Location of study: U. S.Study subjects: 100 children aged 3 to 12 who have just been diagnosed with cancer
Proposal: Researchers from the American Humans Association are launching the first clinical trial to measure the effects of animal-assisted therapy on cancer. Puppies will be provided to 50 kids, in addition to standard therapy. The other 50 children will receive standard therapy alone.
Me, I'm going to tell them to shut up.
I mean, c'mon -- every generation has its problems. You just have to deal with it. In fact, this generation's problems are NOTHING compared to the obstacles my generation faced.
When I was in my twenties, for instance, gay people couldn't get married. So you're up to your ankles in water because all the glaciers have melted? Wah wah wah. While you're drowning, at least you've got a hubby to hug!
Panthers, tigers, rhinos, gorillas, pandas, and lions have all gone extinct? Whoopee. It's not like they used to be walking down Main Street. We had to go to zoos to see them. You're in the same boat we were, and we didn't get to make out with football players on ESPN.
Of course, antibiotics are going to stop working in a few years, so everybody will have VD. NOOOOOO! At least you can comfort yourself by watching Jon Hamm in no knickers. My generation, if we wanted to see a basket, we had to watch eight hours of doctor shit on TV hoping Marcus Welby would eventually sit down. You didn't have blue balls for eight weeks before the J. C. Penney catalog came out.
When I was a kid, sure, the weather was lovely. Puffy little clouds dotted the crystal blue sky and cool breezes wafted the scent of lilac and cedar around the old swimming hole. If a gay kid wanted to hit the big time, though, he'd have to sleep with Richard Deacon or Paul Lynde. So you're whining because you have to crank up the a/c when you're in bed with Zachary Quinto or Matt Bomer? Screech screech goes the world's tiniest violin. And the remote control is sooo far away.
Life is never going to be a picnic, so I recommend doing what we did: make up a pithy little slogan to keep your spirit up. "When life gives you lemons," we decided, "make lemonade."
Sure, it won't be easy. The future is going to give you an overheated, underfed, tornado-ravaged oligarchy. Make up your own pithy slogan. I don't know: maybe something about scones.
I never got the air conditioning and didn't get moved to another hotel, so when I returned home I called Expedia and spoke to a supervisor. He disregarded the previous supervisor's mention of a refund and instead he offered me a $100 "coupon" for my trouble. For eight nights with no air conditioning in a room nearing eighty degrees. (Remember, European beds have duvets rather than top sheets, which means I was laying totally naked and sweating on a mattress with nothing at all covering me. On Expedia, evidently, this deserves four and a half stars.) For the hour I spent on the phone explaining the problem and trying to get them to move me to a new hotel. If I accepted the "coupon," however, Expedia wouldn't admit they were wrong, and they wouldn't remove the words "air conditioning" from its listing.
I tweeted a few times about my experience, and eventually I got a direct message from Expedia saying they'd "sent this case to [their] top tier team to review." Naturally I was elated. I mean, I assumed the idiots you're first connected to when you call a company are their bottom tier. I guessed folks with a bit more experience were the middle tier. A dude on the top tier, I thought, probably had a briefcase and a badge.
I waited as patiently as possible. There was no way I could lose. The investigator would call the hotel, confirm that there was no air conditioning, see the words "air conditioning" in Expedia's listing, then decide how much of a refund I was due. Needless to say I was thrilled when my top-tier investigator telephoned and left a message saying she'd decided on resolution.
It turned out top-tier investigator Aliya could do faaaar better. Forget "coupon": she could get me $100 CASH. But Expedia still wouldn't admit they're wrong, blah blah blah.
I didn't even think for a second -- particularly because I'd forgotten that the previous offer wasn't, in fact, for cash. It's not like there's a gray area, I told her. Anybody with a third of a brain can see Expedia is cheating their customers.
Pssh, Aliya said. Everybody knows European hotels only have air conditioning in the summer months. Everybody knows it. And heating is only turned on in wintertime.
That's interesting, I said. So you're going to add small print to every page saying, "Some of this information is wrong, but everybody knows that"? Look, I said, YOU CLAIM THERE'S AIR CONDITIONING. THERE'S NO AIR CONDITIONING. NO AIR CONDITIONING.
But there is, she maintained. See, air conditioning doesn't necessarily mean cooling the air. It means conditioning it. There are a lot of ways to condition the air. If you're heating the air, you're conditioning it. If you're blowing the air around, you're --
And that's when I hung up.
My second husband, George, used to redefine terms when he was losing an argument. It was like Bill Clinton redefining "sex." What do you mean by black? George would ask. What do you mean by white? I went back to the Expedia website to read the comments of other guests. 98% positive reply rate, it said. And I flipped through looking for my review ... and it wasn't there.
So, here's a question for Aliya: what's a 98% positive reply rate when you delete negative reviews? She may be in the top tier but I'll bet even she couldn't answer that.
Then, in order to bone up on the history and culture of Monaco — and perhaps because the situation is not yet sufficiently gay — Grace consults a local nobleman, Count Fernando D'Aillieres, played by Derek Jacobi. He scampers about the hillsides, with Grace in tow, filling her in on all the tiresome details, while also presuming to give her tips on acting and deportment. (Surely as an Oscar-winning star she knows this stuff already?) Jacobi has a little fun with the part, although it needed Ian McKellen to come on, playing the Count's ageing houseboy.
“We shall creep out quietly into the butler's pantry --" cried the Mole."-- with our pistols and swords and sticks--" shouted Mystique.
"-- and rush in upon them," said Badger.
"-- and whack 'em, and whack 'em, and whack 'em!" cried Wolverine in ecstasy, running round and round the room, and jumping over the chairs.
Wait. I didn't get X-Men mixed up with Wind in the Willows, did I?
That doesn't seem possible.
I mean, one is an exciting, cutting-edge adult graphic novel about superheroes and one is a creaky old folk tale aimed at either children or dimwits.
Well, I'm not proud: I plead stupidity. Unless you're aiming for a similar fate, see if you can separate the two.
(a) Otter
(b) Beast
(c) Wolverine
(d) Mole
(e) Badger
(f) Sunspot
(g) Magneto
(h) Ratty
(i) Mystique
(j) Portly
(k) Chief Weasel
(l) Toad
(m) Wayfarer
(n) Congressman Parker
ANSWERS: (a), (d), (e), (h), (j), (k) and (m) are from Wind in the Willows. (b), (c), (f), (g), (i), and (n) are in X-Men. (l) is in both.
