Cashier's check or money order would be fine.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Mayor Bloomberg loves the New York Philharmonic, he loves open-air concerts, and he loves the occasional glass of wine. Sometimes he wonders aloud why he can't enjoy all three at once. On Friday, he expressed this sentiment once again:
"I never understood why we don't let you drink in the park," Bloomberg said. "I mean, you go to watch the Philharmonic, you can't have a bottle of wine."
Is that ridiculous? I totally agree, and I hope the mayor does something about it. I mean, it'd be so easy to write up a law:
It is hereby legal for people who own homes to drink alcohol in public places where non-rap music is playing.
"I never understood why we don't let you drink in the park," Bloomberg said. "I mean, you go to watch the Philharmonic, you can't have a bottle of wine."
Is that ridiculous? I totally agree, and I hope the mayor does something about it. I mean, it'd be so easy to write up a law:
It is hereby legal for people who own homes to drink alcohol in public places where non-rap music is playing.
SCENE: Spike Lee's Michael Jackson Block Party. There's a dark stage with a DJ, a large-screen TV, and a thousand people on a hillside watching. As always, NYPD crowd control means you're herded into a pen where you can stand around or dance. You can't visit another pen, and if you leave your pen you can't return.
TIME: Before noon.
DJ SPINNA: "Here's the strategy: let's save all the great songs for later in the afternoon so we can really end with a bang."
Cut to three hours later.
ME: "Okay, if he plays one more bad song, we'll leave." (Michael Jackson's "Butterflies" starts up.) "Wow -- eight in a row! Okay, let's go."
TIME: Before noon.
DJ SPINNA: "Here's the strategy: let's save all the great songs for later in the afternoon so we can really end with a bang."
Cut to three hours later.
ME: "Okay, if he plays one more bad song, we'll leave." (Michael Jackson's "Butterflies" starts up.) "Wow -- eight in a row! Okay, let's go."
Friday, August 28, 2009
World Wrestling Entertainment chairman Vince McMahon televised his birthday party Monday, with entertainers including the Cirque du Soleil. As the performers bounced into the wrestling ring on springboard-type stilts, McMahon declared, "Those masks are really gay."
He had a piece of cake and opened a couple of presents, then went back to his office and watched two bodybuilders with shaved armpits cover themselves with baby oil and wrestle around in speedos.
He had a piece of cake and opened a couple of presents, then went back to his office and watched two bodybuilders with shaved armpits cover themselves with baby oil and wrestle around in speedos.
There's somebody squirrelly going on at the Associated Press.
It's been glaringly apparent for years that they've got a right-wing bone to pick. During the presidential election, for example, they sent out a story with this headline:
Analysis: Palin's age, inexperience rival Obama's
Rivals. Yeah, that's how I'd compare the two. One's a moose-shooting hockey mom whose catchphrase is "You betcha." The other's a Harvard grad who edited the school's Law Review.
They're just talking age and inexperience, you say. Oh, okay. Palin was governor of a state with one million residents for less than two years. Obama was senator in a state with thirteen million residents for eight years.
I'm still missing the rivalry here.
Then yesterday they published a story saying the governor of Utah thinks it should be all right to evict or fire people who are gay. Their headline?
Utah Governor: No Special Rights for Gay People
Special. Gay people want something special.
Here are the facts. In America you can't be fired based on race, religion, gender, national origin, age, or disability. In many states, though, including Utah, you can be fired for being gay.
White man can't be fired for being white. Christian man can't be fired for believing in God. Gay man can be fired for having same-sex partner.
Gay man wants "special" rights.
Evidently somebody other than me complained, because today the headline is different.
Utah Governor: No Protected Class for Gay People
Oh, okay. Much better. Now they're saying the governor is against putting us in a SPECIAL CLASS.
It doesn't take a genius to come up with several thousand more concise headlines:
Utah Governor Believes It's Okay to Discriminate Against Gays
Utah Governor Against Equality for Gays
Okay to Fire Homosexuals, Utah Governor Says
But no, somehow the headlines always always sound like gay people want something that nobody else has.
Something special.
The right-wing picks up this football and runs. Gays think they're special! Gays want extra rights! "If we can't show up for work in assless chaps we're calling the ACLU!"
I don't get how allegedly college-educated journalists don't see this: I mean, even the New York Times let this headline through.
If your boss told everybody to wear suits to work, but he made you wear a tank top and a tutu, you wouldn't be demanding "special" rights if you complained.
If police tested men for drunk driving by having them walk a straight line, but women had to hop the length of it while wearing tassels on their boobs, they wouldn't be demanding "special" rights if they complained.
It's not a difficult distinction.
Apparently, though, the Associated Press confuses "special" with "equal." On the minus side, their idiocy gets disseminated all over the world as fact.
On the plus side, I'll bet they get a hug and a "Job well done!" next time the Special Olympics roll around.
It's been glaringly apparent for years that they've got a right-wing bone to pick. During the presidential election, for example, they sent out a story with this headline:
Analysis: Palin's age, inexperience rival Obama's
Rivals. Yeah, that's how I'd compare the two. One's a moose-shooting hockey mom whose catchphrase is "You betcha." The other's a Harvard grad who edited the school's Law Review.
