Normally, I make futile attempts at humor when I write this blog. This time, it’s straight up because I want to write about a subject that is devoid of anything funny. The BTK Strangler is getting 10 life sentences, because the killings took place before Kansas reinstated the death penalty. This case has made me realize that I’m actually all for the death penalty. I’ve always been a bit neutral on the topic in the past, which is odd since it’s a passionate subject, and when it comes to passionate subjects, I usually have an opinion. With this case, I’ve actually stopped and thought about capital punishment for two seconds, and I’ve realized that I don’t care if someone was tortured as a child and is now mentally unstable. Crazy is no excuse for the sick things this twisted F#!k did.
I can’t think of a death sentence appropriate enough for this sick motherf&#$*, unfortunately. He’d love anything twisted or perverted. Is there such a thing as a boring death sentence? I guess the chemicals they inject could be considered boring, though I’ve read that they actually do cause pain. Fine. Shoot him up, but make sure to inject a little Borax into the cocktail.
This will not happen. We can only hope that when he goes to jail, the other badasses will make him wish he was never born. That’s a good start.
August 18, 2005
August 16, 2005
Manners for the Religious Right
All this news of the Gaza Strip has got me thinking about the Bible and manners. I think a great idea for a book would be drawing parallels from the Bible to real life modern day etiquette. For example, when the Three Wise Men bought incense and stuff to that barn where Jesus was born . . . it was nothing more than a hostess gift for Mary!
Being a savage heathen (i.e., Democrat), I really don’t know a lot about the Bible. But I do know that those chicks back then loved to wash guys’ feet. You know what I think that was all about? It’s today’s equivalent of polite flirting. Instead of whipping out the suds and towels, we wink, we twirl our hair, we even give them our phone number if we are either a) really drunk and b) convinced they aren’t serial killers. Back then, they didn’t have better beauty through science, or phone numbers, so they really had to work hard to get a guy’s attention. I can just see some ladies having cocktails one night and one of them saying, “What can we do to get these guy’s to notice us? Hey I know, let’s wash their feet.”
When Jesus made that fish and bread multiply to the point where he could feed a hungry crowd, I think he was showing the proper way to host a party. “Okay, I’ll feed you poor slobs this time, but get a hint. Next time you have me over for dinner, don’t ask me to bring my own Levin bread and wine.”
Take stoning as another example. Today, we just do an intervention when a friend has an annoying problem, like leprosy. “Dude, your face is falling off. Get some help.”
While the early Christians moved away from the whole “let’s sacrifice something,” trend, today we’ve circled back to that tradition. For example, W was mad because his daddy lost the first Gulf War, so he started a new one and sent soldiers in. There you go, sacrificial lambs.
Well, that’s all I can remember of the Bible from Sunday school, and God knows (no pun meant) that was ages ago. So if you can think of other parallels between the Bible and modern day etiquette, let me know.
Being a savage heathen (i.e., Democrat), I really don’t know a lot about the Bible. But I do know that those chicks back then loved to wash guys’ feet. You know what I think that was all about? It’s today’s equivalent of polite flirting. Instead of whipping out the suds and towels, we wink, we twirl our hair, we even give them our phone number if we are either a) really drunk and b) convinced they aren’t serial killers. Back then, they didn’t have better beauty through science, or phone numbers, so they really had to work hard to get a guy’s attention. I can just see some ladies having cocktails one night and one of them saying, “What can we do to get these guy’s to notice us? Hey I know, let’s wash their feet.”
When Jesus made that fish and bread multiply to the point where he could feed a hungry crowd, I think he was showing the proper way to host a party. “Okay, I’ll feed you poor slobs this time, but get a hint. Next time you have me over for dinner, don’t ask me to bring my own Levin bread and wine.”
Take stoning as another example. Today, we just do an intervention when a friend has an annoying problem, like leprosy. “Dude, your face is falling off. Get some help.”
While the early Christians moved away from the whole “let’s sacrifice something,” trend, today we’ve circled back to that tradition. For example, W was mad because his daddy lost the first Gulf War, so he started a new one and sent soldiers in. There you go, sacrificial lambs.
Well, that’s all I can remember of the Bible from Sunday school, and God knows (no pun meant) that was ages ago. So if you can think of other parallels between the Bible and modern day etiquette, let me know.
