Going Rogue by Sarah Jessica Liberty Heath Palin.
I read it so you don't have to.
A lot of professional commentators and non-professional bloggers are excerpting parts of it, but it's all the same bits (John McCain is mean, John McCain's staff is mean, Barack Obama is mean and also black, etc.). As a service, I read it a little more closely and found some interesting tidbits that have slipped under the evil MSM radar. To wit:
-For Thanksgiving dinner every year, Todd brings home a live seal and eight spoons. And yes, it's an adult seal; reports to the contrary are another example of the big Fake America elite media trying to spin family wholesomeness into something icky and weird. Gosh.
-If you look really close, Katie Couric has a thin little moustache.
-Stopped being governor abruptly specifically to finish her thesis on loop quantum gravity. But then Oprah called and, darn it, it goes on the back burner AGAIN. At least the delaying factor wasn't another baby this time.
-John McCain not nearly as handsy as his reputation suggested. At least not above waist level, anyway.
-Secret Service codename for Sarah Palin: Governor Handjob.
-Secret Service codename for John McCain: Death-pallor.
-Once you get accustomed to the long travel times and the taste of fresh moose blood, governor of Alaska is not a hard job.
-Accepted the Oprah invitation not for the money or book publicity, but specifically to build in the "I have black friends" defense against racism charges. Checkmate, haters.
-Very hurt by cynics suggesting that, just because she drags out her special-needs child onto stage at events only long enough to be photographed holding him and then immediately hands him off to an aide does NOT mean she is using him as a political prop. Turns out that he's just really, really heavy.
-Has been extended free room and board at every La Quinta Inn located within the borders of "Real America." She intends to exploit this very generous offer just as soon as Real America gets a Barneys.
-Knows, obviously, that she cannot see Russia from her backyard. This is a political lie spun up by late night talk show hosts who want to molest her daughters. She did, however, invent the internet.
-On the night he died, had Ol' Dirty Bastard's initials tattooed on her torso, just below her left breast.
-Believes left-handed people to be "unclean."
-Drafts of her original election-night concession speech angrily rejected by McCain staffers simply because she insisted on ending with "Allahu akbar!"
-Would never, under any circumstances, pose for Playboy. And Maxim simply refuses to meet her number.
-Enjoys "Scrable [sic], time with (parts of) my family and the unrelenting persecution of my perceived enemies past capitulation and unto agony, defilement and death."
There's much more on the other 300+ pages, but honestly, most of it is just the typical self-serving boilerplate political blatherings you would expect. You know, alienation of the worker from the product of his labor, the rising of the proletariat to seize to means of production, the unsustainable contradictions inherent in bourgeois society, revolution, worker's paradise, blah blah blah.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
I Only Do What MTV News Tells Me
Holy shit, what day is it? Oh my God, I think I forgot to vote!
I can't even remember what the issues were this year in California, but I know there had to be something. Immigrants, gays... there's always some minority group we come together as one to condemn, villify and rebuke every early-November. It's a rite of fall, like Guy Fawkes Day in the UK, but instead of bonfires and fireworks, we legally ostracize entire groups for the great and glorious benefit of the white, English-speaking, odd-number-of-penises-in-every-act-of-sexual-congress-only-please population of our state. It sounds mean, yes, but remember, we have to do it to them before the demographics tip and then they can do it to us.
Although I should point out that, like Guy Fawkes Day, we will occasionally hang the pope in effigy. But that's because he's a) a non-native English speaker b) hangs out with mostly only dudes and c) wears a dress and fancy I-talian slippers. All kinda squirrelly homo. Can't be too careful.
As a direct democracy state, I'm used to having SOMEthing to bore me on my television through the early part of the new TV season with confusing, directly conflicting, community-college-production-level commercials telling me which organization of firefighters endorses what initiative. But no, apparently nobody wanted my opinion about whom should be governor of Virginia or New Jersey or congressman in someplace in New York or even if we should stick it to the gays one more time, this time in Maine. That last one really irked me; as a Californian, my vast anti-gay political experience really could have shed some light on the issue for them.