They're just talking age and inexperience, you say. Oh, okay. Palin was governor of a state with one million residents for less than two years. Obama was senator in a state with thirteen million residents for eight years.
I'm still missing the rivalry here.
Then yesterday they published a story saying the governor of Utah thinks it should be all right to evict or fire people who are gay. Their headline?
Utah Governor: No Special Rights for Gay People
Special. Gay people want something special.
Here are the facts. In America you can't be fired based on race, religion, gender, national origin, age, or disability. In many states, though, including Utah, you can be fired for being gay.
White man can't be fired for being white. Christian man can't be fired for believing in God. Gay man can be fired for having same-sex partner.
Gay man wants "special" rights.
Evidently somebody other than me complained, because today the headline is different.
Utah Governor: No Protected Class for Gay People
Oh, okay. Much better. Now they're saying the governor is against putting us in a SPECIAL CLASS.
It doesn't take a genius to come up with several thousand more concise headlines:
Utah Governor Believes It's Okay to Discriminate Against Gays
Utah Governor Against Equality for Gays
Okay to Fire Homosexuals, Utah Governor Says
But no, somehow the headlines always always sound like gay people want something that nobody else has.
Something special.
The right-wing picks up this football and runs. Gays think they're special! Gays want extra rights! "If we can't show up for work in assless chaps we're calling the ACLU!"
I don't get how allegedly college-educated journalists don't see this: I mean, even the New York Times let this headline through.
If your boss told everybody to wear suits to work, but he made you wear a tank top and a tutu, you wouldn't be demanding "special" rights if you complained.
If police tested men for drunk driving by having them walk a straight line, but women had to hop the length of it while wearing tassels on their boobs, they wouldn't be demanding "special" rights if they complained.
It's not a difficult distinction.
Apparently, though, the Associated Press confuses "special" with "equal." On the minus side, their idiocy gets disseminated all over the world as fact.
On the plus side, I'll bet they get a hug and a "Job well done!" next time the Special Olympics roll around.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Well, the agenda has finally been determined for the upcoming National Equality March, set for October 11 in Washington DC.
This week Kip Williams, the Director of Equality Across America, announced that final decisions have been made. "The Equality Across America Web site points at some particular legislative issues, but that is not the agenda or the demand of the march," said Williams.
In particular, he says, participants won't be marching for marriage equality, repeal of the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" ban on gays serving openly in the military, or the proposed federal Employment Non-Discrimination Act.
Instead, the focus will be on achieving full equality under civil law.
If you're planning on attending, then, organizers ask that you please refrain from carrying any signs that say you want to get married, serve in the military, or think it's wrong that you can be fired because you're gay. Instead, maybe write something like "I don't want to get married if I can't adopt a crack baby!" or "Today, stop the bullying in our schools! Tomorrow, maybe do something else!"
Plus, there are plenty of activities planned. While we're standing around on the Mall, perhaps we'll work on the landscaping. If the weather is warm maybe we'll doff our shirts and cruise for a while. As always with gay protests, the chants will be a highlight. I'm thinking this year we could do something like, "We're here; we're queer; actually, we were looking for a Starbucks."
This week Kip Williams, the Director of Equality Across America, announced that final decisions have been made. "The Equality Across America Web site points at some particular legislative issues, but that is not the agenda or the demand of the march," said Williams.
In particular, he says, participants won't be marching for marriage equality, repeal of the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" ban on gays serving openly in the military, or the proposed federal Employment Non-Discrimination Act.
Instead, the focus will be on achieving full equality under civil law.
If you're planning on attending, then, organizers ask that you please refrain from carrying any signs that say you want to get married, serve in the military, or think it's wrong that you can be fired because you're gay. Instead, maybe write something like "I don't want to get married if I can't adopt a crack baby!" or "Today, stop the bullying in our schools! Tomorrow, maybe do something else!"
Plus, there are plenty of activities planned. While we're standing around on the Mall, perhaps we'll work on the landscaping. If the weather is warm maybe we'll doff our shirts and cruise for a while. As always with gay protests, the chants will be a highlight. I'm thinking this year we could do something like, "We're here; we're queer; actually, we were looking for a Starbucks."
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
There Go My Idols, Parts 1 and 2
1. Smokey Robinson singing Norah Jones on Conan O'Brian last night.
2. First she nagged David Letterman like a fishwife about his socks, then answered his question about how poor people could be fashionable by recommending twenty-dollar lipstick. And then Anna Wintour -- looking all Nancy Reagan, with giant head and spindly body -- tried to tell a joke:
"Well, just yesterday the press called me an ice queen, the Sun King, an alien fleeing from District 9 and a dominatrix. Which I guess makes me, like, um, room-temperature, uh, royalty, from . . . what was it? Oh, outer space. And I'm, like, hitting people. With a whip."
