Monday, February 21, 2011

Belgian men, in a protest against government incompetence, have stopped shaving and started walking around in their underwear.


Palin 2012!
Mark Wattier, a political science professor at Murray State University, has taken early retirement after making a controversial comment to two black students who showed up late for class. As one of the students relates, "[Professor Wattier] said, ‘Well, it's OK, I expect it of you guys anyway. We asked him, ‘What did that mean?' And he said the slaves never showed up on time, so their owners often lashed them for it. "

Another holdover from slavery? Waiting until the master turns around and then hitting him with a rake.

Egypt

Men protest.


Women clean.


¡Viva la Revolución! Hey, honey, you missed a spot.

Friday, February 18, 2011

I don't know why it annoys me. Nobody bothers with crap like spelling or grammar or punctuation, so I should just let it go. Join the crowd. Type incomprehensible messages on my $500 phone and slap a few happy faces at the end.

For some reason, though, I just can't let it go. Steve is writing a text to a new guy. They went out to dinner, then to a club, but somehow they got separated and Steve went home alone. I'm eating a muesli-and-fruit cup at our neighborhood coffee shop; he's tip-tip-tapping on his phone. Naturally I'm curious, so when he says, "You want to read it?" I say okay.

And this, reproduced exactly, is what he wrote: "had a great time last night sorry i didn't blow you off"

"Nice," I say. I try to get my eyes to twinkle. "That is really fun."

Of course, I've never been great at faux-sincerity. "Okay, grandma," Steve sighs. "What's wrong with it?"

I take a sip of coffee to fortify myself. "You know, punctuation wasn't invented just to make texting difficult. You need, at the very least, a semi-colon, unless you're saying you really wish you'd orally serviced him."

Steve looks at his phone again, then back at me. "Leave it to you to read it that way," he says. "Anybody else would know what I meant."

"When you use the language properly," I say, "you remove all semblance of doubt."

He glares at me for a few minutes, then goes back to the tiny keyboard. Tap tap tap, I hear from across the table as I ferry melon balls to my mouth. Finally he says, "You'll approve of this one," and he hands his phone to me.

"went to pee and guess i missed you," it reads.

"You know," I say, suppressing a sigh, "maybe you should forget about apologizing. It sounds strange without any context. Just tell him you had a wonderful time and you're looking forward to seeing him again."

He looks like he's going to fling his croissant at my polo shirt but he picks up the phone instead. This text takes him literally half an hour to compose. He's changing screens. He's hitting three buttons at once. He's capitalizing, he's punctuating. I'm actually starting to feel proud of him. And he's going to be proud of himself, I think, as he feels the sense of achievement that comes with correctly employing one's native tongue. For probably the first time in his short life he's going to send a text that's not open to random interpretation.

"Now, wasn't that worth it?" I say as he finishes his work and hands me the phone.

He smiles sheepishly. "Yeah," he says. "You were right, of course."

And then I read this on his phone: "I enjoyed eating dinner with you on our first date. Now I'm really looking forward to number two."

It's a bit difficult for me to muster up a supportive smile, but I manage a quick, "That's excellent." He hits the send button as a waiter appears with the check, and I decide that I could use the bathroom as well.

Thursday, February 17, 2011


Apparently it kept falling across her boobs.

Cpl. Michael Tscherkassow, an Edmonton soldier who bragged on Facebook that he had “Superman-punched” a gay man on the dance floor of a nightclub, was sentenced to 12 months in jail after being convicted of aggravated assault.

And today all the other prisoners agreed that dude has an ass of steel.



Once again I'm in awe of Christians for finding yet another instance of insidious subliminal marketing in a Disney advertisement. It's absolutely despicable the way they shove their hidden agenda down our throats. This ad looks totally harmless, but there's a secret message. Your brain, without any conscious effort, will notice it -- "SEX," in big, curvy letters -- and it'll make a little mental note that says, "Wow, I really want to see that film!" And then that night, as the lights come back up in the theater, you'll finally return to sanity. "Why the fuck did I see that?" you'll think to yourself.