As it turned out, that Tuesday (whichever it was) came and went without me even noticing. I thought certainly, with all the buildup, we were coming to some kind of public vote on health care reform or what the proper public corporal humiliation would be in store for the soon-to-be-forcefully-deposed President Barack Saddam Hussein Osama. I watch cable news, so I consider myself informed matters of national import. But it turns out that July and August and September was all a bunch of sound and fury (and ire and terror and rage and anger and wrath and rancor and enmity and delirium and antipathy and contempt and I have a thesaurus, I do) signifying a significant return on investment for corporations buying advertising on the Rush Limbaugh radio program.
But really nothing else.
The only two votes in the whole country that matter, it seems, belong to Senators Olympia Snowe and Joe Lieberman. Nobody else's vote really seems to have affected anything.
Well, unless you're a gay Mainer.
I can't even remember what the issues were this year in California, but I know there had to be something. Immigrants, gays... there's always some minority group we come together as one to condemn, villify and rebuke every early-November. It's a rite of fall, like Guy Fawkes Day in the UK, but instead of bonfires and fireworks, we legally ostracize entire groups for the great and glorious benefit of the white, English-speaking, odd-number-of-penises-in-every-act-of-sexual-congress-only-please population of our state. It sounds mean, yes, but remember, we have to do it to them before the demographics tip and then they can do it to us.
Although I should point out that, like Guy Fawkes Day, we will occasionally hang the pope in effigy. But that's because he's a) a non-native English speaker b) hangs out with mostly only dudes and c) wears a dress and fancy I-talian slippers. All kinda squirrelly homo. Can't be too careful.
As a direct democracy state, I'm used to having SOMEthing to bore me on my television through the early part of the new TV season with confusing, directly conflicting, community-college-production-level commercials telling me which organization of firefighters endorses what initiative. But no, apparently nobody wanted my opinion about whom should be governor of Virginia or New Jersey or congressman in someplace in New York or even if we should stick it to the gays one more time, this time in Maine. That last one really irked me; as a Californian, my vast anti-gay political experience really could have shed some light on the issue for them.
As it turned out, that Tuesday (whichever it was) came and went without me even noticing. I thought certainly, with all the buildup, we were coming to some kind of public vote on health care reform or what the proper public corporal humiliation would be in store for the soon-to-be-forcefully-deposed President Barack Saddam Hussein Osama. I watch cable news, so I consider myself informed matters of national import. But it turns out that July and August and September was all a bunch of sound and fury (and ire and terror and rage and anger and wrath and rancor and enmity and delirium and antipathy and contempt and I have a thesaurus, I do) signifying a significant return on investment for corporations buying advertising on the Rush Limbaugh radio program.
But really nothing else.
The only two votes in the whole country that matter, it seems, belong to Senators Olympia Snowe and Joe Lieberman. Nobody else's vote really seems to have affected anything.
Well, unless you're a gay Mainer.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Inquire Within
With Veterans Day approaching (and no, I didn't forget the apostrophe), I would like to point out that I have nothing either clever or particularly amusing to say about all those Army people being shot by one of their own out at Fort Hood last week.
Although, I will say that noting the shooter, an active-duty U.S. Army major, shouted "Allahu Akbar!" before he commenced with the Class-A assholery, I now have to revise the absolute bottom order of my list of Best Jobs In The Whole Wide World.
The top of the list, obviously, remains unchanged with Female Body Inspector just edging out Professional Ice Cream Taster, exactly as they have since I was 11.
After Fort Hood, the bottom five has experienced something of a shake-up and now looks like this:
11,224. Obama Secret Service detail.
11,225. U.S. military service member with a Muslim-sounding last name.
11,226. Crackwhore.
11,227. Funeral home plumber.
11,228. Corey Feldman's agent.