One day, though, my class of thirty or so was led into the gym, where five ropes were dangling from the ceiling. At the top of each rope, seemingly inches away from the dizzyingly-high roof, was a metal circle.
Coach Hill separated us into lines at each rope, and all the blood left my head as I realized the task of the day. We had to climb the rope to the top and bang the metal circle with our fists.
They can't, I thought. They couldn't. Because if they'd asked me what I needed to climb that rope, my list would have included a harness, eighteen crampons and a Sherpa. Where was the preparation? I wondered. We should be comparing and contrasting various techniques, double-checking our safety gear, or stretching the muscles that we'd overtax in this odd little skill.
The first kid in each line scurried to their ropes as Coach Hill hit the stopwatch. Oh, you are fucking kidding me, I thought. We're actually going to be timed doing something I've never attempted in my life? Being fourth in line I had approximately two minutes to figure out what the fuck to do. In terms of sheer panic, this was roughly equivalent to James Bond trying to defuse a nuclear bomb while Jaws hit him in the head with a rock. Next they'd just casually drop us out of an airplane, and I'd plummet 40,000 miles to my death while trying to figure out if there's some sort of cord to pull or if I need to flap.
I'd noticed this earlier in P. E.: rather than teaching us things, we were assumed to have already learned them, then judged on our ability. It didn't make sense. I mean, all the other classes give you lessons that you're quizzed about later on. On the first day of History class you aren't led into a room that you can't leave until you've named fourteen factors that led to the Boer wars.
I watched as some of the kids swung up the ropes like monkeys. Where were we supposed to have learned this skill? I wondered. If I'd had parents, would I know how to do this? It didn't seem likely, as if after downing dayglo-orange macaroni and cheese all the neighborhood moms strung up thirty pounds of old hemp from the rafters of the house. But some of the kids had obviously done this before. I catalogued the strategies. The fastest way, clearly, was hands-only. You grab the rope, then just keep pulling yourself higher and higher through sheer arm strength. I quickly crossed this off the possibilities, since I had to enlist my sister's help to open a 7-Up. The alternative was the inchworm technique: you grab the rope, squish your body together, squeeze the rope between your feet, then straighten out and grab the rope higher up. It divided the stress onto two body parts, which seemed easier, though even tossing in the rest of them would have still left the odds around twenty-thousand to four.
My group approached the ropes as Coach Hill reset his stopwatch. Dude, I thought, you're going to need a calendar for this. I grabbed on, closed my eyes, and went for it, maybe singing "Inchworm" in my head. Mike Slattery, the blond jock, veritably scampered to the top, and various nerds, geeks and losers followed. While I wasn't a monkey, I also wasn't Alex Bor, the chubby Russian kid who came to school with a brown briefcase. I gave up maybe four feet from the top and nobody even noticed.
I wasn't sure if it was exertion or relief that had me giddy, but it seemed like class ended seconds later. "Good job, guys," Coach Hill said. "Tomorrow we're playing baseball."
Everybody cheered except Alex and me. Was that the sport with the bat, and the ridiculous misuse of real estate? The other kids excitedly ran off to the shower while I tried to regroup. Even if I somehow figured out how to hit a moving target with a sliver of wood, I thought, why would I want to?
"If you pump your arm a few times, will your bicep get even bigger?" I asked Coach Hill, and I resigned myself to living one day at a time.
This is a statue of Dr. Karl Lueger. He made such an impression on Vienna that he has a major street and a square named after him. You're really got to admire a guy who has his life depicted in four sculptures and in two of them he's shirtless. I hate to think what my four scenes would be, but in at least one I'd be arguing with a Target clerk about whether or not Scrubbing Bubbles is on sale.
I decided I'd stay within the budget set by my own French tourists, so I scoured the internet for inexpensive hotels. Expedia's listing for the Star Inn Hotel Wien Schonnbrun, in Vienna, stood out: it was brand new, modern, and conveniently located. There was free wifi, and the rooms had air conditioning, which is pretty much required by anybody who's been to Europe in spring or summer. I booked the room for a week.
The first thing I did when I got there was turn on the a/c. I wasn't going to spend a lot of time indoors, but when you're trying to sleep it's better to be too cold than too hot. It didn't kick in immediately, but I figured I'd give it some time. After waking up in a pool of sweat two mornings in a row, I asked the desk clerk what was up.
"The air conditioning in the building has been turned off," she said. "Why don't you open a window?"
I take great pains to appear amenable, so I said okay. I opened a window. But the next morning, when I found dozens of flies, gnats, and mosquitos sharing the space with me, I began to have second thoughts. As I squashed them into the sheer white curtains and their blood drenched the fabric I thought, you know, this isn't exactly what I picture when I think "Viennese holiday."
I went back to the desk, where the same clerk gave me the same response. She acted surprised when I told her about the bugs, like it was bizarre they were hanging around my window because everybody else was bug-free. I tweeted complaints to the hotel and Expedia, and when those were ignored I called Expedia.
The agent acted like he'd be helpful. While I was on hold he called the hotel, and when he came back he proudly announced that -- at 10 o'clock at night -- I could pack up all my stuff and move to a different room. "But the air conditioning in the building is turned off," I said. "Why would that do any good?"
This confused him. He put me back on hold and called the hotel again. Everybody talked to everybody else, and then all of a sudden it was nearly midnight. I spoke to a supervisor at Expedia, who said he'd start processing a refund and would try to move me to a different hotel. He told me to check my email for details from 8 am to noon the following day.
I never heard from Expedia again.
When I got back to New York, I discovered Expedia hadn't done anything, and didn't intend to. "You stayed in the room," a supervisor told me, "so you have to pay for it."
"Let me get this straight," I said. "(1) You tricked me into booking a hotel by lying about its amenities. (2) I begged you to move me to a new hotel but you didn't. And now (3) you say I have no claim because I DIDN'T LEAVE THE HOTEL?"
That was about right, he confirmed. He offered me $100, which is roughly a dollar for every hour I spent trying to sleep naked and still sweating, with no sheets or blankets covering me and a hundred mosquitos circling.