So, thanks, Christians. You're amazingly perceptive. Sure, you missed how the dude's eyes are all but screaming, "Girlfriend, let me go! I've got a boyfriend and two teacup poodles that miss me!", and how he's just a blonde wig and a tiara away from singing "Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend," but I'm guessing scanning ads with a magnifying glass probably fried your tiny brains.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

If Clarence Thomas were an athlete, he'd be a boxer. He'd sign up to fight some up-and-comer on an undercard in Atlantic City, and then he'd show up flabby and forty pounds overweight. He'd shake hands, then punch his opponent in the groin. One roundhouse to his glass jaw, though, and he'd be out like a light.

"One day!" he'd mutter to himself as they hauled him away on a stretcher. "I'll be on top one day!"

His wife would be caught smuggling steroids in from Canada. He'd have a tattoo of the cartoon character Calvin taking a wizz across his forehead.

Unfortunately, Thomas is just an accomplished idiot who came in handy when George W. Bush needed one. And he's currently making a name for himself as a liar who writes American laws.

Three years ago, Thomas went to a political retreat for wealthy conservatives sponsored by Charles and David Koch, brothers who spend millions financing conservative causes. It was a “brief drop-by," a court spokesperson said, and Thomas gave a short talk.

Later, though, it was revealed that (1) Thomas was there for four days, and (2) all his expenses were paid.

It shouldn't come as a surprise, then, that last year Justice Thomas helped pass a Supreme Court decision that allowed corporations to donate to political causes with very little public disclosure, directly aiding the "brief drop-by"'s hosts.

If a film were made about Thomas the boxer, he'd be played by Gary Busey. He'd blather ridiculous excuses knowing nobody'd dare touch him while -- just in case -- Justice Scalia stood nearby holding a folding chair.

I hate to pass along bad news, but, well, that's life. You know Serene Branson, that CBS reporter at the Grammys who started talking complete gibberish? Really, just babbling nonsense that pointed ineluctably to serious mental collapse, and paramedics were called?

Sadly, her family confirmed today that she's been hired by The View.

Charlie Sheen has told the producers of "Two and a Half Men" that filming can resume any time because he's "peeing clean."

"That's absolutely true," say eight gum-cracking hookers. "We barely need to shower any more."

A team has been suspended from England's all-Jewish football league after they were caught fielding a roster of fake Jews.

A player supposedly named "Simon Laub" was actually Colombian banker Javier Guevara, and "Danny Potter" turned out to be Polish personal trainer Mariusz Mielniczuk.


Refs got wise when "Simon" didn't answer to his name, couldn't remember his birthday, and then tried to rent an apartment from himself.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Kansas GOP Rep. Connie O'Brien says she can tell who's an illegal because of their "olive complexion."

Hey, I'll contribute to the buffet. I can tell who's crackers.

President Obama recently told us that the best way to jump-start the economy is to invent new industries, so naturally I'm doing my part. I came up with two great ideas that could help make America competitive again.

Whenever Raoul sleeps over, I know it's going to be bad. Not the sleeping part, of course, but the part where we wake up. "I have to get up at nine," he insists. "I have a very full day planned." I set the alarm for nine, and it wakes me up at nine. Nothing short of a jackhammer, though, could wake up Raoul, so naturally the job goes to me.

"Raoul, it's nine o'clock. Time to get up."

One eye opens. It scowls at me. "Why won't you let me sleep?" he accuses. "Bastard. Now I'll never get to finish that incredible dream."

Got that? Yes, it's entirely my fault, though I personally don't need to get up until two minutes before RuPaul's Drag Race starts. In fact, it's only slightly better than when I don't wake him up, because at least he doesn't blame an entire day on me.

The smart person can learn something from this story, aside from "Most dudes are assholes." ALARM CLOCKS ARE FUCKED UP. Ostensibly they wake up whoever wants to be woken up, but in reality they rouse the dude who didn't finish off the Cointreau.

Which is why I came up with this: an alarm clock with a tiny spit-cup on top. Whoever wants to get up spits into the cup. The clock analyzes the DNA and, at the set time, rousts anybody matching that DNA.