U.S. military service member with a Muslim-sounding last name is now a full 871 slots below "Fluffer" and 1,216 spots worse than "Gay Marine." At least the gay Marines have the option of Not Telling whereas if your name is Adnan Farouk Jilal Hamzah, they put that shit right there on your uniform breast pocket for you.
If you're in the military with a Muslim-sounding name now, you have to more than watch your step. Just to be safe, they have to move in exaggerated slow motion, as though constantly under water, fingers splayed out to show they are unarmed and stripped to the waist to show no hidden explosives. And the self-censorship they have to practice is brutal, if not demeaning. Anything remotely sounding like "Allahu Akbar" must be stricken from speech in order to avoid any kind of unfortunate misunderstandings involving live ammunition. In BXs and PXs all over this world, it has been 8 years since any serviceman or woman named Aziz or Hussein has uttered the phrase "I'll have a Clark Bar." The Zagnut people, as you can imagine, are OK with this.
This is unfortunate as there are thousands upon thousands of men and women--first, second third generation Arab-, Persian- or Turkish-Americans and beyond--serving in any of the branches of the armed forces whose loyalty is beyond reproach, whose professionalism daily saves the lives of dozens of their comrades, the exact same way the 442nd Regimental Combat Team became the most decorated military unit in U.S. history despite being made up of "suspect" Japanese during World War II.
But now because of the increased scrutiny, it isn't hard to imagine brave Americans with real skills, like Arabic or Farsi speakers, being reluctant to join and serve because of the stigma earned by one derailed fucked-up soft-headed douchebag and not for the old reasons they would stay out, because they were just gay.
Although, I will say that noting the shooter, an active-duty U.S. Army major, shouted "Allahu Akbar!" before he commenced with the Class-A assholery, I now have to revise the absolute bottom order of my list of Best Jobs In The Whole Wide World.
The top of the list, obviously, remains unchanged with Female Body Inspector just edging out Professional Ice Cream Taster, exactly as they have since I was 11.
After Fort Hood, the bottom five has experienced something of a shake-up and now looks like this:
11,224. Obama Secret Service detail.
11,225. U.S. military service member with a Muslim-sounding last name.
11,226. Crackwhore.
11,227. Funeral home plumber.
11,228. Corey Feldman's agent.
U.S. military service member with a Muslim-sounding last name is now a full 871 slots below "Fluffer" and 1,216 spots worse than "Gay Marine." At least the gay Marines have the option of Not Telling whereas if your name is Adnan Farouk Jilal Hamzah, they put that shit right there on your uniform breast pocket for you.
If you're in the military with a Muslim-sounding name now, you have to more than watch your step. Just to be safe, they have to move in exaggerated slow motion, as though constantly under water, fingers splayed out to show they are unarmed and stripped to the waist to show no hidden explosives. And the self-censorship they have to practice is brutal, if not demeaning. Anything remotely sounding like "Allahu Akbar" must be stricken from speech in order to avoid any kind of unfortunate misunderstandings involving live ammunition. In BXs and PXs all over this world, it has been 8 years since any serviceman or woman named Aziz or Hussein has uttered the phrase "I'll have a Clark Bar." The Zagnut people, as you can imagine, are OK with this.
This is unfortunate as there are thousands upon thousands of men and women--first, second third generation Arab-, Persian- or Turkish-Americans and beyond--serving in any of the branches of the armed forces whose loyalty is beyond reproach, whose professionalism daily saves the lives of dozens of their comrades, the exact same way the 442nd Regimental Combat Team became the most decorated military unit in U.S. history despite being made up of "suspect" Japanese during World War II.
But now because of the increased scrutiny, it isn't hard to imagine brave Americans with real skills, like Arabic or Farsi speakers, being reluctant to join and serve because of the stigma earned by one derailed fucked-up soft-headed douchebag and not for the old reasons they would stay out, because they were just gay.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Ballad of Blinky Jones
So you've left Iowa. It wasn't easy. There were harsh words with Dad, who only ever had one dream for you: to work yourself to death growing goverment-subsidized corn crops for possible use one day as ethanol fuel while expanding your corporarate agribusiness footprint across seven counties, amassing obscene wealth at the expense of taxpayers, the environment and probably your immortal soul.
