*ACTUAL TRUTH MAY VARY--particularly in the sketchier areas of human knowledge and achievement: business, mathematics, the hard sciences, and the like -- oh! and economics. (I really suck at economics.)
Monday, February 26, 2007
Christian Porn: "Did Someone Pray for a Meat-Lover's Pizza?" Bow-Hallelujah!-Bow-Wow
"Oh, my goodness, there are so many people to thank. My biggest thanks, of course, is to god, who gave me the strength and the acting ability to deliver his message. Every time I spread my legs, I feel like I'm spreading the word of god."
Finally, a religion I can get behind.
I just hope the baptisms aren't conducted under Golden Showers, because, seriously, I don't do that anymore.
Got Pole? “Yes, but It's Gone Limp and Will Likely Remain Limp for Some Time. Thanks, Grandma Schotanus”
Pole dancing, once exclusively the province of exotic dancers, has flared up as a much-hyped Hollywood exercise craze, and has seeped into the collective unconscious through shows like “The Sopranos” and “Desperate Housewives.” A variant called motorized pole dancing, which occurs in stretch limos, has raised eyebrows as far away as Britain, where some female university students pole-danced as a fund-raiser for testicular cancer. And mini-poles have even been spotted as dance props at over-the-top bat mitzvah parties in suburban precincts.
Now the pole—think ballet barre turned vertical—is the new star at racier versions of Tupperware parties in well-heeled (if high-heeled) areas like this one in the northwest hills of Morris County, about 33 miles from Manhattan. Billed as “femme empowerment,” such at-home pole dancing lessons are taking place in the realm of book clubs, with mothers—and grandmothers—learning slinky moves for girls' nights in, bachelorette send-offs, even the occasional 60th birthday celebration …
Some say exercise that echoes the acrobatics done by women who take their clothes off for a living is exploitative rather than empowering. But Ms. Shteir and Joan Price, the author of “Better Than I Ever Expected: Straight Talk About Sex After Sixty” (Seal Press, 2006), see a clear difference between middle-class, middle-aged women choosing to give parties in their homes and women pushed by poverty into potentially dangerous or demeaning work …
You were sore afterwards? Um, Yolanda, I don't think you were doing it right. Next time, swing around the pole, instead of, you know, mounting it. I think you'll feel much, much better the next day.
Better yet, why don't you leave this demeaning and dangerous work to the lower class twirling, trailer trash you so abhor for their inability to transform this empowering activity into emancipatory political action, the way you and your bourgeoisie better-than-you sisters do?
If only they could, they'd be able to free women from the shackles of their male oppressors in no time flat, those Martin Luther King Jrs. of the stripper pole:
AVC: Have you thought about what you'd do if you weren't cops?
TJ: I've done the math, and I think that I might make slightly more on unemployment than I make as a law-enforcement officer. So I would just spend time at the library on the Google, and, ya know, learn things.
JD: I would like to get into something that I would be proud to tell people about—like softcore pornography on the Internet.
TJ: Oh, that's what I meant too.
JD: I think we would probably both be in softcore pornography, and I think there's a lot of openings. Well, I've got my standards.
TJ: Triple penetration ain't for me. . . .
AVC: Well, we have some law-enforcement queries: Say you're in a high-speed chase on a city street, in hot pursuit, and on the immediate approaching road, there's a stack of dozens and dozens of boxes.
JD: Are they filled with babies?
AVC: Not babies. . . . Now, you can maintain your course and keep an eye on things, or you can go through the boxes. What do you do?
TJ: Are the cameras on?
AVC: Yes.
TJ: Then you go through the boxes. . . .
AVC: Okay, another one: You're undercover with a gang, and in order to prove your loyalty, you have to bust a cap in a cop. Who on the staff would you choose?
JD: Obviously, there would never be a situation where we would have to take it that far. By that point, we could have made a bust, and if we hadn't, it'd be Trudy Wiegel—and I think it would be with extreme prejudice. . . .
AVC: Another one: A woman discovers a large stash of child pornography on her husband's computer. What does she do?
JD: The worst crime there is in the world, other than kiddy-porn, which is a terrible one, is ignorance. There should be a death penalty for ignorance. If you live in America, and you don't know how to clean out your web history, then you are guilty as charged with being ignorant, and you might as well go to the gulag for all I care.
TJ: Like you get extra time for hate crimes, you should get "dumb time." There should be dumb time. An extra 10 years.
JD: All the Macs have private browsing—just go to private browsing.
TJ: It's so easy.