Sure, I realize it's a little technical, but it doesn't really have to be that precise. I don't care if it wakes up his parents, or any possible offspring. But it definitely shouldn't bother anybody who's got his DNA on them, or -- knowing my part-time boyfriend -- New York would actually be the city that never sleeps.

My other invention is a space-age slicer/dicer. Basically it's a box lined with mirrors and a laser stuck in one end. You put a loaf of bread in the box, hit the SLICE button, and with a quick zap your bread is sliced. Put in an onion, hit the CHOP button, and your onion is chopped.

Really, I don't know why nobody's made these already. Weren't lasers supposed to revolutionize the world? At the very least they were supposed to zap all our eyes out. Can't their awesome power be harnessed to facilitate guacamole? Instead, I find myself cursing the scientific establishment as my dull Henckel squashes all the juice out of a tomato. I find myself agreeing with the other, more sensible scientist who was surely hanging around when the laser was invented.

INVENTOR: I've done it! I've created a device that emits electromagnetic radiation through optical amplification of the stimulated emission of photons. Do you realize what this means?

SENSIBLE SCIENTIST: Ohmigod! No more boring Pink Floyd shows at the planetarium!


Monday, February 14, 2011

The Black King's Speech

I'm mystified by all the acclaim for The King's Speech. I watched the BAFTA awards last night -- Britain's equivalent of the Academy Awards -- and it was a clean sweep. Everybody loves the movie. It's wholesome, it's smart, it's great!

Of course, I haven't actually seen the movie, but I won't let that stop me. I mean, when I heard it was about a white person helping another white person, I thought, what? Did all those fabulous white folks already fix all the blacks?

I know Michelle Pfeiffer was keeping the black teens in high school, Hillary Swank was getting them into college, and Sandra Bullock was helping the oversized ones play pro football. But did that fix them all? Is the genre finished? Are we going to start seeing whites help other white people now?

Theoretically I'm all for that, just as equal opportunity, but in reality it means another black man is out of a job. Given the choice, I'd rather have The King's Speech follow the usual formula. I've rather see a white dude help a black dude. I'd rather see a black king.

See, when movies are historically accurate, they portray a time when minorities were second-class citizens. To do this, though, they have to treat minorities as second-class citizens again. "We're portraying a terrible time in history here," the casting agent says. "So white people only, please!"

I'm picturing the casting call: how do you dodge the words "MINORITIES NEED NOT APPLY"? It's like those Civil War reenactments. The folks running it could be pillars of tolerance, but if you're Chinese and you want to take part, better bring fake pigtails and a bottle of Tide.

Really, I don't see anything wrong with watching history reenacted with different faces. It's all about pretending, isn't it? I don't think anybody's going to storm out screaming because women never served in the real cavalry, and General Ulysses S. Grant didn't have an Afro. And frankly, I think The King's Speech would have been better with a black king, because at least there would have somebody to root for.

As it is, I'm just not getting the empathy. I'm not understanding the conflict. We're supposed to root for the rich white guy to win? People in the audience are sitting with their fingers crossed thinking, "PLEASE prove that nepotism works!"? Really? That's the cliffhanger? If the king can stop stuttering, it'll show there's nothing wrong with a system of Caucasian control passed down as birthright. If he fails, the angry demons of democracy may rear their ugly heads, and power may shift to the ill-mannered, or beige.

Yes, I realize with a black king the movie would have been totally exploitative, because that's the way Hollywood works. The two main characters would have been slightly rewritten.

BLACK KING
I think I nailed it. Dawg, that speech went aiight.

GEOFFREY RUSH
If you'll pardon my saying, sire, you may have alienated some of the crowd by describing everything as "mothafuckin'."

BLACK KING
Do you think so? I was surprised that so few people put their hands in the air.

GEOFFREY RUSH
Also, my liege, I believe your subjects might be more receptive to your message if you didn't automatically end every line with, "Know what I'm sayin'?"

BLACK KING
Servant, you have crossed the line of insubordinance here. Are you daring to disrespect me? I'm your mothafuckin' KING, know what I'm -- (SIGHS.) Merciful heavens, will our ceaseless toil never end?