August 11, 2005
Open Up the Flood Gates
I have a new best friend. This guy,here, James Chaney, left the Republican party because, surprise, the “GOP had drifted so far from its traditional moorings in honesty, practicality and common sense so as to be unrecognizable to many rank-and-filers like me.” Or me!
What’s heartwarming is that he got flooded with emails and phone calls from others who shared his same disgust with the party.
Of course, it seems to me that no matter what party is in office, they end up pissing off their own members so that you always see a flood of departures from one party to the other. Back and forth we go. One moment we’re all liberal, the next conservative. Okay, I feel a tangent coming on about our nation’s ADD, but, let me just relish in this one moment to say thank you to Mr. James Chaney. Welcome to the other side. If you stay a while, I’m sure we’ll have you good and disgusted again in no time.
What’s heartwarming is that he got flooded with emails and phone calls from others who shared his same disgust with the party.
Of course, it seems to me that no matter what party is in office, they end up pissing off their own members so that you always see a flood of departures from one party to the other. Back and forth we go. One moment we’re all liberal, the next conservative. Okay, I feel a tangent coming on about our nation’s ADD, but, let me just relish in this one moment to say thank you to Mr. James Chaney. Welcome to the other side. If you stay a while, I’m sure we’ll have you good and disgusted again in no time.
Yeehaw, Rumsfeld Wants to Celebrate
Only someone in the Bush administration would think that throwing a hoedown is the appropriate way to mark 9/11.
Evidently, the Pentagon will host a massive march and country music concert to mark the fourth anniversary of 9/11, Rumsfeld said during an Iraq war briefing on August 9.
“Now for the fifth anniversary, we’re going to have a hay ride, a beer drinking contest and a million person square dance, the largest ever.” Rumsfeld said. Noooo, I’m lying about that one. Unfortunately, I’m not lying about the first.
"This year the Department of Defense will initiate an America Supports You Freedom Walk," Rumsfeld said (honest). The walk, and concert, are the Pentagon’s way of showing support for the troops, which is an awfully nice gesture, particularly since it’s W’s fault the troops are in Iraq. What’s more disturbing is that once again, Rumsfeld and the W posse are linking 9/11 with Iraq.
I think country music is too square for such a bold gesture. I want to see W, Cheney, Rice and Rumsfeld on stage rapping.
“We support you, you mofos, don’t ever doub it, no sense in poutin’ ‘bout it, keep up the good job, don’t you know we are your mob . . . “
Okay, even I have to admit that’s a really bad attempt at rap.
Sinatra! Maybe they could get Sinatra impersonators to put on a performance.
“I’ve got you, under my skin . . .” Hmmm. Those lyrics take on an eerie undertone when you consider the context.
Evidently, the Pentagon will host a massive march and country music concert to mark the fourth anniversary of 9/11, Rumsfeld said during an Iraq war briefing on August 9.
“Now for the fifth anniversary, we’re going to have a hay ride, a beer drinking contest and a million person square dance, the largest ever.” Rumsfeld said. Noooo, I’m lying about that one. Unfortunately, I’m not lying about the first.
"This year the Department of Defense will initiate an America Supports You Freedom Walk," Rumsfeld said (honest). The walk, and concert, are the Pentagon’s way of showing support for the troops, which is an awfully nice gesture, particularly since it’s W’s fault the troops are in Iraq. What’s more disturbing is that once again, Rumsfeld and the W posse are linking 9/11 with Iraq.
I think country music is too square for such a bold gesture. I want to see W, Cheney, Rice and Rumsfeld on stage rapping.
“We support you, you mofos, don’t ever doub it, no sense in poutin’ ‘bout it, keep up the good job, don’t you know we are your mob . . . “
Okay, even I have to admit that’s a really bad attempt at rap.
Sinatra! Maybe they could get Sinatra impersonators to put on a performance.
“I’ve got you, under my skin . . .” Hmmm. Those lyrics take on an eerie undertone when you consider the context.
August 10, 2005
The Strange Tale of the Very Bad Houseguest
This blog entry is a long time coming. My hubby would probably prefer that I don’t write it, that I let bygones be bygones and take the high road. Trouble is, sometimes when you do that, you end up with an ulcer, or worse, you have W as president.