JD: Here's something: If you watch other law-enforcement programs, you would think we catch people all the time. But nothing could be further from the truth. Fifty percent of murders are unsolved, and in Nevada, that goes up to more like 70-75.
TJ: A lot of them don't even get reported.
JD: Once in a while, we'll find a head or a foot. We didn't even know we were looking for somebody.
TJ: All these shows where they scrape up the evidence all meticulously, and then send it to a lab, and there's 70 people workin' in a NASA operation—
JD: "Let's get the atom-smasher workin' so we can separate the bullshit."
And I want you to know, George, on behalf of black men, everywhere, that despite the ugly words that so often spring from our surprisingly, but deeply homophobic community, we don't hate you, either. As a matter of fact, we like you.
We like you so much that we're willing to lube up Tim Hardaway, dress him in nothing but a red Star Trek shirt, and let you play "Hide the Phaser" with him until both of your faces are set on Stunned by the Post-Coital Glow. Call it a peace offering. Film it, release it as Gay porn, go nuts.
But first, we've got to know. It's the chocolaty heads, covered in man dew, that makes you like us so much, isn't it? I thought so.
This Is the Kind of Art that Opression Produces. Feel Shame
Starring Rudy Ray Moore as "Dolemite" that bad D'urville Martin in the role he was born to play, "Willie Green" and introducing Meredith Viera as "The Sistah Soldier in the Cadillac"
Since They Didn't Shoot Him, I'm Guessing Justin Stasney Is White
Justin Stasney might have had a good reason for not responding to officers who surrounded his home. He was asleep in a recliner when the SWAT team found him after a four-hour standoff, authorities said. . . .
Officers surrounding the home first heard breaking glass and other noise, but then heard nothing from Stasney despite making calls on a telephone they were able to get into the house and talking to him over a patrol car's loudspeaker, authorities said.
A second SWAT team went around the back of the house after about four hours and saw Stasney asleep in a chair, Jenkins said.
What additional charges are they going to bring against him? felonious glass breaking? criminal neglect of a ringing phone with intent to sleep? slumbrous congress with a LaZ Boy recliner? keeping a Southern police force out of Krispy Kreme for 4 hours while the "Hot Doughnuts Now" light is on? What?
And by the end, he's robbed the word of its humor, too, which, I know, is hard to believe. I mean, "dildo," [tee hee] like "poot," [giggle] is just inherently funny. But, trust me, after reading that, you won't be laughing.
Coffee's Not Like that Bitch Tequila, Who's Burned Me Over and Over Again (Shout Out to The Law Guy)
It's the poem I've always wanted to write to the one true love of my life but couldn't, because, obviously, I have no talent. Thank you, Pamie Ribon for saying in words what I've been feeling.
The warmth In my mouth. That rush Through my veins Making my heart race My pulse quicken My head Just a bit dizzy. My legs are just a bit numb. My tongue Yearns for more More of you Right now. Now. I can't wait anymore. This is torture. Seriously. I'm in hell Waiting for you. I just want to shout To this giant crowd of people 'How hard is it to make a latte, fuckers?' I love you, coffee.
Why I'm Trying to Join a Local Volleyball League: I'm All About the Lesbian Spanking
Question: I have just had my heart ripped out by the love of my life. My question is: what the fuck do I do now?—C.S.
Answer: You have taken a very bad spill in the volleyball game of love. Let me be the lesbian physical therapist who patches you up and, with an alarming smack on the ass, sends you back in the game. You’ll be spiking it again for mommy before you know it—but only if we do this thing right. . . .
That, my friends, is crazy talk. After a breakup, if cheap sex is available -- and if you don't tell your exes that you've broken up with your current love, cheap sex will definitely be available -- you should definitely have it with as many exes as you can, even the possibly psychotic one, you know, the one you have to sleep lightly with or run the risk of showing up in the emergency room, covered in welts, scratches, and bite marks, with no good answers to the nice attendant's questions: Did she use a disinfectant before piercing your nipples ("Does saliva count?"); why are they having such a hard time removing your cock ring ("That would be the Krazy Glue"); and why is there a buzzing sound coming from your rectal cavity ("because it was small, lubed, and irretrievable"). That sounds cool, right, being the talk of Emergent Care for the next 10 years or (your next break up, whichever comes first)? Like I said, "crazy talk." The answer to your problem is not less sex, but more.
Valentine's Day: Bad Gift Ideas It's your prerogative, of course, to ignore all of our Valentine's Day suggestions and find a gift on your own. But we'd like to steer you away from certain items, which may be top-quality products but probably aren't the wisest choices for February 14. For more party-of-one fun, check out the rest of our Love Stinks feature.