If the film has to be all white, there's a simple fix there too. Show that, in the end, the system is fucked. Let the king disappear in a yellow spiral as he announces, "Th-Th-Th-Th-Th-... That's all, folks!"

Friday, February 11, 2011

Repeat Friday: Stripping Grammar Naked

Once in a while, somebody will ask me where I learned to write. Sometimes I tell them about the year I spent under John Rechy at Princeton. Sometimes I tell them about the short-story classes I took with Edmund White, or the sabbatical at that writer's colony off the woodsy coast of Nantucket.

And sometimes I tell them the truth: that I learned everything I know from sitting naked in front of my computer and reading lots and lots of godawful porn.

Experts know the best way to learn what's good is to study what's bad. For instance, I learned how not to cook Mexican food from Taco Bell, what not to wear from Wal-Mart, and how not to have sex with ex-husbands 1, 2 and 4. Desperate to find the very worst in writing, I cruised the sleaziest internet porn sites, searched Google for every four-letter word, and scrutinized every fan-fiction site where Spock and Sulu ever touched.

To save you time, though, and from discovering your belongings heaped on the doorstep by an intolerant boyfriend who knows about Internet Explorer's "History" file, I've compiled the most miserable writing I've found in many hard years of study. If we take a moment to examine these examples and see what mistakes were made, we can use that knowledge to write up some rules that we can use to improve our own work.

(1) He had nice thick chest hair that covered his entire body.

The first thing we learn is, never eat breakfast while surfing porn sites. Because while chest hair can be reasonably fetching on, say, a chest, when it creeps over to the forehead or the elbows it can make Jim Belushi spew up his Sugar Pops. It doesn't take an expert to realize chest hair is best confined to the upper torso, in much the same manner that toenails should remain in the vicinity of the feet.

(2) Jim grabbed his ass through his tight shorts and said, "I want you bad."

From this awkward construction we learn that if there are two or more males in your story, avoid using the word "his." Your dramatic scene will turn farcical if the reader thinks your hero is grabbing his own body parts and expressing his feelings of desire. Similar examples include the following:

-- The stranger wrapped his hungry mouth around his mushroom head.
-- Standing at the side of the bed, Gustavo grabbed his ankles and lifted them high into the air.
-- Slowly Maury worked his lips down to his stomach.

(3) All night long Carl slept, sprawled naked across the bed, and Max approached with anticipation.

What we learn here is, modifiers in the first half of your sentence also apply to the second. We’ve got a scene that’s probably eight hours long, which means Max moves about as slowly as gay rights.

(4) Brad's endowment was throbbing so hard Joshua thought it'd explode.

The problem here is painfully obvious: Don't frighten your reader with images from Japanese horror movies. You've spent hours conjuring up the perfect picture, then you go and spoil the mood:

-- Chuck's erection grew so hard it could have knocked over Hitler.
-- I'd never seen an ass pounded so relentlessly, and I watch Bill O'Reilly.
-- His equipment, trapped in those thin white shorts, looked like my grandma in her bra.

(5) Max took out Walter's penis and played with it.

Watch out for the words “took out.” While you may assume it’s equivalent to “bared" or "uncovered,” the reader may opt for another meaning, like “to remove from a box.”

(6) I really wanted to have sex with him. After I finished my french toast, I slid over next to him and brought it up.

Here we've got a confusing pronoun -- in this case, the word "it." The writer is hoping he can refer all the way back to his previous sentence, but instead the reader stops at the closest noun, which just happens to be "french toast."

Other regrettable examples are:

-- My wife and I made love on the deck of our pristine white yacht, then I tied her to the pier and went home.

-- Cooper and I took the dog for a walk. I couldn't resist the way his ass swayed back and forth, so I dragged him behind a bush and took him from behind.

(7) He grabbed hold of his meat and pulled out a condom.

This sentence shows that sometimes there's a weird synergy between different parts of your sentence. Either half of this line is fine by itself, but put the two together and it sounds like a magic trick.

Similar missteps include:

-- I squeezed the bartender's nipple and he refilled my empty glass.
-- Wayne rubbed Raoul's butt until Barbara Eden appeared.

(8) On my knees, Stephen grabbed my head and guided it toward his groin.