So here it is: the story of a humble blogger and her husband, who took in a long-time acquaintance down on his luck as a houseguest. This person, I’ll call him Harold, had moved to Vegas from a town in the Deep South. Back story: Harold and my dear friend, “Tennessee,” have known each other for many years, when both were struggling actors in NYC. Tennessee went on to produce and direct theater in Los Angeles. Harold faced the music and started selling janitorial supplies in a mid-size southern town. They kept in touch; Harold more so than Tennessee.
Let me stop you at this point and say that if at anytime in this story, you should get bored, I urge you to keep reading. Aliens make an appearance toward the end. Not just any aliens, either, I’m talking shape-shifting lizard aliens who worship demons from the fourth dimension. Uh-huh. Now you want to keep reading.
Anyway, Harold got tired of his Deep South town and set his sights on Vegas. He found a girlfriend on the Internet and moved in with her. Strangely, the relationship didn’t last, and within two months, she kicked him out. That’s where I come in.
I talked hubby into letting Harold move in with us. We had known him for about twenty years, though not well. He struck us egotistical and odd, but he seemed to have good intentions, which I appreciated as so many people don’t (Dick Cheney, are you listening?). Many (okay, all) of Tennessee’s other friends had at one time or another been deeply offended by something Harold did or said and refused to even talk to him. At one point, Harold even did something that offended me, and I had stopped talking to him, but that was years ago and I couldn’t remember what he had done. Besides, people change, hopefully, and I thought I should give him another chance. His only other option was to return to the South, something I wouldn’t wish on anyone except moronic cowboys from Crawford, Texas.
Hubby agreed to let Harold stay three weeks, and no more. He understood what I was ignoring: A) it would hard have someone else live in our home and B) Harold is egotistical and odd.
In all fairness, Tennessee warned me. I think his exact words were, “I’m warning you, this is a mistake. Don’t blame me when he pisses you off.”
One reason I offered Harold a room was that he had just quit a job he started a week earlier. They lied to him, he claimed – a pattern of Harold’s. People/companies lie to him or flake on him, repeatedly.
Nonetheless, the boy needed money and shelter. The other reason I offered him a room is I imagined my self as a modern-day abolitionist, freeing victims living in the red states. I’m a dumbass, what can I say?
Harold soon got another job, but quit that because the hours were unappealing to him, and also, they lied to him. Anyway, he was sure that he was going to get this “too-good-to-be-true” job where they would pay him a ton of money to be a marketing director, something he knew nothing about (sales people are not marketing people, end of story). The job never came through because as everyone but Harold knows, if it’s too good to be true, it ain’t gonna happen.
The job situation, not to mention the Internet girlfriend kicking him out, were signs enough that Harold is trouble with a capital T. But, as mentioned, I’m a dumbass. So for me, the first sign of trouble I noted was when Harold repeatedly jumped in and took hubby’s side when he thought I was being too tough on him, which is often. I’m short, a bit chubby, overworked, am far from rich and there is a Republican in the White House. Being nasty to my husband from time-to-time is the one great pleasure I get in life.
That aside, there were times when both Hubby and me recognized that I wasn’t being hard on him, and Harold was still jumping in and defending perceived offenses. Once, when we’d been drinking, Harold started in on me about hubby, and I said, “Oh shut the f*&k up.” I say this expression the way most people say, “Hey, how are you.” It’s kind of my version of Bob Hope’s “Thanks for the memories.” Harold teared up. The next morning, first thing, he told me that I was mean when I was drunk. I was quite offended. I’m mean when I’m sober, too.
There were a thousand small things, too, that warned me of trouble ahead. Every time I opened a bottle of vitamins, drank water, looked sideways, Harold had an opinion on ways to do it healthier. Harold is a “health” legend in his own mind. Example: my doctor suggested I take chewable calcium. Harold told me that they would just float around in my stomach., never to be absorbed by my system. I imagined my little semi-digested calcium chew floating in my stomach like a mangled glob on a raft. It seemed peaceful in a way. I wanted to down a glass of wine so they would have some beverage to make their experience complete. Harold had two boxes full of vitamins and supplements, meant to do everything from keeping Harold in shape (didn’t work) to mentally health (really didn’t help).