2. First she nagged David Letterman like a fishwife about his socks, then answered his question about how poor people could be fashionable by recommending twenty-dollar lipstick. And then Anna Wintour -- looking all Nancy Reagan, with giant head and spindly body -- tried to tell a joke:
"Well, just yesterday the press called me an ice queen, the Sun King, an alien fleeing from District 9 and a dominatrix. Which I guess makes me, like, um, room-temperature, uh, royalty, from . . . what was it? Oh, outer space. And I'm, like, hitting people. With a whip."
I finally figured out what I've been missing. I have so many bad experiences with people I need something to balance them out. Every day I bang into some idiot on the sidewalk, somebody steps on my shoes from behind, somebody spits upwind of me. I leave home with a smile on my face and return thinking, Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with people today?
My irritation at humanity has mounted over the months, and I needed something positive to balance it out.
Well, I finally got it on Sunday at the Girl Talk concert at the East River Park. Nine thousand young people all jammed into one small space, all of them fun and friendly and at least partly drunk. Girl Talk puts on an amazing show, with air guns that shoot toilet paper, six or seven giant inflatable pillows flung out onto the crowd, huge plastic tubes shooting confetti. It was a mess, a tiny Woodstock, a massive singalong. I was saddened to learn that 99% of New York knows the lyrics to Kelly Clarkson's "Since You Been Gone," but absolutely horrified to discover they know Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" too.
Unfortunately, it all came to an abrupt end. Being ridiculously tall pays off on exactly two occasions: when I need something on a high shelf, and when I'm at a concert. At concerts I'm literally a head above everybody else, so nothing obscures my view, but in this madness there were crowd surfers zipping by like SUVs on the Santa Monica Freeway. Which is cool when they're floating atop your fingertips, not so cool when they're aimed squarely at your head.
At approximately 7:22 on Sunday night something clonked into the back of my head once, then twice. When I spun around I was staring straight between the legs of a big-boned woman in skintight spandex, and then everything went black.
My irritation at humanity has mounted over the months, and I needed something positive to balance it out.
Well, I finally got it on Sunday at the Girl Talk concert at the East River Park. Nine thousand young people all jammed into one small space, all of them fun and friendly and at least partly drunk. Girl Talk puts on an amazing show, with air guns that shoot toilet paper, six or seven giant inflatable pillows flung out onto the crowd, huge plastic tubes shooting confetti. It was a mess, a tiny Woodstock, a massive singalong. I was saddened to learn that 99% of New York knows the lyrics to Kelly Clarkson's "Since You Been Gone," but absolutely horrified to discover they know Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" too.
Unfortunately, it all came to an abrupt end. Being ridiculously tall pays off on exactly two occasions: when I need something on a high shelf, and when I'm at a concert. At concerts I'm literally a head above everybody else, so nothing obscures my view, but in this madness there were crowd surfers zipping by like SUVs on the Santa Monica Freeway. Which is cool when they're floating atop your fingertips, not so cool when they're aimed squarely at your head.
At approximately 7:22 on Sunday night something clonked into the back of my head once, then twice. When I spun around I was staring straight between the legs of a big-boned woman in skintight spandex, and then everything went black.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Politics can be so polarizing I generally try to avoid them, but I've dodged one certain topic for so long I have to speak up or I'll bust. There are significant questions as to whether or not President Obama was born in the U. S. A., and is thus eligible to be president.
My fellow "birthers" have noticed a preponderance of evidence that seems to prove President Obama was born in Kenya, and we've been trying to get our doubts addressed. For some reason, though, we're not making any progress, despite months of screaming at the top of our lungs.
We've been locked in a war of semantics about "short form" and "long form" birth certificates. We've been debating the legitimacy of a Hawaiian newspaper's birth announcement. We've even been arguing about the presidential penis. Activist Larry Sinclair claims he and the president had sex, and he stated categorically that the president is uncircumcised. But the president says he was born in Hawaii: Weren't boys routinely circumcised there?
Maybe, the president's supporters say. Then again, maybe not.
We continually ask these relevant questions, and we're offhandedly tossed insignificant answers. Needless to say, the controversy hasn't gone away. So, in the interests of good journalism, I've devised a foolproof test that will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt whether Barack Obama was born in the United States.
He should tap-dance for us.
Think back: The 1950s were a pleasant post-war period when America just wanted to relax. The television set still hadn't made it into the average household, so radio, board games, and movies entertained us. Shirley Temple was the number-one box office star, and America was entranced by the adorable moppet with the headful of shiny curls.
In just about all of her movies, there was some old black butler or chauffeur or handyman who'd be there waiting every time she felt like tap-dancing down stairs.
You have to remember: This era predates the civil rights movement. Back then, predominantly-white movies offered the only real role models available to blacks, so naturally this was what they aspired to. All black parents wanted for their children were a warm home, food on the table, and tap-dance lessons so they could entertain the white folk. Despite the fact that such lessons were frequently quite costly, every black child in the nation was taught, well into the 1960s.
Was this true in Kenya? Absolutely not. Kenyan boys can tap-dance about as well as white boys can rap.
And so, here's my proposal. At the next White House press conference, a reporter needs to ask the president to tap-dance for us.