Race Horse Costume
This is a bad idea? In what cock-eyed world is buying a horse and jockey set for you and your sweetie to prance around in on Valentine's Day wrong? Did the person classifying these things not see the riding crop? Seriously, it's not like it's a crotchless horse suit. I could see someone saying that wouldn't be romantic. No, no, actually, I can't. That would rock even more. Because if getting ridden to the breaking point and having your partner smack your flanks with a crop to get even more out of you is wrong, I don't want to be right.
Jack Donaghy: [to NBC page] I wasn't really going to fire you. I just wanted to remind you that I could.
I want you back here, 6:30 in the morning, sharp [pointing around], so you can sweep up these shrimp tails.
Kenneth: Yes, sir, Mr. Donaghy.
Jack: I'm going to have my eye on you, Kenneth.
Kenneth: [sycophantically] You will not be disappointed, sir.
Jack: [to Liz Lemon as they, both, watch Kenneth unchain his bicycle and then pedal away] The Italians have a saying, Lemon: "Keep your friends close, your enemies closer." And although they've never won a war or mass-produced a decent car, in this area, they are correct. In five years, we'll, all, be, either, working for him, or be dead by his hand.
I can't believe I haven't been watching this show. I mean, Alec Baldwin's impersonation of Anthony Hopkin's Lecter from Silence of the Lambs is enough to recommend buying a DVD of the first season, by itself. Of course, that would mean less time for me surfing the Internet, so it's unlikely that I'll ever actually watch an episode, but that shouldn't stop you.
Jon: [Ted Haggard] went through a three-week, very intensive . . . Of course, a lot of people would say how do that do it? How do they turn this clearly gay man into a heterosexual. Well, it's very simple. You know when you were a kid and your father caught you smoking, and he decided to make you smoke a carton, . . . . Ted's been a busy boy.
Someone at the Daily Show's been reading my blog:
[from a 23 January post] How exactly do we C.H.O.P.S away the Gay? Well, we do it in the only way I know how. It's the same method my mother used when she saw a cigarette dangling from my lips and wanted me to quit. She got me to Choke the Smoke, by smoking pack after pack of Kools until I puked. (To this day, I can't go near a cigarette.) Copying that tried and true method, here, we chop away the gay by forcing you to have anal and oral sex with me, over and over and over again , bumping and grinding, pitching and catching, until finally you scream, "Enough with the Gay! There's got to be a better way!" (And you will.) Trust me. It works -- if not the first time, then definitely, by the second or third. I have never failed to turn a gay man straight.
It's Not Like the Name of the Play is, "The Cunt Soliloquies"
A modified marquee in which 'Hoohaa' replaced a word in the title of a play after a driver complained about finding the previous wording offensive continues to draw attention. . . .
"We got a complaint about this play The Vagina Monologues," said Bryce Pfanenstiel, of the Atlantic Theater. . . .
"We decided we would just use child slang for it. That's how we decided on Hoohah Monologues," Pfanenstiel said.
They did this after a driver who saw it complained to the theater, saying she was upset that her niece saw it.
"I'm on the phone and asked 'What did you tell her?' She's like, 'I'm offended I had to answer the question,'" Pfanenstiel said.
I'm sure they did. That's what people do when you do their jobs for them.
But this is an example of one of those things that chafes my ass, an example of us dumbing down culture so that it is palatable for children. It grates on my nerves, because I'm an adult, who'd like to be challenged by the art he sees, the books he reads, the films and television shows he watches. And I can't do that if you culture-censoring prigs keep passing everything through preadolescent-gauge sieves until the entirety of American public life can be consumed by a third grader.
So stop.
Yeah, I know parenting is hard, or, at least, it is if you do it correctly. Part of that is developing the framework in kids to interpret and consume adult culture by the time they reach maturity. That involves filtering out inappropriate material until you've given them the means to handle it safely or properly. Like I said, that's not easy.
Now, if you're curious about how you're doing so far, let me give you a pop quiz. If your daughter (or niece) can read the word "vagina" but is devastated by it when she does, guess what? You're doing a shitty job.
Seriously, it's a vagina, lady. She's got one. Help the poor thing out here.
You'd Think to a Hot Librarian,* This Sort of Thing Would Be Commonplace
It was a typical New Year's celebration - tiny weiners in sauce (heh), Dick (HEH) Clark and his dropping ball (HEH x2), board games, sullen drinking, and family squabbles until I broke away from the party for a minute to get something out of the guest room I was staying in.