Harold likes to help, and he told me that he would try to get me a job at the too-good-to-be-true job working for him, but that they usually hired “hot” babes, so it might be tough. Then he told me not to get offended because I was too old to be hot, and hey, “you look better heavier, anyway.”
I’m not the only cantankerous person in the house. Hubby is quite the crabby ass. When hubby disagreed with him about anything, Harold came running to me to complain. When I disagreed with Harold, he ran to hubby complaining. It reminded me of a child playing his parents. What did he expect us to do? Side with him? Actually, my hubby probably did, that SOB.
After meeting my rather wealthy friend, “Uma,” (I think she’d like that alias) Harold proceeded to hit on her in very aggressive, almost mental-rape type of way. “You have nice lips,” he said to her. “I’d like to kiss them.” This was not a fix-up, by the way. Uma came to see us and Harold happened to be there. Anyway, Uma laughed off the kissing comment and tried to be nice (her mistake, it’s like feeding a stray dog). Later she told me she was very “grossed out,” and that Harold had a “bottomless ego.”
Three weeks turned into six and I told him it was time to end our little roommate adventure. Had I not said that, he would have given me the perfect out anyway when he told me that not only did he believe in aliens, which I had known — I just thought he meant androgynous gray men — but that W, Cheney, Queen Elizabeth, the Rothschilds and Chris Christopherson were all actually a shape-shifting race of lizard aliens bent on a new world order. Chris Christopherson? That explains “A Star is Born.”
Harold’s theory on 9/11? The terrorists didn’t do it. W and Cheney had the towers wired with bombs. There is “verifiable evidence,” on the Internet, which we all know is about as credible as this blog.
I disagreed with him, of course, but I looked into some of the “research” he cited, which all turned out to be written by a variety of quack charlatans with jail records and other nefarious histories, and I told him so. Did that piss him off! There I go again, being too tough and difficult.
We emailed each other our rebuttals because by this time he had gone back to the South for a week to get out of our hair for a while (the nicest thing he did for us). I held to my facts, and with no facts to stand on, Harold’s emails took on the quality of a nutty old guy. There was no punctuation and lots of run-on sentences (kind of like this blog). He got belligerent. The correspondence ended with me telling Harold, yet again, it was time to move out. He had to have the last word and hurled a variety of insults at me.
A week passed and Harold didn’t return. He didn’t give us the courtesy of letting us know when he’d be removing his junk from our house. Finally hubby contacted him via email and Harold eventually came back weeks later and removed his stuff. He had a gift for hubby. A baseball cap. He loves my hubby, who oddly didn’t want Harold to live with us and was the one who told me to kick him out after three weeks, and again at six weeks. About two months later, Harold sent my husband a thank you email. My husband wrote back and said that I was the one he should actually thank. So I got a two line email from Harold.
What did I want? Too much. I wanted an apology for the many small offenses he made under my roof. I wanted an acknowledgement of his deep ingratitude. I wanted him to say that he would get therapy. I also wanted him to apologize for making me defend W. I actually heard myself saying, “W is not a lizard alien.” I don’t like giving W credit for anything except for being a complete jackass.
People need a reason to believe. They need a reason to blame their sorrows on something other than themselves. In Harold’s case, he believes he has terminal bad luck, that he is a good and noble person abused by all the lizard aliens who worship demons of the fourth dimension.
There are many Harolds in the world. There is no rehab for them. They can’t accept that their life is their responsibility. They blame their failures on everything from W being a lizard, to corporate America being big fat liars. Of course corporations lie. That’s why work is called a job.
The moral of this story is, of course, No Good Deed Goes Unpunished. I know I sound mean, and it’s probably awful of me to write a blog entry about this episode. But, I am awful, so get over it. What’s truly depressing is that those few times in life when you want to help someone, they take it for granted, they show no gratitude and they try to convince you that W is a lizard.
W is many bad things, but he is not a lizard. He’s a snake.