I said no thanks.
Since then, I've done some research. All of the information on Expedia's website comes directly from the hotels, and if the information is wrong, Expedia denies responsibility. Which should inspire zero confidence in their customers: I mean, if you book a suite and they stick you in a tuna can, you're hardly going to sue the hotel in Austrian court. Even if you're a frequent traveller, who wants to spring for the wigs?
I told Expedia at the very least they should fix their listing. I'm not holding my breath, because clearly they don't care. In fact, I think this policy will embolden the hotels into bigger lies. We'll probably end up with scenarios like this:
The Star Inn Hotel Wien Schonbrunn's listing will read, "You'll love our new fitness center, with state of the art equipment." And then when you ask the desk clerk where it is, she'll say, "We haven't got one. Why don't you do some push-ups in your room?"
The listing will read, "You'll appreciate our luxury travel bag of posh toiletries." Then when you ask the desk clerk about it, she'll say, "Here's a dollar. Why don't you go to a drug store and buy soap?"
The listing will read, "Those traveling with children will love our free onsite babysitting." Then when you ask the desk clerk about it, she'll leap in a chair, flap her hands and say, "Look at me! I'm a baby, and I'm sitting. WAAAH!"
The listing will read, "Start the day with our complimentary continental breakfast." Then when you come down in the morning, she'll say, "Today's continent is Africa. Why don't you go eat a bug?"
The guy with wheelie luggage looks like after he walks through the hotel's revolving door, he's just going to follow the railroad tracks for a while. Once he's out of sight, he'll squint up at the sun, mop his brow, and quietly mutter, "What direction are you going to take me today, old brown shoes?"
So, I'm off again. London, Prague, Salzburg, Vienna, and Budapest. When I get back, I'll share the highlights. Don't expect too much, though: I've passed the age of backpacking and doing drugs with topless fire-eaters on remote beaches, and now blindly follow Rick Steves into quaint little villages with tea shops and strudel. Until May 4 you'll have to entertain yourself by wandering the archives. If this note has left you with even the slightest hint of melancholy you'll want to find my Pride and Prejudice piece, and all fond feelings will vanish like Paco's oats.
Writer Parker Molloy is furious, simply furious, that RuPaul routinely uses words like "tranny" and "she-male," even taking to Twitter to announce, "I fucking hate RuPaul." After much thought and a soupçon of K, I totally agree. I believe I'm uniquely qualified to comment on this argument since I was nearly a Human Sexuality major in college. (Want proof? The pronouns I use for myself are Shem, Shep, and p*ngo, and the last email I sent to GrubHub was 87,000 words long.)
Though RuPaul has been, without doubt, one of the gay/queer community's all-time iconic figures and role models for gender fluidity, he needs to know he's not above the law. C'mon, since when are members of a minority group free to use words that are offensive when spoken by others? Ms. Molloy points out that the folks on Mike and Molly were hauled over the coals for using the word "she-male," while nobody says a word about Ru. The double-standard is ridiculous: if two Midwestern heteros are castigated for laughing at alternate gender expression, why should a man in a bouffant and spandex catsuit get a free ride? I mean, would it be so hard to change the phrase, "You've got she-mail!" to "You have received a small package or parcel that has arrived via the Non-Cis-Gender Express"?
Where Advocate.com falls short, though, is putting this in perspective. RuPaul ran way out of a limb before any of us even knew there was a tree. He preached to our parents that queer is good since we were gluing sequins to our nappies. He deserves our eternal thanks for literally defining the queer community, for uniting us behind a message of peace and love, for giving all of us the courage to step out of the closets and into society, and for raising our self-confidence so that we can stand up and tell the world, "Christ, that RuPaul is just such a fucking asshole."
As for Ms. Molloy, I hope she continues on her crusade. I only wish Jackie Robinson had lived long enough to hear her say, "'Negro'? It's 'African-American,' ya jerk!"
TUNICA, Miss. — Marie Barnard was delighted when, after decades of silence on the topic, Mississippi passed a law requiring school districts to teach sex education. But the lesson involving the Peppermint Pattie wasn't what she had in mind for her sons.The curricula adopted by the school district in Oxford called on students to unwrap a piece of chocolate, pass it around class and observe how dirty it became.
"They're using the Peppermint Pattie to show that a girl is no longer clean or valuable after she's had sex — that she's been used," said Barnard, who works in public health.
I totally get this kind of sex education, and I applaud it. Girls are exactly like Peppermint Patties. They're both smooth and thin and have a light layer of sweetness masking a whole lot of bitter. Me, I'm not crazy about either, because I don't like people being able to guess what I just ate.
Like Peppermint Patties, girls are useless after they've lost their sheen and snap. Taffy? On an existential level, it's reaming truck drivers on the turnpike. It's a crack whore on Skid Row. Hey, there's a reason it always tastes like salt water.
I think this is a great way to show kids the reality that girls are useless after they've had sex.
Girls need to learn that they're useless after they've had sex.
To show what happens to boys when they're promiscuous, the teacher should pass around an M&M. It can go all around the room, and in the end it'll look exactly the same as when it started. It'll be fresh and clean and still shiny. You'll actually be able to actually watch the beacon of inspiration light up the boys' eyes as they suddenly realize, "Wait, I get to fuck ANYTHING I WANT?"
Still, I realize there are some problems with this argument. It's saying women exist to be eaten, and that it doesn't matter what they're like inside. There's no rationality behind this metaphor: for instance, why would sex devalue a woman when something like stupidity doesn't hurt? Wouldn't this lesson teach our girls to crank up the air conditioning and sit on the couch? I don't know about you, but after ten minutes of watching "America's Funniest Home Videos" I feel like my minty filling is going to end up all over my hands.
I'm not sure this is such a cautionary tale. At the end of the demonstration, no matter how dirty the chocolate is, there's still gonna be some bite marks in it -- maybe by a set of lesbian teeth. And while I'm sure the girls would prefer a new candy, the boys will be totally happy with the one that really likes to be touched.
Last, evidently these folks haven't noticed that chocolate deteriorates whether it's touched by one person or one hundred. Doesn't matter if it's the same hand or a different hand: it just loses its gloss. Which is why I suggest they bring out the Hershey's syrup for lesson number two, "This Here Is Your Mama."