The door was closed and not expecting anyone to be in there, I walked right in. What I saw stunned me. I am not easily stunned.
Have you ever been in a situation where you had absolutely zero idea what to say next, all thoughts flying from your head like frightened birds scattering to the sky? And then when your senses alighted once again after eternal seconds where your mouth did little but ineffectually open and close like a nun's pocketbook, all you could stutter out was a sort of bashful, tentative question, "...what are you...doing?" Anyone? Just me, then.
What did I see that was so troublesome? Well, it goes a little something like this: I opened the door to see my stepmother's thirty-something brother, his eyes closed rapturously, breathing in deeply as if he was gobbling oxygen at Mt. Everest's base camp, both hands grasping
BOBBY FLAY: They seem to have noticed Bobby’s strong “negatives” among some viewer responses during focus groups--and decided to respond by subjecting poor Bobby to THROWDOWN; the object of which is to allow every web-fingered geek with a backyard grill--or half-mad muffin maker to proclaim, “I beat Bobby Flay at makin’ barbeque!” at the heart-warming end of show--before returning to tend their meth labs. . . .
RACHAEL [RAY]: Complain all you want. It’s like railing against the pounding surf. She only grows stronger and more powerful. Her ear-shattering tones louder and louder. We KNOW she can’t cook. She shrewdly tells us so. So...what is she selling us? Really? She’s selling us satisfaction, the smug reassurance that mediocrity is quite enough. She’s a friendly, familiar face who appears regularly on our screens to tell us that “Even your dumb, lazy ass can cook this!” Wallowing in your own crapulence on your Cheeto-littered couch you watch her and think, “Hell…I could do that. I ain’t gonna…but I could--if I wanted! Now where’s my damn jug a Diet Pepsi?” Where the saintly Julia Child sought to raise expectations, to enlighten us, make us better--teach us--and in fact, did, Rachael uses her strange and terrible powers to narcotize her public with her hypnotic mantra of Yummo and Evoo and Sammys. “You’re doing just fine. You don’t even have to chop an onion--you can buy it already chopped. Aspire to nothing…Just sit there. Have another Triscuit…Sleep….sleep….”
SANDRA LEE: Pure evil. This frightening Hell Spawn of Kathie Lee and Betty Crocker seems on a mission to kill her fans, one meal at a time. She Must Be Stopped. Her death-dealing can-opening ways will cut a swath of destruction through the world if not contained. I would likely be arrested if I suggested on television that any children watching should promptly go to a wooded area with a gun and harm themselves. What’s the difference between that and Sandra suggesting we fill our mouths with Ritz Crackers, jam a can of Cheez Wiz in after and press hard? None that I can see. This is simply irresponsible programming.
When I was convalescing from a chronic illness, I spent a lot of time watching and listening to the Food Network shows. They served as the white noise for my existence. When one of their top chefs came on, I focused. Educational and entertaining, they were Must-See TV.
Not anymore. Now, it's all crap.
By the way, Rachel Ray did a $40 a Day segment at a restaurant where I waited tables, during my grad school years. I can safely say without fear of contradiction, that had her production staff wrapped the filming a minute later, one of us would have killed her.
As I mentioned before, Seattle is the home of the sexpresso, where along with your extra shot of chocolate syrup and whipped cream you get a shot of T&A. But for some reason, this isn't really doing it for me, which is quite disturbing. I guess the truth is, when it comes right down to it, I don't like tarts with my coffee.
Expect Mr. Whittman to Sue the Taser Company for not Including the Following Phrase on their Packaging: "Not for Use on Children"
A 21-year old mother contacted the Albany Police Department Saturday afternoon to report child abuse allegations against her husband.
She told officers that her husband, 23-year old Rian James Whittman, shot her 18-month old son repeatedly with a stun gun causing injury.
The investigation revealed that Rian James Whittman used a 100,000 volt stun-gun device multiple times on his 18-month old son over an approximately 3-week period. . . .
Notice the sloping forehead, the dead eyes, the manly scruff of facial hair. This, dear students, is a perfect specimen of Homo Dumbassfuck.
Homo Dumbassfuck lacks a motive for most of the things he does, so, most likely, there is no explanation to found, here. If the prosecutor's office needed a motive, in order to press charges, and pushed me to offer one, then I'd say, he probably tasered the baby because he couldn't reach the dog.
A man has been arrested in Croatia after he expressed his drunken anger with a cash machine through the medium of urine.