So here it is: the story of a humble blogger and her husband, who took in a long-time acquaintance down on his luck as a houseguest. This person, I’ll call him Harold, had moved to Vegas from a town in the Deep South. Back story: Harold and my dear friend, “Tennessee,” have known each other for many years, when both were struggling actors in NYC. Tennessee went on to produce and direct theater in Los Angeles. Harold faced the music and started selling janitorial supplies in a mid-size southern town. They kept in touch; Harold more so than Tennessee.
Let me stop you at this point and say that if at anytime in this story, you should get bored, I urge you to keep reading. Aliens make an appearance toward the end. Not just any aliens, either, I’m talking shape-shifting lizard aliens who worship demons from the fourth dimension. Uh-huh. Now you want to keep reading.
Anyway, Harold got tired of his Deep South town and set his sights on Vegas. He found a girlfriend on the Internet and moved in with her. Strangely, the relationship didn’t last, and within two months, she kicked him out. That’s where I come in.
I talked hubby into letting Harold move in with us. We had known him for about twenty years, though not well. He struck us egotistical and odd, but he seemed to have good intentions, which I appreciated as so many people don’t (Dick Cheney, are you listening?). Many (okay, all) of Tennessee’s other friends had at one time or another been deeply offended by something Harold did or said and refused to even talk to him. At one point, Harold even did something that offended me, and I had stopped talking to him, but that was years ago and I couldn’t remember what he had done. Besides, people change, hopefully, and I thought I should give him another chance. His only other option was to return to the South, something I wouldn’t wish on anyone except moronic cowboys from Crawford, Texas.
Hubby agreed to let Harold stay three weeks, and no more. He understood what I was ignoring: A) it would hard have someone else live in our home and B) Harold is egotistical and odd.
In all fairness, Tennessee warned me. I think his exact words were, “I’m warning you, this is a mistake. Don’t blame me when he pisses you off.”
One reason I offered Harold a room was that he had just quit a job he started a week earlier. They lied to him, he claimed – a pattern of Harold’s. People/companies lie to him or flake on him, repeatedly.
Nonetheless, the boy needed money and shelter. The other reason I offered him a room is I imagined my self as a modern-day abolitionist, freeing victims living in the red states. I’m a dumbass, what can I say?
Harold soon got another job, but quit that because the hours were unappealing to him, and also, they lied to him. Anyway, he was sure that he was going to get this “too-good-to-be-true” job where they would pay him a ton of money to be a marketing director, something he knew nothing about (sales people are not marketing people, end of story). The job never came through because as everyone but Harold knows, if it’s too good to be true, it ain’t gonna happen.
The job situation, not to mention the Internet girlfriend kicking him out, were signs enough that Harold is trouble with a capital T. But, as mentioned, I’m a dumbass. So for me, the first sign of trouble I noted was when Harold repeatedly jumped in and took hubby’s side when he thought I was being too tough on him, which is often. I’m short, a bit chubby, overworked, am far from rich and there is a Republican in the White House. Being nasty to my husband from time-to-time is the one great pleasure I get in life.
That aside, there were times when both Hubby and me recognized that I wasn’t being hard on him, and Harold was still jumping in and defending perceived offenses. Once, when we’d been drinking, Harold started in on me about hubby, and I said, “Oh shut the f*&k up.” I say this expression the way most people say, “Hey, how are you.” It’s kind of my version of Bob Hope’s “Thanks for the memories.” Harold teared up. The next morning, first thing, he told me that I was mean when I was drunk. I was quite offended. I’m mean when I’m sober, too.
There were a thousand small things, too, that warned me of trouble ahead. Every time I opened a bottle of vitamins, drank water, looked sideways, Harold had an opinion on ways to do it healthier. Harold is a “health” legend in his own mind. Example: my doctor suggested I take chewable calcium. Harold told me that they would just float around in my stomach., never to be absorbed by my system. I imagined my little semi-digested calcium chew floating in my stomach like a mangled glob on a raft. It seemed peaceful in a way. I wanted to down a glass of wine so they would have some beverage to make their experience complete. Harold had two boxes full of vitamins and supplements, meant to do everything from keeping Harold in shape (didn’t work) to mentally health (really didn’t help).
Harold likes to help, and he told me that he would try to get me a job at the too-good-to-be-true job working for him, but that they usually hired “hot” babes, so it might be tough. Then he told me not to get offended because I was too old to be hot, and hey, “you look better heavier, anyway.”