Thank you for your kind note. As you have noticed, Mr. Selfridge isn't onscreen quite as much this season. This is completely due to Jeremy Piven's busy schedule rather than the thousands of letters we've gotten from viewers noting that anyone with his unrelenting enthusiasm would have died before they turned five.
However, Mr. Selfridge remains the moral center of the show, so whether it's more accurate or not we will probably not rename the show, as you suggest, "Some Guy Who's Freaking Out Because He Has Too Many Kids And A Girl Who Is Seriously Overworked."
All the best,
PBS
Aside from being very popular, these types of shows are also inspiring. Between Believe and Resurrection, they've reawakened my sense of wonder -- and not just wonder about how big of a part cat food will play in my retirement plan. Inspired by their success, I'm merging the genres and writing a heartfelt yet uplifting TV pilot about people who come back from the dead and discover they have magical powers, tentatively entitled I Can't Believe I Resurrected! I don't have a lot of contacts, though, so if you know anybody in the industry feel free to send them the three sample scenes below.
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STEVE stands outside the bakery his WIFE owns. He rearranges his hair with one hand while holding a bouquet of colorful flowers with the other. As he enters, he watches his wife pass a bright pink box to an old man with a gracious smile. When she glances over and sees STEVE, her mouth drops open.
MARGO [through tears]: Ohmigod! I can't believe this! No -- don't say a word! I don't care what happened. I'm just so happy I won't bother the universe for an explanation. I don't care if the sun had to spin backwards, or time had to turn inside out. Every night I prayed for just one more minute with you, and now my prayer has been answered.
STEVE: Yup. And look -- I can make a handkerchief dance!
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The DOCTOR has just left and JESSICA is resting peacefully. While she stares at MR. WHISKERS, her stuffed penguin, it twitches and jerks, and then as if weightless it slowly rises into the air. It lazily circles JESSICA's head, and soon is joined by PICKLES, CHICKEN CHICKEN and PLOP in a fluffy pink tornado.
JESSICA's mother hurries past the half-open door holding a hamper full of dirty laundry.
JESSICA [staring wide-eyed]: Look, mommy! LOOK!
MOTHER: Mommy's busy now, sweetheart. Give me a call when you can make middle-aged women lose weight.
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DOUG and TERRY are truck drivers who were killed when their truck flipped over during a Chicago snowstorm. The sun is out this afternoon, though, as they wake up in the cab. They understand that something inexplicable has happened to them, then excitedly realize that DOUG can erase wrinkles from clothes and TERRY can heat up cold coffee with just a touch of a finger. After their clothes are tidy and their coffee is gone, they talk about returning to their families.
TERRY: Well, I'm going to go up to my wife and say, "Sweetheart, I've come back from the dead with a magical power. Now, I know what you're thinking, but all that matters is that I'm back and I love you and, more than anything, I want us to be together again."
DOUG: Hey, that's pretty good. I think I'll use that too.
DOUG goes home and nervously knocks on the front door of his old house. His WIFE opens it. She shrieks and drops her mug of coffee, which shatters.
DOUG: Sweetheart, I've come back from the dead with a magical power. Now I know what you're thinking.
WIFE: Really? Okay. Well, so I've been fucking your brother. SO THERE!
You want to give the gays a taste of their own medicine. They want to march in New York's St. Patrick's Day Parade, so in retaliation you say you want to march in our Gay Pride Parade. And you want to hold a banner that reads, "STRAIGHT IS GREAT."
Unlike Irish Catholics, gay people are actually inclusive, so it looks like they're going to let you do that. Just for future reference, though, know that your compassionate Christian request isn't remotely equivalent to ours. We want to hold banners that read, "LGBT CLOG-DANCERS," or "GAELIC GAYS," or "ERIN GO BRAGHLESS LESBIANS." To approximate you, we'd have to carry one that read, "WE MAY BE GAY BUT YOU'RE ALL DRUNKS."
Hope this helps,
RomanHans
I first realized I had oily skin when I was eight. I used to do all the tests in my sister's Cosmopolitan magazine, despite the fact they'd already told me I was a lousy date, lousy in the sack, and definitely having my period. Naturally I took the oily skin test. I washed my face, then fifteen minutes later rubbed a Kleenex onto my skin. If the Kleenex snagged, I had dry skin. If it remained pristine, I had normal skin. If it turned slightly transparent, I had oily skin.
I could have wrung mine out and fried chicken.
The zits that appeared over the next few years prompted an intensive, lifelong research into skin wellness. Before folks start calling you Pizza Face, check out my findings below.
All the skin-care specialists agree that facial scrubs are either good or bad for your skin. Maybe they exfoliate your skin, stripping off dead layers and exposing fresh skin, or maybe they irritate your skin and make you break out more. It's easy to test. Try using a scrub: if you break out after using it, then the scrub definitely helped or hurt.
Me, I look to the science. See, zits are caused because your body's natural oil can't escape if your pores have gotten clogged by dirt. Naturally, then, the best way to prevent this is to forcibly push vast quantities of almond meal into your skin. Use all ten fingers to make sure the ground-up skin-care spheres fits snugly into your big round pores. (You can also make an inexpensive facial scrub with lemon juice, olive oil, and sugar. It too reveals fresh new skin, and if your skin gets over-irritated you'll break out in Jolly Ranchers.)
Still, I can see how scrubs could hurt your skin. I mean, if your skin was angry because you ate a Cheeto on Friday, what do you think rubbing it with liquid sandpaper will do? Zits are your skin's cry for help. If a kid starts crying, you think a brief encounter with a belt sander will fix everything? The good news is, if a scrub makes you break out, you can tell all the people who stare at you that it's your extra-good hygiene that caused it.
I can confidently say that diet has absolutely zero to do with your complexion. I tested it: I ate nothing but garbanzo beans for a year and a half. It didn't affect my skin at all, though I did start to darken slightly because nobody would let me indoors.
I've never tried Accutane because I don't trust drugs. You know how Viagra was invented? Some scientist was fiddling around with chemicals and he came up with something he thought might treat heart disease. He gave it to a trial group of people, and when they died they all had hard-ons. "Eureka!" he shouted, not nearly as bittersweet as when his patients shouted it.