But no, your mind's made up. You want something more meaningful. You've gone to Hollywood.
You hopped off the hay truck that brought you west, handerchief bundle tied to a stick over your shoulder, breathed in as deeply as the lung-searing smog would allow and said "So this is Hollywood!" only to be stabbed in the chest by a passerby and helpfully corrected: "You in Boyle Heights now, motherfucker!" It may be a quarter inch on the map, but there are people who take those fractions very seriously.
Punctured lungs heal, yes, but punctured dreams? Rarely so. Pride precluded you from writing home to retell the tale of your progress in the dog-eat-dog world of the Business We Call Show. For instance, that one time you had to eat a dog. That's something Mom wouldn't like to know.
But money is scarce and living is expensive in places with so very many area codes. The things you will do for money--and eventually also methamphetamine--are too gruesomely tedious to list, but your sturdy Midwestern upbringing reminds you that God gives us nothing with which we cannot cope, at least not without a half a bottle of mouthwash and a nice sitz bath.
On the non-illegal side of things, you've done it all, so long as it results in no reward and less pay: extra, production assistant, runner, courier, page, gossip-blog editor, MTV reality show persona, botox mule...
Nothing and nothing and nothing and nothing to show for it but a sort of dull, buzzing resignation in the face of universal and constant rejection.
You consider throwing it all away, marching right out of your cherry spot on skid row with your half a pillow case and your companion mongrel emergency-eatin' dog, back to a life of empty luxury and useless dignity as an appendage on Dad's growing farming concern when finally, unlooked for, unhoped for, the call comes, probably on a pay phone in an alleyway behind a Vietnamese human sex slavery clearing house: you're going to be featured in a national print marketing campaign. Not just in advertising, but in packaging. You'll be everywhere. At last, finally: famous.
You don't call home to share the news; it's classier, you decide, just to drop a note.
Dear Dad, it will say. Why don't you stop by the Walgreen's. It's time you did something about that effed-up eye of yours. Love, Donny.
And he'll walk in and he'll look and there you'll be, staring right back out at him with your one, good, piercing eye.
In your face, old man. That loan shark teaching you a lesson with that fire poker when you couldn't get him his $75 and subsequent $8,000 in interest turned out to be the greatest blessing of your life.
Why is there a picture on the front of an eyepatch box? Are they afraid people won't know how to use it? Is there really any kind of advertising war between brands of eyepatch warranting the use of a handsome but (by implication) horribly disfigured face? Not for us to say, mateys. That's someone else's problem. We're just running half blind into a bright, bright future, with both hands in front of us to correct for our problem with depth perception.
But no, your mind's made up. You want something more meaningful. You've gone to Hollywood.
You hopped off the hay truck that brought you west, handerchief bundle tied to a stick over your shoulder, breathed in as deeply as the lung-searing smog would allow and said "So this is Hollywood!" only to be stabbed in the chest by a passerby and helpfully corrected: "You in Boyle Heights now, motherfucker!" It may be a quarter inch on the map, but there are people who take those fractions very seriously.
Punctured lungs heal, yes, but punctured dreams? Rarely so. Pride precluded you from writing home to retell the tale of your progress in the dog-eat-dog world of the Business We Call Show. For instance, that one time you had to eat a dog. That's something Mom wouldn't like to know.
But money is scarce and living is expensive in places with so very many area codes. The things you will do for money--and eventually also methamphetamine--are too gruesomely tedious to list, but your sturdy Midwestern upbringing reminds you that God gives us nothing with which we cannot cope, at least not without a half a bottle of mouthwash and a nice sitz bath.
On the non-illegal side of things, you've done it all, so long as it results in no reward and less pay: extra, production assistant, runner, courier, page, gossip-blog editor, MTV reality show persona, botox mule...