It'd be ridiculously easy. He could say something like, "Hey, Mr. President, did you ever take tap-dance lessons? You must remember some of those steps." And let's state categorically: a quick shuffle-ball-change isn't going to be good enough. Hell, anybody could learn that in the time it takes to make tea. No, we want intricate movement, like a paddle-and-roll leading into a riff walk. Me, I'd love to see President Obama shim sham shimmy into a double toe punch followed by a string of over-the-tops. And if he'd like to prove his prowess beyond a shadow of a doubt, he could toss in a triple time step that segues into a buffalo cramproll with heel clicks.
All these moves should be accompanied by the appropriate jazz hands, and ideally Obama should perform some of these steps while moving either up or down stairs. If he really wants to do it right, he'll wear white gloves and carry a cane. And, of course, the routine should end with a "Hotcha!"
So, as a proud spokesman for the so-called "birther wingnuts," I'd like to assure America that yes, it really is that simple. Put all our worries to rest. Shut us up once and for all. Just one simple tap-dance routine and we'll never mention it again.
And if the president refuses, then we all need to be seriously worried about who is running the American show.
My fellow "birthers" have noticed a preponderance of evidence that seems to prove President Obama was born in Kenya, and we've been trying to get our doubts addressed. For some reason, though, we're not making any progress, despite months of screaming at the top of our lungs.
We've been locked in a war of semantics about "short form" and "long form" birth certificates. We've been debating the legitimacy of a Hawaiian newspaper's birth announcement. We've even been arguing about the presidential penis. Activist Larry Sinclair claims he and the president had sex, and he stated categorically that the president is uncircumcised. But the president says he was born in Hawaii: Weren't boys routinely circumcised there?
Maybe, the president's supporters say. Then again, maybe not.
We continually ask these relevant questions, and we're offhandedly tossed insignificant answers. Needless to say, the controversy hasn't gone away. So, in the interests of good journalism, I've devised a foolproof test that will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt whether Barack Obama was born in the United States.
He should tap-dance for us.
Think back: The 1950s were a pleasant post-war period when America just wanted to relax. The television set still hadn't made it into the average household, so radio, board games, and movies entertained us. Shirley Temple was the number-one box office star, and America was entranced by the adorable moppet with the headful of shiny curls.
In just about all of her movies, there was some old black butler or chauffeur or handyman who'd be there waiting every time she felt like tap-dancing down stairs.
You have to remember: This era predates the civil rights movement. Back then, predominantly-white movies offered the only real role models available to blacks, so naturally this was what they aspired to. All black parents wanted for their children were a warm home, food on the table, and tap-dance lessons so they could entertain the white folk. Despite the fact that such lessons were frequently quite costly, every black child in the nation was taught, well into the 1960s.
Was this true in Kenya? Absolutely not. Kenyan boys can tap-dance about as well as white boys can rap.
And so, here's my proposal. At the next White House press conference, a reporter needs to ask the president to tap-dance for us.
It'd be ridiculously easy. He could say something like, "Hey, Mr. President, did you ever take tap-dance lessons? You must remember some of those steps." And let's state categorically: a quick shuffle-ball-change isn't going to be good enough. Hell, anybody could learn that in the time it takes to make tea. No, we want intricate movement, like a paddle-and-roll leading into a riff walk. Me, I'd love to see President Obama shim sham shimmy into a double toe punch followed by a string of over-the-tops. And if he'd like to prove his prowess beyond a shadow of a doubt, he could toss in a triple time step that segues into a buffalo cramproll with heel clicks.
All these moves should be accompanied by the appropriate jazz hands, and ideally Obama should perform some of these steps while moving either up or down stairs. If he really wants to do it right, he'll wear white gloves and carry a cane. And, of course, the routine should end with a "Hotcha!"
So, as a proud spokesman for the so-called "birther wingnuts," I'd like to assure America that yes, it really is that simple. Put all our worries to rest. Shut us up once and for all. Just one simple tap-dance routine and we'll never mention it again.
And if the president refuses, then we all need to be seriously worried about who is running the American show.
Monday, August 24, 2009
The Chevy Volt! The in-freakin'-credible new vehicle from Chevrolet. Read it and weep: TWO HUNDRED THIRTY miles per gallon. Yeah, you read that right. This ain't a ride -- it's a revolution!
Be our fan on Facebook! Watch the announcement! Read the press release!
Coming soon! Really, really soon!
From the company that brought you the Cavalier, the Chevette, and the Luv.
Oh, c'mon, assholes: show some enthusiasm. We got stock options we wanna sell.
Be our fan on Facebook! Watch the announcement! Read the press release!
Coming soon! Really, really soon!
From the company that brought you the Cavalier, the Chevette, and the Luv.
Oh, c'mon, assholes: show some enthusiasm. We got stock options we wanna sell.
Titanic was the biggest movie in the history of the world, so director James Cameron's followup has to be big. Avatar has all the ingredients: it's a mix of live action and animation, it's in a brand new type of 3D, and it's cost $200 million so far.
Avatar is being released in December, which means it's time for the hype to start. 20th Century Fox showed sneak previews of part of the film for a few random million, including just about any blogger who's got more than four faithful readers.