I’m not the only cantankerous person in the house. Hubby is quite the crabby ass. When hubby disagreed with him about anything, Harold came running to me to complain. When I disagreed with Harold, he ran to hubby complaining. It reminded me of a child playing his parents. What did he expect us to do? Side with him? Actually, my hubby probably did, that SOB.
After meeting my rather wealthy friend, “Uma,” (I think she’d like that alias) Harold proceeded to hit on her in very aggressive, almost mental-rape type of way. “You have nice lips,” he said to her. “I’d like to kiss them.” This was not a fix-up, by the way. Uma came to see us and Harold happened to be there. Anyway, Uma laughed off the kissing comment and tried to be nice (her mistake, it’s like feeding a stray dog). Later she told me she was very “grossed out,” and that Harold had a “bottomless ego.”
Three weeks turned into six and I told him it was time to end our little roommate adventure. Had I not said that, he would have given me the perfect out anyway when he told me that not only did he believe in aliens, which I had known — I just thought he meant androgynous gray men — but that W, Cheney, Queen Elizabeth, the Rothschilds and Chris Christopherson were all actually a shape-shifting race of lizard aliens bent on a new world order. Chris Christopherson? That explains “A Star is Born.”
Harold’s theory on 9/11? The terrorists didn’t do it. W and Cheney had the towers wired with bombs. There is “verifiable evidence,” on the Internet, which we all know is about as credible as this blog.
I disagreed with him, of course, but I looked into some of the “research” he cited, which all turned out to be written by a variety of quack charlatans with jail records and other nefarious histories, and I told him so. Did that piss him off! There I go again, being too tough and difficult.
We emailed each other our rebuttals because by this time he had gone back to the South for a week to get out of our hair for a while (the nicest thing he did for us). I held to my facts, and with no facts to stand on, Harold’s emails took on the quality of a nutty old guy. There was no punctuation and lots of run-on sentences (kind of like this blog). He got belligerent. The correspondence ended with me telling Harold, yet again, it was time to move out. He had to have the last word and hurled a variety of insults at me.
A week passed and Harold didn’t return. He didn’t give us the courtesy of letting us know when he’d be removing his junk from our house. Finally hubby contacted him via email and Harold eventually came back weeks later and removed his stuff. He had a gift for hubby. A baseball cap. He loves my hubby, who oddly didn’t want Harold to live with us and was the one who told me to kick him out after three weeks, and again at six weeks. About two months later, Harold sent my husband a thank you email. My husband wrote back and said that I was the one he should actually thank. So I got a two line email from Harold.
What did I want? Too much. I wanted an apology for the many small offenses he made under my roof. I wanted an acknowledgement of his deep ingratitude. I wanted him to say that he would get therapy. I also wanted him to apologize for making me defend W. I actually heard myself saying, “W is not a lizard alien.” I don’t like giving W credit for anything except for being a complete jackass.
People need a reason to believe. They need a reason to blame their sorrows on something other than themselves. In Harold’s case, he believes he has terminal bad luck, that he is a good and noble person abused by all the lizard aliens who worship demons of the fourth dimension.
There are many Harolds in the world. There is no rehab for them. They can’t accept that their life is their responsibility. They blame their failures on everything from W being a lizard, to corporate America being big fat liars. Of course corporations lie. That’s why work is called a job.
The moral of this story is, of course, No Good Deed Goes Unpunished. I know I sound mean, and it’s probably awful of me to write a blog entry about this episode. But, I am awful, so get over it. What’s truly depressing is that those few times in life when you want to help someone, they take it for granted, they show no gratitude and they try to convince you that W is a lizard.
W is many bad things, but he is not a lizard. He’s a snake.
August 07, 2005
Republicans Use Kids as Weapons of Mass Annoyance
Why do Republicans love kids so much? They smell. They are loud. They are only cute when they are your offspring. By the way, I’m talking about kids, not Republicans. If W had his way, no woman would ever be able to get another abortion, which means there are more kids around to annoy me. W, I know I hate you, but why do you hate me so much? Huh?
I’ve come to this conclusion: Republicans love to complicate things. For example, they love kids. Kids, kids, kids. Truth is, kids just aren’t practical to have around because they are so damn annoying. Name one parent you know who is not stressed. There. That’s my point.