Nothing and nothing and nothing and nothing to show for it but a sort of dull, buzzing resignation in the face of universal and constant rejection.
You consider throwing it all away, marching right out of your cherry spot on skid row with your half a pillow case and your companion mongrel emergency-eatin' dog, back to a life of empty luxury and useless dignity as an appendage on Dad's growing farming concern when finally, unlooked for, unhoped for, the call comes, probably on a pay phone in an alleyway behind a Vietnamese human sex slavery clearing house: you're going to be featured in a national print marketing campaign. Not just in advertising, but in packaging. You'll be everywhere. At last, finally: famous.
You don't call home to share the news; it's classier, you decide, just to drop a note.
Dear Dad, it will say. Why don't you stop by the Walgreen's. It's time you did something about that effed-up eye of yours. Love, Donny.
And he'll walk in and he'll look and there you'll be, staring right back out at him with your one, good, piercing eye.
In your face, old man. That loan shark teaching you a lesson with that fire poker when you couldn't get him his $75 and subsequent $8,000 in interest turned out to be the greatest blessing of your life.
Why is there a picture on the front of an eyepatch box? Are they afraid people won't know how to use it? Is there really any kind of advertising war between brands of eyepatch warranting the use of a handsome but (by implication) horribly disfigured face? Not for us to say, mateys. That's someone else's problem. We're just running half blind into a bright, bright future, with both hands in front of us to correct for our problem with depth perception.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Big Time
I think it was the Mennonites who first came to this valley, lo this century and more ago. Others had tried to cross the vast desert west of Navajo Country, never to be heard from again. The giant, blood-thirsty tortoises that patrolled the long, barren marches had grown fat on the hairy gristle of Spanish would-be conquistadors, the holy flesh of pious, but fatally naive missionaries and even the unbathed putrescence of speculators driven mad with lust for the things California promised, like gold and no-documentation mortgages.
But the Mennonites came, lolling the great reptiles to sleep with their gentle natures, their beards unanchored by mustaches and their complicated nail-free furniture. Not only did they avoid the grisly fate of their unmourned predecessors, legend says they arrived in triumph, riding on the backs of the great beasts, whose scooped-out shells provided the settlers with their first permanent shelter.
It is unclear why the Mennonites chose to stop their westward rush in great Riverside. Perhaps it was the abundance of unseasonable year-round heat so achingly close to sea-moderated temperate climates just over the hills west that appealed to the more masochistic penance-taking aspects of their religion. Perhaps it was the irony of the name, what with the no river and all. Perhaps it was the easy freeway access and the early presence of a Best Buy. All we know for sure is that even then, it was clear to them that San Bernardino was a shithole and they should just keep going a little further.
It wasn't long afterward that the Mennonites built the first orange out of a tennis ball, a bull's scrotum and a persimmon. Within a short period of time, the citrus empire built by the original settlers all but realized their dream of a scurvy-free world. For a time, Riverside flourished, even though the world would one day pay a steep price for their great advances in pomology.
Like most single-industry towns, the boom times would fall victim to the awful counterweight of bust cycles. With fading fortunes went, alas, the iron grip of the Mennonite overlords and their giant tortoise enforcers. A frustrated populace... well, stayed home and felt sorry for themselves mostly. But one guy did rise up, which is all it takes when you're facing down pacifists. You punch one in the face and the rest tend to vacate the area, PDQ.
With the Mennonites went their patronage of Mennonite-style arts culture, which involved mostly sitting in sturdily built chairs in total silence trying not to think about sex.
Instantly there were pizza restaurants, movie houses, record stores, soda fountains, Japanese car dealerships... all the worst types of vice and shameless iniquity rushed in like tidal flood after being held back by the Mennonite dike for so long. No one really remembers what her name was...
But even that burst of energy, with its unholy tendencies, coupled with another economic downturn, traded resplendent debauchery for squalor. Grand hotels became flophouses. Great theaters now housed seedy '70s porn films, with all the body hair and brazenly anti-Mennonite beard-free mustaches.