What can I tell you? I lied.
The film looks pretty terrific, though the 3D isn't substantially better than what we've seen before. (When the camera moves, you might as well just shut your eyes until it stops.) The main problem is the script and story seem to be absolute crap.
Jake Sully is a Marine who was disabled in combat. He's selected to participate in a secret program where he's transformed into a giant animated cat, then sent to a mysterious land for some unspoken mission. The problem appears right after Jake's transformation: as he awakens in his new body, he's overcome with emotion. He can walk! He's whole! He's a fuckin' giant cat! He levels half the laboratory before he breaks out.
Now, it's an electrifying scene, and the 3D is extraordinary. But if your brain synapses are firing, you'll think something, like "Wow, you know, government research scientists should really perform psychological testing on people before they send them off on vital missions."
NASA does it, to avoid scenes like this:
MISSION CONTROL: Congratulations, Lunar Module 1. You are now on the surface of the moon.
ASTRONAUT: Roger, Mission Control. (PAUSE) Now I'm gonna fuck . . . shit . . . UP!
Unfortunately James Cameron doesn't, so we're stuck in some bizarre hybrid we can't reconcile. Jake is young and stupid and dripping with testosterone, and whereas five years ago he was a naive youth ready to defend his country in war, now he's physically and mentally damaged -- so add "bitter" to the pile and you've got a protagonist straight out of Brian De Palma. And he's our ticket into this faux-Jurassic Park where dinosaurs romp in My Little Pony day-glo purple wonderlands.
It's like Scarface's Tony Montana wandering into Alice in Wonderland and mowing down playing cards with an AK-47. We wonder if George and Martha from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? will turn up next.
MARTHA: Look, George, we're giant animated cats! And we're in 3D! Ooh, everything's poking out at me -- except your loincloth, of course.
GEORGE: Oh, shut yer yap, you stupid cow. It's a good thing this movie is G-rated, because there ain't enough yellow in China to paint those saggy tits.
MARTHA: Why, you insignificant little twerp. Why don't you help Jake fight the natives, like a real man? What, is big George afraid of the kitties?
GEORGE: If I was afraid of stretched-out pussy, I'd never have married you.
Jake's love interest is an allegedly-beautiful warrior cat. (I say "allegedly" because it's hard to attach the word to something that looks like my own little adorable Pumpkin, except it's on two feet and has Barbie's waist and tits.) Neytiri calls Jake on the carpet for his behavior, and our hearts sink as we think, Oh God, if she falls in love with this loser and her love and innate animal wisdom prompt Jake to realize the error of his ways and become a complete, fulfilled human being, this movie really will be the worst pile of crap we've seen in years.
Still, I know none of this matters. You've seen Transformers and X Men Origins and G. I. Joe. So go see Avatar the second it comes out. It's got angry dinosaurs and giant flying lizards and fighting cats, and man, they really fuck shit up.
Avatar is being released in December, which means it's time for the hype to start. 20th Century Fox showed sneak previews of part of the film for a few random million, including just about any blogger who's got more than four faithful readers.
What can I tell you? I lied.
The film looks pretty terrific, though the 3D isn't substantially better than what we've seen before. (When the camera moves, you might as well just shut your eyes until it stops.) The main problem is the script and story seem to be absolute crap.
Jake Sully is a Marine who was disabled in combat. He's selected to participate in a secret program where he's transformed into a giant animated cat, then sent to a mysterious land for some unspoken mission. The problem appears right after Jake's transformation: as he awakens in his new body, he's overcome with emotion. He can walk! He's whole! He's a fuckin' giant cat! He levels half the laboratory before he breaks out.
Now, it's an electrifying scene, and the 3D is extraordinary. But if your brain synapses are firing, you'll think something, like "Wow, you know, government research scientists should really perform psychological testing on people before they send them off on vital missions."
NASA does it, to avoid scenes like this:
MISSION CONTROL: Congratulations, Lunar Module 1. You are now on the surface of the moon.
ASTRONAUT: Roger, Mission Control. (PAUSE) Now I'm gonna fuck . . . shit . . . UP!
Unfortunately James Cameron doesn't, so we're stuck in some bizarre hybrid we can't reconcile. Jake is young and stupid and dripping with testosterone, and whereas five years ago he was a naive youth ready to defend his country in war, now he's physically and mentally damaged -- so add "bitter" to the pile and you've got a protagonist straight out of Brian De Palma. And he's our ticket into this faux-Jurassic Park where dinosaurs romp in My Little Pony day-glo purple wonderlands.
It's like Scarface's Tony Montana wandering into Alice in Wonderland and mowing down playing cards with an AK-47. We wonder if George and Martha from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? will turn up next.
MARTHA: Look, George, we're giant animated cats! And we're in 3D! Ooh, everything's poking out at me -- except your loincloth, of course.
GEORGE: Oh, shut yer yap, you stupid cow. It's a good thing this movie is G-rated, because there ain't enough yellow in China to paint those saggy tits.
MARTHA: Why, you insignificant little twerp. Why don't you help Jake fight the natives, like a real man? What, is big George afraid of the kitties?