51-year-old Vladimir Mesic was taken into custody this weekend after climbing on to a litter bin so he could urinate on a cashpoint machine that had swallowed his bank card in the city of Split.
In today’s New York Times Mary Cheney defends her decision to get her lezbo self knocked the fuck up. Like her father, Mary Cheney believes she shouldn’t have to answer for her party’s attacks on same-sex parents.
“When Heather and I decided to have a baby, I knew it wasn’t going to be the most popular decision,” Ms. Cheney said, referring to her partner of 15 years, Heather Poe. She then gestured to her middle—any bulge disguised by a boxy jacket—and asserted: “This is a baby. This is a blessing from God. It is not a political statement. It is not a prop to be used in a debate, on either side of a political issue. It is my child.”
Nice try, Mary. . . .
The GOP’s selective embrace of some pregnant dykes—only knocked-up lesbians with powerful connections will be treated with respect—is a disconnect that demands answers. From you, from your father, from your venomous mother, from the idiot president you helped elect. Is that fair? Maybe not. Want to blame someone? Go look in the mirror—and then come out swinging, Mary—for yourself, your partner, and your child.
This was a pretty good start:
Ms. Cheney noted Mr. Dobson’s distortions of the research he cited [in a piece attacking her in Time] and added: “Every piece of remotely responsible research that has been done in the last 20 years has shown there is no difference between children raised by same-sex parents and children raised by opposite-sex parents; what matters is being raised in a stable, loving environment.”
She said Mr. Dobson was entitled to his opinion, “but he’s not someone whose endorsement I have ever drastically sought.”
. . . Again, Mary, nice try. You kept your mouth clamped shut when your father needed the political support of assholes like Dobson. And now that your dad is a despised lame-duck VP, dad’s gay-bashing political allies feel free to treat you with the same contempt with which they have long treated other gay and lesbians. And now you cry foul?
In many regards, we live in an OB-oriented society that has a penchant for infantilizing segments of American life rightly reserved for adults, so much so, that at times, a pregnancy can play like a Get Out of Jail Free card. Every trump card has its rules, though, and one of the rules of the "deflecting criticism with my impregnate womb" card is that you cannot have spent your entire adult public life denying others the right to family life you now claim for yourself.
Not only is that not allowed, it's just plain tacky.
I want to say two things in a sort of commencement address mode. One is, to the student - raise hell. And the other is - and I am serious as a stroke about this - you have to work at this throughout your career. Have fun. The reason that's real important is something that was mentioned earlier - the burn-out factor - getting worn out.
Now, there's some people who have a genius for anger - Bob Sherrill, and a few others. Ronnie Dugger is another journalist I know, who becomes outraged at injustice, every time he sees it, just as though injustice had never before occurred in the history of the world. But, most of us don't have that happy thing, and further more, if we stay angry all the time, we get bitter and tired and cynical and burned out and utterly useless. And what you have to do is have fun while you're trying to do good. . . .
I am a great believer in making politics fun and encouraging those who do so. There was a splendid example of this a few years ago in Austin. The state legislature took a fit of communism and declared Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday a state holiday. Now, don't worry, it was a package deal, we kept Confederate Heroes Day. It was ... honoring Dr. King, and as you can imagine, it upset the Ku Klux Klan and ... asked them to come to Austin to have a protest and rally and, many of you from more civilized parts would not know this, but it's a pain in the ass when the cluckers come to town.
It upsets the black citizens, it upsets the Jewish citizens. The skinhead kids turn out and cheer them on from the sidewalk, and everybody gets mad at everybody for a good six months. . . .
So, a group of us civil libertarians gathered mournfully over a pitcher of beer down at the Zona Rosa Bar one afternoon discussing the clucker factor and came up with what we thought was a better plan. We don't have enough cluckers right there in Austin to have a good march. They had to be bussed in from Waco and Vider.
They got off the buses, wearing their little pointy hats on their little pointy heads and commenced to march up Congress Avenue. They were greeted by several thousand citizens of Austin ... on both sides of the street who mooned them as they marched. It made a real nice effect - it was kind of like a wave in a baseball stadium.
Now, that's my kind of protest.
In case you haven't heard, Molly Ivins died Tuesday. I can't say this about many people, but I can say it of her: We are the lesser for her passing.
Wherever her soul resides (I'm willing to suspend my disbelief in an afterlife for her sake), I hope they've got bourbon there.
*thanks to Pacific Views for directing me to the quoted Columbia School of Journalism commencement address.