As my generation rose to prominence here, we've kept a longer view of what Riverside can be. Though derelict and black holes of crime and blight, we resisted calls to demolish Riverside's landmark buildings and the history housed therein, for the sake of posterity, for continuity and because we couldn't find anyone who wanted to tear that shit down and build something good instead. Seriously, it was almost Detroit-bad.
But our patience and our love for our city eventually paid off. Somebody must have known someone who was fucking someone powerful because we got like a billion dollars in redevelopment money. The 2nd through 8th layers of scum and dried blood have been scraped off most of the buildings. The graffiti has been corrected for grammar and reapplied in a more aesthetically pleasing font and color pallette. The homeless people have been lovingly transferred elsewhere by the gentle suggestion of law enforcement and their smiling K-9 companions. The parking situation downtown has become a confusing checkerboard of time-limited permit-only spaces and draconinan fine-levying... just like a real city!
And for all this, what has a billion dollars gotten us?
David Sedaris is coming to Riverside this May.
Oh yes. We've arrived.
Eat your fucking heart out, Fontana.
But the Mennonites came, lolling the great reptiles to sleep with their gentle natures, their beards unanchored by mustaches and their complicated nail-free furniture. Not only did they avoid the grisly fate of their unmourned predecessors, legend says they arrived in triumph, riding on the backs of the great beasts, whose scooped-out shells provided the settlers with their first permanent shelter.
It is unclear why the Mennonites chose to stop their westward rush in great Riverside. Perhaps it was the abundance of unseasonable year-round heat so achingly close to sea-moderated temperate climates just over the hills west that appealed to the more masochistic penance-taking aspects of their religion. Perhaps it was the irony of the name, what with the no river and all. Perhaps it was the easy freeway access and the early presence of a Best Buy. All we know for sure is that even then, it was clear to them that San Bernardino was a shithole and they should just keep going a little further.
It wasn't long afterward that the Mennonites built the first orange out of a tennis ball, a bull's scrotum and a persimmon. Within a short period of time, the citrus empire built by the original settlers all but realized their dream of a scurvy-free world. For a time, Riverside flourished, even though the world would one day pay a steep price for their great advances in pomology.
Like most single-industry towns, the boom times would fall victim to the awful counterweight of bust cycles. With fading fortunes went, alas, the iron grip of the Mennonite overlords and their giant tortoise enforcers. A frustrated populace... well, stayed home and felt sorry for themselves mostly. But one guy did rise up, which is all it takes when you're facing down pacifists. You punch one in the face and the rest tend to vacate the area, PDQ.
With the Mennonites went their patronage of Mennonite-style arts culture, which involved mostly sitting in sturdily built chairs in total silence trying not to think about sex.
Instantly there were pizza restaurants, movie houses, record stores, soda fountains, Japanese car dealerships... all the worst types of vice and shameless iniquity rushed in like tidal flood after being held back by the Mennonite dike for so long. No one really remembers what her name was...
But even that burst of energy, with its unholy tendencies, coupled with another economic downturn, traded resplendent debauchery for squalor. Grand hotels became flophouses. Great theaters now housed seedy '70s porn films, with all the body hair and brazenly anti-Mennonite beard-free mustaches.
As my generation rose to prominence here, we've kept a longer view of what Riverside can be. Though derelict and black holes of crime and blight, we resisted calls to demolish Riverside's landmark buildings and the history housed therein, for the sake of posterity, for continuity and because we couldn't find anyone who wanted to tear that shit down and build something good instead. Seriously, it was almost Detroit-bad.
But our patience and our love for our city eventually paid off. Somebody must have known someone who was fucking someone powerful because we got like a billion dollars in redevelopment money. The 2nd through 8th layers of scum and dried blood have been scraped off most of the buildings. The graffiti has been corrected for grammar and reapplied in a more aesthetically pleasing font and color pallette. The homeless people have been lovingly transferred elsewhere by the gentle suggestion of law enforcement and their smiling K-9 companions. The parking situation downtown has become a confusing checkerboard of time-limited permit-only spaces and draconinan fine-levying... just like a real city!