GEORGE: If I was afraid of stretched-out pussy, I'd never have married you.
Jake's love interest is an allegedly-beautiful warrior cat. (I say "allegedly" because it's hard to attach the word to something that looks like my own little adorable Pumpkin, except it's on two feet and has Barbie's waist and tits.) Neytiri calls Jake on the carpet for his behavior, and our hearts sink as we think, Oh God, if she falls in love with this loser and her love and innate animal wisdom prompt Jake to realize the error of his ways and become a complete, fulfilled human being, this movie really will be the worst pile of crap we've seen in years.
Still, I know none of this matters. You've seen Transformers and X Men Origins and G. I. Joe. So go see Avatar the second it comes out. It's got angry dinosaurs and giant flying lizards and fighting cats, and man, they really fuck shit up.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
A Seattle woman has accused magician David Copperfield of luring her to his private island in the Caribbean just to use her as a sex toy, Gawker reported yesterday.
The unnamed woman says she went to a Copperfield show and was called onstage to participate. Which maybe should have thrown up a red flag with her, because anybody who watches Magic's Secrets Revealed knows these folks are all part of the act. Afterwards, an assistant told her to stick around to meet the magician. She did, and then the assistant asked her if she'd be interested in doing "promotional work" on Copperfield's private island. She agreed.
Seven months later, Copperfield called and invited her to one of those "promotional opportunities." She couldn't bring her boyfriend, he said, because there wasn't enough room. Well, she might have thought, maybe it's one of those two-seater islands. I mean, sure, Copperfield's a good magician, but he's no Siegfried or Roy. When she got to the island, though, Copperfield took her passport and suddenly she realized something sinister was afoot.
Nobody else on the island! Just her and Copperfield! Well, and the guy who served the food, but I don't count servants either. Besides, this guy sounds pretty freakin' spooky. I mean, sure, he "appeared" to be in Copperfield's employ, but I'll bet he wasn't! I'll bet he shows up randomly and serves the meals just for fun.
After the assault, the woman says she went back to her room and tried to call her boyfriend, but couldn't get cell coverage. When she tried to use the room phone, Copperfield walked in -- holding a cordless phone to his ear. And then he stared at her, making her think he'd been listening in on the call.
Needless to say, she hung up immediately. Hey, I've been there, and I know I'd do just about anything to avoid somebody's Icy Glare of Death.
Over the next few days, the sex abuse continued. The woman says she saw other people on the island, but thought they could be stooges for Copperfield so instead of asking them to summon police she gave into the hopelessness of despair and just Jet Skied and worked on her tan. I can only imagine the torment this woman must have suffered: "I'm going to tie you up with this piece of rope. Wait, now it's two pieces of rope!"
Sure, maybe the victim has "a history of lying." Maybe she'd bragged she could "take a guy down" with sex allegations before. But Copperfield's denials seem particularly flimsy. He says she could have left the island at any time on a Jet Ski. Riiiight. But without her passport, she couldn't have left the Caribbean! She'd have been doomed to at least a day or two of eating conch. He also claims she "had playful conversations with guests." But what if they were all Copperfield stooges? Once again she might have been subjected to his Icy Glare of Death.
So, in support of this poor woman, I hereby announce a boycott of Mr. Copperfield. From this day forward, dear sir, we will not get onstage with you. We will not pull a card from your deck, you may not borrow our dollar bills, and we will not even consider cutting your goddamned string in half.
The unnamed woman says she went to a Copperfield show and was called onstage to participate. Which maybe should have thrown up a red flag with her, because anybody who watches Magic's Secrets Revealed knows these folks are all part of the act. Afterwards, an assistant told her to stick around to meet the magician. She did, and then the assistant asked her if she'd be interested in doing "promotional work" on Copperfield's private island. She agreed.
Seven months later, Copperfield called and invited her to one of those "promotional opportunities." She couldn't bring her boyfriend, he said, because there wasn't enough room. Well, she might have thought, maybe it's one of those two-seater islands. I mean, sure, Copperfield's a good magician, but he's no Siegfried or Roy. When she got to the island, though, Copperfield took her passport and suddenly she realized something sinister was afoot.
Nobody else on the island! Just her and Copperfield! Well, and the guy who served the food, but I don't count servants either. Besides, this guy sounds pretty freakin' spooky. I mean, sure, he "appeared" to be in Copperfield's employ, but I'll bet he wasn't! I'll bet he shows up randomly and serves the meals just for fun.
After the assault, the woman says she went back to her room and tried to call her boyfriend, but couldn't get cell coverage. When she tried to use the room phone, Copperfield walked in -- holding a cordless phone to his ear. And then he stared at her, making her think he'd been listening in on the call.
Needless to say, she hung up immediately. Hey, I've been there, and I know I'd do just about anything to avoid somebody's Icy Glare of Death.
Over the next few days, the sex abuse continued. The woman says she saw other people on the island, but thought they could be stooges for Copperfield so instead of asking them to summon police she gave into the hopelessness of despair and just Jet Skied and worked on her tan. I can only imagine the torment this woman must have suffered: "I'm going to tie you up with this piece of rope. Wait, now it's two pieces of rope!"