After I heard that story, I started to assume that's how all drugs are invented, and that's how I think Accutane came about. I'm guessing they gave it to a small group of people, and a coupleof weeks later noticed they all had clearer skin. They said, "Hey, cool -- we invented a skin treatment!" They designed a logo and packaging and didn't really check to see if, oh, it dried out your pancreas too.
See, Accutane decreases the body's production of sebum. You really think all those feisty molecules are going to get into your bloodstream and say, "Okay, everybody: straight up to the face!"? Yeah -- and everybody who goes to Disneyland runs straight for The Carousel of Progress. I mean, there must be some reason pregnant women aren't supposed to take it. If it really just affected the facial region, kids would be born looking like Heidi Klum.
Checking the literature, it appears Accutane does dry out vast portions of the body. The makers have listed this as a harmful side effect, though I think they should turn a negative into a positive by adopting the motto, "WHO NEEDS TO BE MOIST?"
About the only treatment I can wholeheartedly recommend is salicylic acid. It exfoliates, but unlike a scrub it won't clog your pores. Instead, it makes your skin noticeably thinner, which is really the only solution for breakouts. Now when you guffaw at a movie theater, when you sigh on the subway, when you raise you eyebrows at a job interview, your zits will pop by themselves. Picture yourself having friends over for dinner. "Here it is," you'll be saying proudly, "Roman's Eggplant Parmesan. I know you're going to love it, if I must say so my -- Oops. Sorry. [PAUSE] You know what? I think there's some fried chicken in the fridge."
Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin will star in a 13-episode half-hour original comedy series on Netflix called Grace and Frankie.Sigh; isn't it wonderful living in a whole new age? When I was a kid, gay people broke up families and slinked off in shame. Now they're breaking up families and getting hitched. Progress!The comedy focuses on nemeses Grace (Fonda) and Frankie (Tomlin) facing the last chapter of their lives, though not in the way they expected. When their husbands announce they are in love with each other and plan to get married, the women find their lives both turned upside down and to their dismay, permanently intertwined.
1. People are really stupid.
This isn't to say I didn't have fun, for about fourteen minutes. With the first screen I was hooked. I have nearly a degree from a major university, so I had to fire up long-dead parts of my brain that did logical thinking. I slid one candy, and BOOM! Slid another, and BANG! I congratulated myself as everything went according to plan.
And then the screen said, "OUT OF MOVES. PAY ME 99 CENTS TO CONTINUE PLAYING."
Now, I'm guessing the CCS designers are pretending the thing is intellectual stimulation, but when screens pop up and immediately rearrange themselves because there isn't one single move available then you know logic won't make the slightest bit of fucking difference. See, I enjoy puzzles, with one little qualifier. THEY HAVE TO BE SOLVABLE. Rubik's Cube probably wouldn't have been a huge fad if you had to complete it in six twists. And I don't know many people who'd tackle a crossword puzzle that had clues like "Seven unrelated letters," or "A seafaring mammal, seriously misspelled," or "This is what it might sound like if you had to describe Howie Mandel and you'd had all of your teeth pulled."
It's like if somebody gave you a log and asked you to whittle a likeness of Abraham Lincoln. You might jump to the task. You might try your best. Call me crazy, though, but I wouldn't whip out my wallet if they came back after five minutes and said, "Hey, I'll lend you a knife for five bucks."
Anyway, rather than just complain about it, I've decided to be constructive and capitalize on it. In a few days I'll be launching Leprechaun Lotto Letters, a wacky new game that one day may also let everyone on Facebook know boredom has erased your standards. On each screen you'll get a random set of letters, and you have to make as many words as possible out of them. If you're a CCS fan I'm thinking you'll get hooked from your very first try:
X Z K P Y 4 N
Okay, you've got the letters, now GO! You only have a minute! Oh, and I guess I forgot to tell you: if you send me 49 cents via PayPal you can also use the letter I, and for 99 cents you can use an A or an E. For $1.99 I'll give you a whole new set of letters, which currently are a little something like A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y and Z.
"There's nothing about gays in [Arizona SB 1062], but the gay community decided to make this their measure. And the thing that I think is getting a little tiresome is the gay community have so bullied the American people and they have so intimidated politicians that politicians fear them and they think they get to dictate the agenda everywhere. Well, not with the Constitution you don't." -- Michelle Bachmann
I completely agree with Ms. Bachmann, though the liberal media has ignored her insightful comment. I challenge them to double-check the bill that would have protected our religious freedoms by allowing businesses to pick and choose who they serve based on religious beliefs. Is the word "Gay" in there? No. "Lesbian"? No. So why were the gays in such an uproar?
The simple truth is the bill doesn't randomly attack homosexuals: it doubles-down on every group that God has singled out in any religious tract. Those self-centered, bullying gays hijacked a bill that would have had a thousand victims. But noooo, every time you think up a new way to discriminate they all start squealing, "Me! Me! Me!" Everything has to be about them, and not just when they're buying sweaters.
Here's a Bible quote that shows Arizona SB 1062 would have reached far outside the LGBT community.
And an angel descended in a golden light before Abraham, and in his joyousness he proclaimed, "O great follower of God, prithee never sell futons to little people."Got that? Another target of SB 1062, but I don't see dwarves harassing their Congresspeople over their Constitutional right to buy uncomfortable Japanese furniture. Then there's this quote from Matthew:
Zebediah, the itinerant shepherd, beheld a burning bush from which poured forth a solemn voice intoning, "You know what is also an abomination to me? Chicks who wear Uggs in the summer."God verbally smote even more people in the New Testament:
Moses came down from the mountain bearing two stone tablets, and he held them up for the Israelites to see. The first was inscribed, "Thou shalt not kill" and "Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain." The second just read, "And by all that is sacred, please keep doughnuts away from fatties."Okay, I could be wrong. Maybe gays are the only minority group singled out in the Bible. But that doesn't mean Ms. Bachmann is playing semantics with a law that creates a category that covers only them. Maybe that's the way she thinks! I mean, imagine this scenario. You and Michelle Bachmann are at the county fair, and eight hours of eating cotton candy and deep-fried pickles has gotten you both feeling rowdy.
MICHELLE: I'd like to ride in a circle on a wooden animal that goes up and down while organ music plays!
YOU [burping up corndog]: Oh, yes! A carousel sounds like fun!