So, since Republicans will be ruling the world for the foreseeable future, let’s do that old democratic thing and compromise. If you simply must breed, rather than do away with abortion, let’s keep it, but also institute a law that says if you have children, they can’t leave the house till they A) learn to bathe once a day, 2) learn to shut up and 3) can read and discuss the Iliad.
So W, I’m begging you, please don’t stack the courts with anti-abortion judges. Abortion is actually people doing the right thing: preventing the impact of their bad parenting unleashed on the world. Please, I’m begging you. Leave abortion alone. Go attack some country with faux weapons of mass destruction. Just keep the population of kids down. We don’t need them. They aren’t our future. They are our present pain in the ass.
Side note to the pregnant mom who was on the flight with me from NYC to Las Vegas on Thursday, August 4. You need to stay home, sweetie. You are six months pregnant, which means you had to keep hauling your fat belly up and down the aisle of the plane, which wouldn’t have been so bad if I had a window seat, but no, I was in the aisle. To make matters worse, you kept bringing your brat daughter with you who you obviously think is cute but the rest of us didn’t because she kept touching our arms with her dirty hands and smiling her little retarded child smile that parents think is so cute but that I always misinterpret as retarded. I’ve finally learned to stop asking, “What happened to your kid?”
I need you parents to tell me why you think your right to fly your children outweighs the rights of those masses of us who don’t want to fly with your screaming bratty kids. You are selfish, you have a big ego, and your kids are annoying. Add it up: stay home or drop the kid off at the orphanage for the duration of your vacation.
Side note #2, to the Mom at the Quest Diagnostic center on Buffalo and Lake Mead at 10:00 am Friday: your child was screaming nonsense and all you can do is give him a gentle “shush.” You have a hand, smack the shit out of the brat. I would do it – gladly – but I’d get arrested, which is a real shame. If total strangers could correct kids, I wouldn’t be sitting here typing away my complaints.
I’ve come to this conclusion: Republicans love to complicate things. For example, they love kids. Kids, kids, kids. Truth is, kids just aren’t practical to have around because they are so damn annoying. Name one parent you know who is not stressed. There. That’s my point.
So, since Republicans will be ruling the world for the foreseeable future, let’s do that old democratic thing and compromise. If you simply must breed, rather than do away with abortion, let’s keep it, but also institute a law that says if you have children, they can’t leave the house till they A) learn to bathe once a day, 2) learn to shut up and 3) can read and discuss the Iliad.
So W, I’m begging you, please don’t stack the courts with anti-abortion judges. Abortion is actually people doing the right thing: preventing the impact of their bad parenting unleashed on the world. Please, I’m begging you. Leave abortion alone. Go attack some country with faux weapons of mass destruction. Just keep the population of kids down. We don’t need them. They aren’t our future. They are our present pain in the ass.
Side note to the pregnant mom who was on the flight with me from NYC to Las Vegas on Thursday, August 4. You need to stay home, sweetie. You are six months pregnant, which means you had to keep hauling your fat belly up and down the aisle of the plane, which wouldn’t have been so bad if I had a window seat, but no, I was in the aisle. To make matters worse, you kept bringing your brat daughter with you who you obviously think is cute but the rest of us didn’t because she kept touching our arms with her dirty hands and smiling her little retarded child smile that parents think is so cute but that I always misinterpret as retarded. I’ve finally learned to stop asking, “What happened to your kid?”
I need you parents to tell me why you think your right to fly your children outweighs the rights of those masses of us who don’t want to fly with your screaming bratty kids. You are selfish, you have a big ego, and your kids are annoying. Add it up: stay home or drop the kid off at the orphanage for the duration of your vacation.
Side note #2, to the Mom at the Quest Diagnostic center on Buffalo and Lake Mead at 10:00 am Friday: your child was screaming nonsense and all you can do is give him a gentle “shush.” You have a hand, smack the shit out of the brat. I would do it – gladly – but I’d get arrested, which is a real shame. If total strangers could correct kids, I wouldn’t be sitting here typing away my complaints.