And for all this, what has a billion dollars gotten us?
David Sedaris is coming to Riverside this May.
Oh yes. We've arrived.
Eat your fucking heart out, Fontana.
Monday, October 19, 2009
It's the pictures that got small
I don't mean to brag, but I totally knew it was a hoax the minute I heard about it. Sure, there was all the buzz around the office, the normal "didyouheardidyouhearohmygod" panting hysterics, but just like that Michael-Jackson-Is-Dead bullshit that all of you fell for a couple months ago, I wasn't buying.
It's bald-faced cynicism maybe, sure, but look, this is the Reality TV era. The only thing that's important is to get yourself mentioned, roll up some notoriety and then parlay that into a big fat dignity-free televised celebration of the malfunctioning shame centers of your brain. They call it "going Jon and Kate." Clown-car uterus optional.
The news coverage was typically breathless, but then again these are the same media outlets that cut into the DEVELOPING STORY of Gwyneth Paltrow not being pregnant to give you BREAKING NEWS of a horse stuck in a drainage channel. People like to point to Ed Murrow and Walter Cronkite as the monoliths casting the shadow in which modern journalism is left sun-starved, withered and sallow, but at least they had Joe McCarthy and moon rockets to fall back on. What do we have to report? IEDs and what Lindsay Lohan weighs. 24 hours is one hell of a news cycle to fill when the president just won't invade some new shit like we'd like him to.
So yeah, I guess on that count we can't really blame the media for glomming on to something that was so obviously a hoax, but shame on them for not at least leaning on the story to get it to topple over. Where's the follow up? Where's the second, third, fourth question that cracks the burnt sugar crust on the crème brulée of shameless mendacity?
I said it when I saw and I'll say it here again: no way this was ever true.
I know, right? Totally worse than that stupid balloon thing.
Here's the money quote:
God help those who won't help themselves. Or at least send them to Loozyana where this man will figure out all your shit for you. In his capacity as Guy Who Knows What's Best For Y'all, he also refuses to notarize documents for passports (foreigners don't receive Americans well), authorize transfer of ownership for any vehicles manufactured in Mexico (illegals frequently hide in trunks or, if very small, glove boxes) or validate parking (encourages an abdication of personal responsibility).
It's difficult for him in his passive role as a JP to positively change the world with his pro-active go-getter policy of getting all up in people's business uninvited, but now with this new high public profile, the TV offers will roll in and soon enough he'll be stamping out miscegenation for "Judge Judy" money.
Yes, OK, he had to draw us in with the unbelievable "mixed race is bad" bullshit in Obama's America, but now he's got his high profile. Next stop? The Premiere Radio Networks.
It's sneaky, but I don't dislike it. He can't have really thought that being kind of a dick would definitively stop these people from marrying when they could, say, go to another county or, perhaps, come back on his day off. There's no way he thought that. Because then he would be retarded. Nope, has to be the publicity. Dude knows how the game is played.
* * * *
You will notice to the right I've integrated the Twitter feed. I barely have a Twitter feed. But I thought we'd try it out. Bump this crap up to more than once a week, content-wise. I'd invite you to follow me, but I'm not 100% sure what that means. I am old.
It's bald-faced cynicism maybe, sure, but look, this is the Reality TV era. The only thing that's important is to get yourself mentioned, roll up some notoriety and then parlay that into a big fat dignity-free televised celebration of the malfunctioning shame centers of your brain. They call it "going Jon and Kate." Clown-car uterus optional.
The news coverage was typically breathless, but then again these are the same media outlets that cut into the DEVELOPING STORY of Gwyneth Paltrow not being pregnant to give you BREAKING NEWS of a horse stuck in a drainage channel. People like to point to Ed Murrow and Walter Cronkite as the monoliths casting the shadow in which modern journalism is left sun-starved, withered and sallow, but at least they had Joe McCarthy and moon rockets to fall back on. What do we have to report? IEDs and what Lindsay Lohan weighs. 24 hours is one hell of a news cycle to fill when the president just won't invade some new shit like we'd like him to.