MICHELLE: I never once used the word "carousel," and frankly your bizarre inclination to jump to such a strange conclusion frightens me. I'm calling the police right now so there can be a formal investigation of your carousel-related desires.
Whatever the truth is, the bullying gays won by unfairly smearing this bill, and we poor Christians lost. It's a hard loss, I have to admit. I mean, the Bible tells us that homosexuals will be burned alive for all of eternity, but since that's not going to happen until Jesus returns I'd at least like to keep them away from my pineapple nut muffins.
1:45 p.m. Dr. Csoncy smashes the device after Ginger Puffums says, "You know why you can't get a date?"
Really? This passes for a talent in 2013? Pretty much any kid can sound like that if you put nembutal in their oatmeal.
Still, I love these comparisons. They're not insulting at all. Look! There's a dung beetle with the zest and verve of Gene Kelly.
Rather than just idly whine about this, though, I decided to take action. I'm currently writing up a screenplay for a similar epic, but this one won't rely on belief in a higher power so it should find a larger audience. Fingers crossed! Below are a few sample scenes I've written for Fred, the Atheist Slave. If you have any Hollywood connections that can help get this project off the ground, feel free to forward my work to them.
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FRED is walking a dirt path from the field to the plantation when he passes a woman in her Sunday best.
FRED: Dear sister, where are you headed on such a lovely morning?
WOMAN: Why, my brother, I am headed off to church. My life on earth may be doomed to a bad end, but my soul need suffer no similar fate. Soon the day will come when Our Lord releases us from these iron shackles to sit by his side for the rest of eternity.
FRED: But sister, does he not reward us now? Look at the flowers! Smell the fresh air! Is the world not its own heaven?
WOMAN: Huh. You know, you're right! I think I'll go back home and eat.
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FRED is sitting in the last row of a ramshackle church. It's hot: he's sweating, and the woman are fanning themselves with their hymnals.
PREACHER: Brothers and sisters, I know our bodies are beat down by the blistering heat. I know our backs are broken by our ceaseless toil. But let us know allow our spirits to soar by giving the Lord our thanks with the song Amazing Grace.
FRED: Preacher, I cannot keep silent! How can we continue to believe their is someone watching over us, when our plight has become unbearable? How can we delude ourselves that we will be saved when this savior may never come? Perhaps instead of singing a song that would bolster our Maker, we sing something that raises our spirits instead?
PREACHER [thinking]: Darn it, Fred: you're right. Do we all know the words to Mairzy Doats?
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FRED and a WOMAN are working in a field when suddenly she straightens bolt upright.
WOMAN: I can't take it any more! I work my fingers to the bone, and what do I get in return? My children have no future. My parents are dead. I pick 400 pounds of cotton a day and feel the wrath of the whip, while our godforsaken master sits on his porch drinking lemonade in the cool breeze. God may smite me for this, but the only way I get up in the morning is by picturing the wrath God will unleash on him on Judgment Day.
FRED: But sister, we need not delude ourselves in the name of comfort. Science has shown no rational explanation for God. Odds are very good that Judgment Day will never come. I know we'd all love for justice or karma or whatever you call it to be enforced by some kind of higher power, but is there not some satisfaction to be derived from knowing Dude could not look stupider?
WOMAN: Wow. I never thought about it like that. Thank you, kind brother! Now when I pick cotton at least I won't have wool over my eyes.
[BOTH LAUGH.]
Hey Roman --This confused me. I mean, I live in Brooklyn. EVERYBODY drinks whiskey here. Has he never been outside? It's like asking your cellmate if he wants a pack of cigarettes and soap shaped like a knife. Even if I didn't drink whiskey, I know roughly eight hundred people who drink whiskey, and they're nice when I'm nice.Thanks for watching Iggy. I really appreciate it. If I can pay you off in whiskey let me know.
Frank
I was actually kind of offended by this. I'm puzzled by his hesitance. Like, "I'm busy, and I'm not going to do anything nice for you unless you specifically ask for it." Maybe gifts of alcohol can be a problem in Amish senior communities, but nowhere else. It's not like buying a paisley scarf for Jeff Foxworthy.
My friend Steve wants me to call his bluff with the following reply:
Hi Frank --I'm tempted to give it a try, but I'm pretty sure he wouldn't apologize with an even larger gift of alcohol. Anyway, that's not my style. I'm not confrontational. If a bottle of something doesn't turn up before the next time I watch his cat, I teach it to poop in his shoes.I'm honestly a bit confused. You take me for a drinker? What was it that gave you that impression: the bulbous red nose? The urine-soaked pants? Did you catch me having sex with Liza Minnelli?
Cordially yours,
Roman
We have endless patience, we salad dressing purchasers. We examine the article. We're mildly annoyed that the first ingredient is simply called "oil," because there are four thousand varieties at the local supermarket and another few dozen at the gas station. We're somewhat peeved that the second ingredient is "acid," because we didn't realize that before dinner we'd have to take a hammer to a Duracell. Yes, that's certainly easier than heading to the neighborhood grocery and looking for a picture of Paul Newman.
But we're dumbfounded that the third ingredient is "Other stuff."
"Other stuff." You know: stuff that isn't oil or acid. To the casual reader this category seems to include things like frozen buffalo burgers, Quorn, and leftover hash browns.
The examples they give of "Other stuff" are "[m]ustard, jam/preserves, herbs (parsley, basil, etc.), garlic, shallots, ginger, soy sauce, tahini." Really, Homemade Dressing Enthusiasts? Call me crazy, but "other stuff" really shouldn't be thought of as one ingredient considering with a pound of hamburger and tomato paste you can MAKE CHILI OUT OF IT.
It's weird these Homemade Dressing Advocates aim their patronizing assistance at complete kitchen incompetents -- of whom I'm a proud member -- yet complete kitchen incompetents can easily end up with plumber's putty following their recipe. How about if I throw together sesame oil, red wine vinegar, and grape jam? Sound like something you'd like to drizzle on arugula? How about truffle oil, lemon juice and mint jelly? Mmm -- that'll certainly add some interest to a boring iceberg wedge.
The article blithely assures us that these will be delicious. Just whisk the three ingredients together, and -- Ta-dah! Salad dressing.
Oh, and when it's done, they say, add salt, pepper, and a sweetener, because ACID, you know?