August 05, 2005
Skinny Girls and the End of the World
I just returned from NYC and all I can say is that if someone doesn’t start force feeding the world’s population of Skinny Girls, then we should send them to Iraq to serve some good use other than pissing the rest of us women off.
I’m not fat. Ask my husband. He’ll tell you. I’m a bit chubby. Just a little bit. Those were his words before I hit him over the head with a frying pan.
If Americans are getting fatter, it must be happening to only men, and to me, because I didn’t see fat women in NYC. I saw size 0’s and size 2’s. We live in a society where if you are a size 4, or like me and you are a size 6, it’s time to embrace the South Beach Diet.
I have spent the last week studying Skinny Girls, and I’ve come to these conclusions:
1). Skinny Girls are whores. They are skinny to attract the opposite sex. They sure aren’t denying themselves food because it’s fun. You may call that low self-esteem. I call it them being whores.
2) Skinny Girls monopolize the treadmill for no apparent reason. This is why I gained weight in New York. Every time I went to the gym at my hotel, the W Times Square, where Skinny Girls go to breed, there was some skinny ass girl running like a jackass on the treadmill.
3) Skinny Girls are stupid. See reason #2 above. YOU ARE SKINNY. GET OFF THE TREADMILL AND LET ME AND MY BUDDHA BELLY ON.
4) Skinny Girls are smug. Just look at them looking at you. That’s a smug smile on their face. There’s a way to combat that smug look. Lay a polysyllable on them. Then you can look smug while they look confused.
5) Skinny Girls love to talk about how much men hit on them. I overheard one skinny girl on the treadmill say to another skinny girl on the elliptical machine, “So I was walking down the street last night and this guy said he could just eat me.” That’s not a compliment, dumbass, it’s verbal rape.
6) Men who like Skinny Girls actually are homosexuals. Skinny girls have the body of boys, except for those who have their breasts enhanced. But they have boy hips, which means men who are attracted to Skinny Girls are attracted to boys. This proves my long hypothesized theory that all men are gay. Thank you, Skinny Girls, for proving that.
7) The population of Skinny Girls has increased, which means the end of the world is near. There’s only one thing to do: eat up and enjoy the remaining moments of life.
Now excuse me while I go devour a bowl of ice cream in one swallow.
I’m not fat. Ask my husband. He’ll tell you. I’m a bit chubby. Just a little bit. Those were his words before I hit him over the head with a frying pan.
If Americans are getting fatter, it must be happening to only men, and to me, because I didn’t see fat women in NYC. I saw size 0’s and size 2’s. We live in a society where if you are a size 4, or like me and you are a size 6, it’s time to embrace the South Beach Diet.
I have spent the last week studying Skinny Girls, and I’ve come to these conclusions:
1). Skinny Girls are whores. They are skinny to attract the opposite sex. They sure aren’t denying themselves food because it’s fun. You may call that low self-esteem. I call it them being whores.
2) Skinny Girls monopolize the treadmill for no apparent reason. This is why I gained weight in New York. Every time I went to the gym at my hotel, the W Times Square, where Skinny Girls go to breed, there was some skinny ass girl running like a jackass on the treadmill.
3) Skinny Girls are stupid. See reason #2 above. YOU ARE SKINNY. GET OFF THE TREADMILL AND LET ME AND MY BUDDHA BELLY ON.
4) Skinny Girls are smug. Just look at them looking at you. That’s a smug smile on their face. There’s a way to combat that smug look. Lay a polysyllable on them. Then you can look smug while they look confused.
5) Skinny Girls love to talk about how much men hit on them. I overheard one skinny girl on the treadmill say to another skinny girl on the elliptical machine, “So I was walking down the street last night and this guy said he could just eat me.” That’s not a compliment, dumbass, it’s verbal rape.
6) Men who like Skinny Girls actually are homosexuals. Skinny girls have the body of boys, except for those who have their breasts enhanced. But they have boy hips, which means men who are attracted to Skinny Girls are attracted to boys. This proves my long hypothesized theory that all men are gay. Thank you, Skinny Girls, for proving that.
7) The population of Skinny Girls has increased, which means the end of the world is near. There’s only one thing to do: eat up and enjoy the remaining moments of life.
Now excuse me while I go devour a bowl of ice cream in one swallow.
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