This is what's called a "dangling modifier," because the writer has misplaced a clause. Rather than being turned on, the reader pictures a Cirque du Soleil-style attraction. Re-read your articles searching for sentences like:

-- Covered with mayonnaise, Roger took a bite of his sandwich.
-- Engrossed in the newspaper, his penis lay there quietly.
-- Nearly at orgasm, Puddles the dog trotted in.

Well, we've just barely scratched the surface, but today's lesson has to come to an end. Remember, there are serious side effects to reading too much porn. You start to feel inadequate by constantly comparing yourself to these perfect, unreal images, and your self esteem can suffer as a result.

Honestly, though, I swear to you: usually I can go on for hours.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Okay, so I finally got that new Confession app for the iPhone. I really am startled by how good it is. It almost makes damnation fun.

See, my memory has never been that great. I walk into the confessional, and all of a sudden my mind goes blank. What did I do again? Why am I here? Suddenly I start judging myself on a curve. How bad could I have been, comparatively speaking? I mean, this is New York.

I wrack my brain while the priest sighs and checks his Tag Heuer. The folks in line outside tap their feet. Finally I just say, "Oh, I read my ex's email, and told my neighbor to go fuck himself." Like Trix is part of a balanced breakfast, these are a big part of my average week.

Without fail, though, the second I step outside it all comes rushing back. I can't believe I forgot about blowing that jogger! And didn't I shoot a dog?

With this app, though, you can type in the sins as you commit them and not have to rely on your memory. Steal somebody's Fiero? Install a hidden camera above the toilet in your Texaco? Just a couple quick taps and you're cool. Plus, you're safe: your sins are stored in a password-controlled database.

When you finally decide to go to "Confession," the app shows its real skill. You type in basic information about yourself, and it customizes a list of questions just to make sure you didn't miss anything. "Have you had dirty thoughts?" it asks. "Have you touched yourself?" Wow, I think: those are sins? It's really going to crucify me if it asks whether I looked at a dog's balls and then started fantasizing about Ed Asner.

Still, it's not entirely perfect. Its mind seems to wander. "Do you like pizza?" it asks. "What are you wearing?" And then, "Are you parents home?" But in the end I think it's the best --

Whoops. I gotta go. There's somebody at the door.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

A major porn studio is recreating Charlie Sheen's recent 36-hour sex and drug bender for release as an X-rated film. Kacey Jordan, one of the girls Sheen paid to party, is set to star.

The weekend began with five call girls and a "briefcase full of cocaine," and ended with Sheen being rushed to the hospital and the paid "guests" hitting just about every news program to cash in on their payday.

The binge has been the nadir of a spiral of self-destruction that prompted Sheen's friends and family to discuss involuntary commitment and may cost CBS $250 million in licensing fees.


Hearing about the upcoming film, Sheen reportedly said, "Wow -- can I play me?"

A 35-year-old central California man was killed at a cockfight after being stabbed in the leg by a bird that had a knife attached to its limb.

Police say the man, previously convicted of animal fighting, was part of an organization that specially bred birds, then put them into a ring and encouraged them to fight until one was incapacitated or killed.


Ironically, this afternoon they're serving chicken clubs in hell.

Last Friday a mother in Queens bought her kids a Nickelodeon DVD at the local Toys "R" Us. The DVD wasn't exactly what she expected, though: in fact, it was hardcore porn. "I saw a Caucasian lady and man and they were naked," said the woman's 11-year-old son. "I was surprised. I was very disgusted."

The kid realized something was wrong when somebody started exploring Dora for a change.

America's Poet Emeritus Maya Angelou has just come out with her very first cookbook. I'm not much of a cook, but I have to say I'm really, really enjoying it. Here's one of what must be a hundred simple, evocative recipes suffused with her own particular brand of poetry.


Nachos

My grandfather used to sit on the porch
while my grandmother toiled over the stove.
Wise and strong, she spread
salty Doritos in a pan,
topped them with biting orange cheese
piquant jalapeƱos
and briny olives
and broiled them underneath the fire
of her desire.

The cheese is my burden.
I am those chips.

Makes a great halftime snack.


StatCounter