Anyway, thanks again, Homemade Dressing Devotees. Once again you've foisted your totally-unhelpful message upon an unsuspecting world. Me, I'm going to continue whipping up salads with packaged lettuce and bottled dressing and then I'm going to make a little pile of things you can jam up your ass. Just two things, I think: a carrot, a candle, an iPod loaded with the complete discography of Sheryl Crow and an unopened game of Clue.
Mr. Farrow didn't come across well as a guest on The Daily Show. I'm not won over by 26-year-olds who don't stop talking when Jon Stewart starts. He didn't seem to have a personality. It's why I don't like Michael Phelps or Ryan Lochte. It's nice they're successful and all, but at some point all of my friends have attempted to do their own laundry.
Mr. Farrow tried to spin himself as a community activist, and said his new TV program would be all about getting people mobilized. When I tuned in to his new MSNBC show, though, I saw nothing of the sort. Just look at the set:
On the wall behind him, half the words come from Mr. Farrow's résumé. "Rhodes Scholar," "Yale Law School," "Lawyer," "Diplomat," "Published Author." I wondered what Mother Teresa's set would have said. "Chastity," "Bed Pans," "Robe Aficionado." I sense a bit of résumé inflation. "Published author" makes me think of books, but apparently it refers to magazine articles, including a smug piece he wrote for W about Miley Cyrus. The "Published" qualifier seems desperate, considering anybody with Mia, Woody and/or Frank for parents could get forty pages in Bon Appetit just for jotting down their thoughts on chicken. They should throw up the words "Renaissance Man" too, because I don't know another Diplomat who'd be asked to interview a young lady who rides a giant sausage at work.
The other words are about community activism. There's "Participate," "Protest," "Rally," "Mobilize." Which is kind of a weird message to be shouted by a set that stole its color scheme from a Members Only jacket. I don't know about you, but I'm reluctant to take advice from the waiting room at a children's hospital, even if it's only telling me to eat more apples and wash behind my ears. Yes, a tangerine and teal set is exhorting the viewer to riot. Because the revolution will take place after a wine tasting. Isn't this amazing cheese?
I watched a documentary the other day about winemaking. Grape-growers often take aerial photos of the vineyards so they can see which plants get enough water and which plants don't. The goal is to NOT give them enough water -- because plants that are stressed and have to struggle yield grapes that have more depth.
It smacked me like a fish in the kisser: the most perfect metaphor for gay people EVER. Mr. Farrow? Overwatered until he just couldn't be bothered with that whole "grape" thing. It's weird that a kid originally named after a spunky, barrier-breaking black man -- he was given the name "Satchel" by his baseball-loving dad -- turned out to be a loaf of Wonder bread. No wonder he changed it. It's like a Supreme Court justice named Chastity Brown.
I'm sure dude can go on to do wonderful things, but I'm not holding out hope. In fact, it almost makes me nostalgic for Ryan Lochte. He peaked early and didn't have any depth, but he knew his limitations. He looked hot and kept saying "Jeah!" Say what you want about stupid people, but I'll bet it never would have occurred to him to have "Gold Medallist" scrawled across Asia, or "Swim Some Laps" on Swaziland.
“I feel like ‘embattled’ or ‘disgraced’ will always follow my name. It’s like that black football player who recently came out. He said, ‘I just want to be known as a football player. I don’t want to be known as a gay football player.’ I know exactly what he’s saying. I’m fighting to get my name back." Paula Deen, speaking to People MagazineI'm pretty sure she started off meaning Michael Vick but halfway through she got all black men confused in her head.
(The story is here, but first you've got to sit through the gold-medal winner in the Idiotic Insurance Company Commercials category. "At Liberty Mutual we believe that with every setback there's a chance to come back, and rise." Wow. You know, I never thought about it like that. It's not a disaster: it's a challenge! C'MON, FLOODS! C'MON FAMINE! DESTROY MY HOUSE, CRASH MY CAR, KILL MY DOG! I WANT OPPORTUNITY TO KNOCK!)
It's about time, I thought. I've had it up to here with "intellectuals." They're all "time travel" and "curing cancer" and "I'll take Katy Perry Videos for $1600, Alex." Almost immediately I started picturing the AFA putting these pantywaists in their place:
AFA: You're supposed to be smart people, so how do you believe in evolution? Don't you know about the word of God?I knew this DVD was going to be great. I mean, filmmaker Ray Comfort sounds like an amazing guy. He boldly put his money where his mouth is by offering $10,000 to anyone who produced a "transitional fossil" proving evolution actually took place. Scientists are always saying humans come from a long line of lesser animals, so surely there had to be at least one that showed a lizard giving birth to a dog, or a sheep giving birth to a chicken. Did any "scientist" ever collect the cash? Obviously not!LIBERAL PROFESSORS: Not really. We work for major universities where Bibles are forbidden. Isn't there something about a garden? Making the universe in six days and resting on the seventh?
AFA: Here it is, in black and white. Read this and behold the glory of God!
[FIVE MINUTES LATER]
LIBERAL PROFESSORS: OHMIGOSH! WE DIDN'T KNOW! LORD HAVE MERCY ON THOSE OF US WHO STUDIED THE EFFECTS OF TRANSMORPHISM ON INNATE MACROPHAGE INSTEAD OF SINGING YOUR PRAISE!
He still sells an ersatz million-dollar bill that's inscribed with a lecture on what's really important in life -- spoiler: God! -- despite the fact that at least one of his followers read his words and then tried to deposit the bill in her bank account. I think he printed up more, though, after the FBI left.
Maybe I'm mean, but even before I got the DVD I decided to email the "liberal professors" who appear in it and shove their faces in humiliation. It's people like these that have made me feel stupid ever since I got a D on a high school biology test for saying the three forces that enable birds to fly are acceleration, drag, and Jesus wind. It was time for the tables to turn!
Hi --I don't know why all the liberals sent nice replies, because there's no way God's letting unbelievers into heaven's VIP seats. "All I can say in response to your query," said Professor Gail Kennedy of UCLA, "is that I stopped believing in god about the same time I stopped believing in the easter bunny and the tooth fairy."I got the attached email from the American Family Association advertising their DVD "Evolution Vs. God: Shaking the Foundations of Faith." What piece of evidence did the filmmakers give you about God that in particular rattled every preconceived notion you had? Is the word "dumbfounded" appropriate here to describe your reaction? Thesaurus.com also offers "bamboozled," "staggered" and "thunderstruck," but there's "gobsmacked" if you're European.