Sure, maybe the victim has "a history of lying." Maybe she'd bragged she could "take a guy down" with sex allegations before. But Copperfield's denials seem particularly flimsy. He says she could have left the island at any time on a Jet Ski. Riiiight. But without her passport, she couldn't have left the Caribbean! She'd have been doomed to at least a day or two of eating conch. He also claims she "had playful conversations with guests." But what if they were all Copperfield stooges? Once again she might have been subjected to his Icy Glare of Death.
So, in support of this poor woman, I hereby announce a boycott of Mr. Copperfield. From this day forward, dear sir, we will not get onstage with you. We will not pull a card from your deck, you may not borrow our dollar bills, and we will not even consider cutting your goddamned string in half.
I don't believe this. You know how it seems like every day some pervert exposes himself to some unsuspecting chick on the subway? Well, something far worse happened to me. And like those women, I'm empowering myself by putting the perpetrator's picture online and warning people to watch out for this guy.
WATCH OUT FOR THIS GUY!
No, he didn't expose himself to me. Hell, that wouldn't have been nearly as bad. I mean, indecent exposure is kind of like being pawed at by a puppy: sometimes it's nice to know you're appreciated, but other times you're hot and you're tired and all you can think of is, could you please get that thing out of my face? In both cases, though, you give the thing a healthy shove and usually it'll back up enough to give you room to breathe.
No, what this guy did was far, far worse, and there was absolutely nothing I could do.
I was on the bus yesterday when this rather unassuming man got on and took the seat across from me. He watched the scenery go by for a minute or two, and then apparently deciding it wasn't entertaining enough he jammed a finger up his nose.
And dug. And dug, and dug. If there'd been milk up his nose, he'd be sneezing butter right now.
Now, if there's one thing New Yorkers are good at, it's ignoring disgusting people. If we weren't world class champions at this, we'd have flung ourselves under subway trains about three seconds after we arrived. I kept my face aimed at the window and let the man root around in peace.
Maybe five minutes later, though, a cute young girl got on. She was maybe fifteen, with dark hair and a clear complexion. "Hey, Stephanie!" the guy called to her. "What are you doing here?"
And as she approached, he put his hand out for a shake.
I swear to God, it was like time stood still. She reached out in slow motion for that hand. She didn't know where it had been, but I sure did. Frantic thoughts pingponged in my head. Should I warn her? Should I scream? Am I going to spew up that taco I had for lunch?
In the end, dear reader, I did nothing, and today I'm trying to deal with the guilt. But this guy wasn't any different from all the others, right? We've all got gross crap on our hands. If we haven't been picking our noses, we've been drilling our ears or idly scratching our groins.
Still, I'm pretty sure which direction I'm headed when my time finally comes. Which, I think, is best. I mean, Saint Peter would probably get pissed if I refused to shake his hand, but I'll bet Satan's cool with a fist bump.
WATCH OUT FOR THIS GUY!
No, he didn't expose himself to me. Hell, that wouldn't have been nearly as bad. I mean, indecent exposure is kind of like being pawed at by a puppy: sometimes it's nice to know you're appreciated, but other times you're hot and you're tired and all you can think of is, could you please get that thing out of my face? In both cases, though, you give the thing a healthy shove and usually it'll back up enough to give you room to breathe.
No, what this guy did was far, far worse, and there was absolutely nothing I could do.
I was on the bus yesterday when this rather unassuming man got on and took the seat across from me. He watched the scenery go by for a minute or two, and then apparently deciding it wasn't entertaining enough he jammed a finger up his nose.
And dug. And dug, and dug. If there'd been milk up his nose, he'd be sneezing butter right now.
Now, if there's one thing New Yorkers are good at, it's ignoring disgusting people. If we weren't world class champions at this, we'd have flung ourselves under subway trains about three seconds after we arrived. I kept my face aimed at the window and let the man root around in peace.
Maybe five minutes later, though, a cute young girl got on. She was maybe fifteen, with dark hair and a clear complexion. "Hey, Stephanie!" the guy called to her. "What are you doing here?"
And as she approached, he put his hand out for a shake.
I swear to God, it was like time stood still. She reached out in slow motion for that hand. She didn't know where it had been, but I sure did. Frantic thoughts pingponged in my head. Should I warn her? Should I scream? Am I going to spew up that taco I had for lunch?
In the end, dear reader, I did nothing, and today I'm trying to deal with the guilt. But this guy wasn't any different from all the others, right? We've all got gross crap on our hands. If we haven't been picking our noses, we've been drilling our ears or idly scratching our groins.
Still, I'm pretty sure which direction I'm headed when my time finally comes. Which, I think, is best. I mean, Saint Peter would probably get pissed if I refused to shake his hand, but I'll bet Satan's cool with a fist bump.
Simile Time
After African-American contestant Lawrence Beaman sang a slow, heartfelt "You Are So Beautiful" on America's Got Talent last night, fawning judge Piers Morgan declared that he could be the next who?