So yeah, I guess on that count we can't really blame the media for glomming on to something that was so obviously a hoax, but shame on them for not at least leaning on the story to get it to topple over. Where's the follow up? Where's the second, third, fourth question that cracks the burnt sugar crust on the crème brulée of shameless mendacity?
I said it when I saw and I'll say it here again: no way this was ever true.
I know, right? Totally worse than that stupid balloon thing.
Here's the money quote:
Bardwell said he has discussed the topic with blacks and whites, along with witnessing some interracial marriages. He came to the conclusion that most of black society does not readily accept offspring of such relationships, and neither does white society, he said.
"There is a problem with both groups accepting a child from such a marriage," Bardwell said. "I think those children suffer and I won't help put them through it."
God help those who won't help themselves. Or at least send them to Loozyana where this man will figure out all your shit for you. In his capacity as Guy Who Knows What's Best For Y'all, he also refuses to notarize documents for passports (foreigners don't receive Americans well), authorize transfer of ownership for any vehicles manufactured in Mexico (illegals frequently hide in trunks or, if very small, glove boxes) or validate parking (encourages an abdication of personal responsibility).
It's difficult for him in his passive role as a JP to positively change the world with his pro-active go-getter policy of getting all up in people's business uninvited, but now with this new high public profile, the TV offers will roll in and soon enough he'll be stamping out miscegenation for "Judge Judy" money.
Yes, OK, he had to draw us in with the unbelievable "mixed race is bad" bullshit in Obama's America, but now he's got his high profile. Next stop? The Premiere Radio Networks.
It's sneaky, but I don't dislike it. He can't have really thought that being kind of a dick would definitively stop these people from marrying when they could, say, go to another county or, perhaps, come back on his day off. There's no way he thought that. Because then he would be retarded. Nope, has to be the publicity. Dude knows how the game is played.
* * * *
You will notice to the right I've integrated the Twitter feed. I barely have a Twitter feed. But I thought we'd try it out. Bump this crap up to more than once a week, content-wise. I'd invite you to follow me, but I'm not 100% sure what that means. I am old.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
$1,492
As my job is obliquely, secondarily and tangentially involved in some tertiary way with government, I get Columbus Day off. Huzzah for smallpox!
As my children now go to a public school, this also means that they will be attending said school, as somehow we are no longer allowed to publicly celebrate the rape of a whole continent, even if in the end it gave the world Democracy, the Interwebs and Cloris Leachman. Boo, smallpox! Very bad form indeed!
Net result? I am home all day with no children. For the first time in, like, maybe ever. It might have happened when I was younger, before I had children of my own, but then one could argue I was the child I was home with at the time, so that's like a tie instead of a win.
What will I do with a full day of freedom? I have decided I will stay here and wait around for the right guy to come along and handle my unruly pipe. That's right, I have a very naughty pipe that needs some immediate, burly hands-on attention. And I'm willing to pay top dollar AND sit around all day waiting for it, God, just WAITING for it.
Sometimes smallpox doesn't sound so bad.
As my children now go to a public school, this also means that they will be attending said school, as somehow we are no longer allowed to publicly celebrate the rape of a whole continent, even if in the end it gave the world Democracy, the Interwebs and Cloris Leachman. Boo, smallpox! Very bad form indeed!
Net result? I am home all day with no children. For the first time in, like, maybe ever. It might have happened when I was younger, before I had children of my own, but then one could argue I was the child I was home with at the time, so that's like a tie instead of a win.
What will I do with a full day of freedom? I have decided I will stay here and wait around for the right guy to come along and handle my unruly pipe. That's right, I have a very naughty pipe that needs some immediate, burly hands-on attention. And I'm willing to pay top dollar AND sit around all day waiting for it, God, just WAITING for it.
Sometimes smallpox doesn't sound so bad.
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