Thank you for your attention to this matter,
RomanHans
"I was only dumbfounded in the sense that I found Ray very dumb," said Professor Paul Myers of the University of Minnesota.
"No, I never had my faith 'shaken,' said Professor Peter Nonacs of UCLA, "as there is actually no evidence AGAINST evolution presented in the DVD."
Now it was my turn to be dumbfounded. These "professors" weren't quivering in their boots, desperate to repent from their years of education so God wouldn't smite them dead? I couldn't believe it. Just because they had studied for years and were trying to help the world through education they were still acting like they were better than me, whose blog is read by dozens. What about how stupid they looked in the DVD?
"I was really burned by [R]ay [C]omfort's malicious editing," said Professor Kennedy.
"His arguments were ridiculous, and I laughed at them & rejected them," said Professor Myers. "[A]ll of that was edited out of the final product, of course."
"I don't know if you caught last week's 'Ham on Nye' creationism debate," said Professor Nonacs, "but that debate would be like "Evolution vs. God" if you basically let Ken Ham's presentations be broadcast in their entirety, but left everything Bill Nye said on the cutting room floor, except for his comments about his bowtie and what his favorite color is."
My entire world view shook. Was it possible? What sort of topsy-turvy world was this where Christians lied and atheists told the truth? Or was I being bamboozled by these hucksters' slick arguments? I turned to Mr. Comfort's supporters for the last word.
“Evolution Vs. God reveals evolution only exists in the minds of the evolutionist and their students!” said Jim Bob Duggar. Sigh; I should have expected wise words from the TLC reality star who let God determine the size of his family. Though I'm glad God didn't determine the size of his bladder or we'd all be up to our necks in piss.
"WOW!!!!!!!!!!!!! BLEW ME AWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!" said Randy Jones, President of Word of Truth Ministry and, I think, also Village People cowboy.
“Ray Comfort does it again! With simplicity and keen insight on the streets, he pulls back the curtain of Evolution and reveals that the Great Wizard of Darwinism is just an insecure little man with a dream of becoming a god.” said Kirk Cameron.
Once again my heart was full. My faith was coming back. I mean, Kirk Cameron built a whole career out of nothing more than being cute enough to cash in, so he was clearly someone I could believe. "Great Wizard of Darwinism" indeed! I laughed as I pictured the Cowardly Lion replaced by a sheep giving birth to a chicken and realized that intelligence had absolutely no place in my life. In fact, I'm going to write back to these "professors" and tell them a thing or two. I mean, sure, they acted perfectly nice to me, but I know God has got my back so I don't have to.
After they'd both confirmed that success is the inevitable result of hard work, the host ran off onto a tangent. Chobani is an official Olympic sponsor, she noted. Is it because Olympic athletes, like Chobani's founder, have also made something out of nothing? Have been born hopeless and penniless and used nothing but their own blood, sweat and tears to become modern-day American heroes?
Mr. Ulukaya was too modest to reply, but I think the answer is obvious. People who work hard can make it, and people who don't make it didn't want it hard enough. Like the bobsled, though, we find our subsequent thoughts hurtling toward the border of racism, because the U. S. Winter Olympics teams are 99% white. Though the Market Makers didn't tackle that topic, it seems natural to conclude that they too think minority groups just won't put in the work.
Me, I blame the welfare state. I mean, these urban kids are so debilitated by all the free money being handed out that they can't even bother to drive to the ice rink. They're so busy keeping themselves in stylish shoes and baseball caps that they suddenly can't afford $800 for lift tickets.
If these kids had an ounce of initiative, I think they'd be surprised by how far they'd get. Their nannies probably wouldn't mind driving them to the equestrian center every day, because they could still write thank-you notes for their mistress while waiting in the Range Rover. The downstairs maid could still polish the silver in the parking lot of Trampoline Town. Instead kids are too busy tweeting and texting to even ask! The black cloud hanging over their heads precludes them from seeing that their neighbor has four thousand dollars worth of spandex. Their aunt has an disused luge track. Their cousin has a nose clip and a desire to swim exactly like them.
Now, I'm not an idiot. I know there are some kids whose parents and relatives won't just give them stuff. Where some people see a brick wall, though, I see opportunity! These kids will just have to work a little harder. Maybe they'll have to take out the trash once a week in exchange for a polo pony. Maybe they'll have to get straight As before Dad moves the family to Norway. Heck, I'll bet there are a few kids who don't even have parents! They just need extra determination. They should follow in the footsteps of Ben Franklin, who was born into poverty along with his sixteen brothers and sisters. "Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity," Ben said, and indeed he was totally prepared when his brother was thrown in jail and left him a free newspaper business. Even without family help, kids can keep plugging away at that minimum-wage job until they can afford rent, a car and food. So what if they're the only 50-year-olds at luge practice? It's just the naysayers who'll be negative. In true Olympic spirit I think the other athletes would applaud their determination and say "Welcome!" before they shatter both their hips in a bad salchow.
In closing I'd like to say that I don't think it's the insularity provided by all of my money that gives me high hopes for inner-city youth today. I know once they get their first taste of success, they'll want to thank the self-made Mr. Ulukaya for being a prime example of a man who built a bright future out of nothing. Well, and his dad, who owned a yogurt factory too.
Still, Sunday's episode had me screaming, "Oh, puh-leeze!" at the TV. Agustin has a crush on a rent boy, and they have lunch together. The prospective beau offers vegetarian Agustin a bite of his meaty lunch, and Agustin accepts just so he won't look weird. Five minutes later he's running down Folsom Street with explosive diarrhea.
Ridiculous, right? I mean, I've been in this situation before, and the truth is, his body would have been thrilled. It's gotten so exhausted from spitting out remnants of tofu and brown rice and pinto beans that it's relieved to finally spot a chunk of animal for a change. Agustin would have casually cruised down Folsom thinking, "That's weird: I haven't farted in six minutes!" as his contented stomach lovingly basted the cow parts with acid and asked, "So, are you through with all that fuckin' broccoli or what?"
