarizing campaigns designed to pit citizen against citizen, a racist, reactionary fossil with little culture, class or compassion.
On the other hand, he's now facing an eternity of black, gays and artists kicking him in the junk on a daily basis.
So, slap one in the "win" column, America!
And in a footnote from the ever-principled conservative movement, the multiply defeated Constitutional Marriage Amendment resolution has been reintroduced by, among others, Sens. David "Big Bad John" Vitter and Larry "Love/Hate Relationship with Cock" Craig.
My irony meter having blown a fuse at the news, I leave this item for the comment of others.
And now I managed to miss the entire month of June. Linear time, what up?
But I break my blogfast with truly important news: Senator Jesse Helms kicked the Whites-Only bucket yesterday at age 86.
Now, on the one hand, some may say that he was a venomous bigot, a homophobe, a cretinous conservative ideologue, a rabidly censorious know-nothing, a smarmy, frogfaced mudslinger and rabble rouser who ran polarizing campaigns designed to pit citizen against citizen, a racist, reactionary fossil with little culture, class or compassion.
On the other hand, he's now facing an eternity of black, gays and artists kicking him in the junk on a daily basis.
So, slap one in the "win" column, America!
And in a footnote from the ever-principled conservative movement, the multiply defeated Constitutional Marriage Amendment resolution has been reintroduced by, among others, Sens. David "Big Bad John" Vitter and Larry "Love/Hate Relationship with Cock" Craig.
My irony meter having blown a fuse at the news, I leave this item for the comment of others.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Make-Up Sex, Dept.
Okay, so I managed to miss the entire frackin' month of April. And we're a good bit into May already. Fine. Sue me, sue me, what can you do me, I love you. No, wait, that's Nathan Detroit from Guys and Dolls.
At any rate, just to rekindle the romance, here's a short story:
I'm sitting in front of the teevee watching the Discovery Channel. Now, I never watch the DC usually because I only have a limited attention span for fish that eat humans or insects that eat fish or whatever, but that notwithstanding, there I was, watching the DC. Some dude was talking about how difficult it would be to survive in the Everglades if one had to walk across it. Which had, you know, never occurred to me. Possibly because of its retina-searing obviousness. So, roll footage of dude standing in the middle of identical-looking-in-every-direction expanse, dude examining body of water for 'gators, dude walking with large stick held before him to fool short-bus snakes. Then, drama! dude bounds ahead of the camera! Has he found the Lost Treasure of Ponce de León?! No. But he has found the Cutest Little Tree Frog Evar™! The little tree frog sits in dude's hand as dude gives us mission-critical info. Apparently, we're told, if one is to walk across the Everglades, one really needs protein to maintain one's strength, yadda yadda, nature talk nature talk, and he pops the cute li'l tree frog into his mouth, chews him briskly and swallows him. In high-def.
...
WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK, MOTHERFUCKER?!?!
I was hating you for being a clueless twunt stupid enough to even think about walking across the fucking Everglades, and now you go and cap your exhibition of twuntishness by eating--alive, let me remind you--the cutest thing on the screen since I started watching your fucking show?!
I've channel-blocked Discovery.
At least until I hear that a Kodiak bear mistook this shitwit for a blow-up fucky doll.
Okay, so I managed to miss the entire frackin' month of April. And we're a good bit into May already. Fine. Sue me, sue me, what can you do me, I love you. No, wait, that's Nathan Detroit from Guys and Dolls.
At any rate, just to rekindle the romance, here's a short story:
I'm sitting in front of the teevee watching the Discovery Channel. Now, I never watch the DC usually because I only have a limited attention span for fish that eat humans or insects that eat fish or whatever, but that notwithstanding, there I was, watching the DC. Some dude was talking about how difficult it would be to survive in the Everglades if one had to walk across it. Which had, you know, never occurred to me. Possibly because of its retina-searing obviousness. So, roll footage of dude standing in the middle of identical-looking-in-every-direction expanse, dude examining body of water for 'gators, dude walking with large stick held before him to fool short-bus snakes. Then, drama! dude bounds ahead of the camera! Has he found the Lost Treasure of Ponce de León?! No. But he has found the Cutest Little Tree Frog Evar™! The little tree frog sits in dude's hand as dude gives us mission-critical info. Apparently, we're told, if one is to walk across the Everglades, one really needs protein to maintain one's strength, yadda yadda, nature talk nature talk, and he pops the cute li'l tree frog into his mouth, chews him briskly and swallows him. In high-def.
...
WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK, MOTHERFUCKER?!?!
I was hating you for being a clueless twunt stupid enough to even think about walking across the fucking Everglades, and now you go and cap your exhibition of twuntishness by eating--alive, let me remind you--the cutest thing on the screen since I started watching your fucking show?!
I've channel-blocked Discovery.
At least until I hear that a Kodiak bear mistook this shitwit for a blow-up fucky doll.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Well, gosh darn but it's been a little while since I last trod these boards. Or whatever.
A return to posting hopefully forthcoming. Begging your indulgence, your humble servant, &c., &c.
Oh, and in the interim check out Muxtape. It's quite the brilliant way to hear buckets of good music. Figurative buckets, but buckets nonetheless.
A return to posting hopefully forthcoming. Begging your indulgence, your humble servant, &c., &c.
Oh, and in the interim check out Muxtape. It's quite the brilliant way to hear buckets of good music. Figurative buckets, but buckets nonetheless.
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