(a) Joe Cocker
(b) Danny Gokey
(c) John Mayer
(d) Barry White
Answer: (d) Barry White. Take off your brassiere, my dear.
(a) Joe Cocker
(b) Danny Gokey
(c) John Mayer
(d) Barry White
Answer: (d) Barry White. Take off your brassiere, my dear.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Less to Like
I've always hated romance reality shows. They're fake: like a whole bunch of attractive, successful young people ran to TV to find a mate rather than a job in entertainment. They're offensive, with dudes proposing left and right to chicks they've just met while gay couples that have been together fifty years can't get hitched.
Mostly, though, they're just way too white for me. Sure, occasionally they throw in a minority group, but those folks are long gone by the time the final rose or ring or room key is passed out.
I'm not crazy about idiot whites ruling the world, so I definitely don't want to see them reproducing on my TV. I don't care. I don't identify. Like I'm going to sit on the edge of my couch shoving popcorn into my gob and wiping away tears, thinking, "Oh, thank God the skinny white bitch with the Botox and the lizard-skin Stetson finally hooked up with the overgrown frat boy with the spray-on tan who still brings his laundry home to mom." Fifty percent of all black teens are unemployed but I'm supposed to tune in every week and root for some dude who probably has his anus bleached?
These folks aren't ready to dress themselves, let alone settle down.
More to Love promised to change the equation, putting fatties on both sides of the fence. Oddly, this doesn't change the dynamic for the dude. Luke is a 26-year-old "real estate developer." He's loud, he's brash, he's overconfident. He knows that fat guys aren't stigmatized like fat women. It's beer behind his bulk, not cake. And as usual he has to pretend to like all the women, which in my book is called "stringing them along."
The women, though, are creatures we've never seen on TV. They aren't overprivileged. In fact, they'd been through hell. They've been rejected all their lives for being fat. They've never had boyfriends. They've built up walls around themselves, given up the thought of coupling, refusing to get hurt any more.
They're attractive, they're successful, and they cry every time they open their mouths.
And now, finally, they've found a guy where their weight doesn't matter. Who would have guessed he'd exist? He's perfect! Prince Charming! So what if he doesn't have a personality! While all the skinny white bitches want hunky guys who are taller than them and have perfect teeth and a BMW 320i, all these women want is a guy who doesn't run away screaming when he sees them in a swimsuit. And if the guy doesn't care that they're fat, the only barrier between them and happiness is gone.
Almost immediately, they fall in love with Luke. And shortly thereafter, they're kicked off. Nineteen of them, one by one.
Adios, sweet chub! Yup, this is what love is all about. Take comfort in knowing that this time you're not being rejected because you're overweight.
It's because your personality sucks.
Mostly, though, they're just way too white for me. Sure, occasionally they throw in a minority group, but those folks are long gone by the time the final rose or ring or room key is passed out.
I'm not crazy about idiot whites ruling the world, so I definitely don't want to see them reproducing on my TV. I don't care. I don't identify. Like I'm going to sit on the edge of my couch shoving popcorn into my gob and wiping away tears, thinking, "Oh, thank God the skinny white bitch with the Botox and the lizard-skin Stetson finally hooked up with the overgrown frat boy with the spray-on tan who still brings his laundry home to mom." Fifty percent of all black teens are unemployed but I'm supposed to tune in every week and root for some dude who probably has his anus bleached?
These folks aren't ready to dress themselves, let alone settle down.
More to Love promised to change the equation, putting fatties on both sides of the fence. Oddly, this doesn't change the dynamic for the dude. Luke is a 26-year-old "real estate developer." He's loud, he's brash, he's overconfident. He knows that fat guys aren't stigmatized like fat women. It's beer behind his bulk, not cake. And as usual he has to pretend to like all the women, which in my book is called "stringing them along."
The women, though, are creatures we've never seen on TV. They aren't overprivileged. In fact, they'd been through hell. They've been rejected all their lives for being fat. They've never had boyfriends. They've built up walls around themselves, given up the thought of coupling, refusing to get hurt any more.
They're attractive, they're successful, and they cry every time they open their mouths.
And now, finally, they've found a guy where their weight doesn't matter. Who would have guessed he'd exist? He's perfect! Prince Charming! So what if he doesn't have a personality! While all the skinny white bitches want hunky guys who are taller than them and have perfect teeth and a BMW 320i, all these women want is a guy who doesn't run away screaming when he sees them in a swimsuit. And if the guy doesn't care that they're fat, the only barrier between them and happiness is gone.
Almost immediately, they fall in love with Luke. And shortly thereafter, they're kicked off. Nineteen of them, one by one.
Adios, sweet chub! Yup, this is what love is all about. Take comfort in knowing that this time you're not being rejected because you're overweight.
It's because your personality sucks.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
How on earth did Bob Guccione go broke? He founded and published Penthouse, America's second-favorite porn magazine. He founded Omni, a sci-fi magazine. He produced the film Caligula, a sex romp starring Helen Mirren.
Oh. Okay. Never mind.
Well, broke he went, and creditors seized his Manhattan townhouse with its 27 rooms and swimming pool. Last night they auctioned off some of its contents.
It's about what you've grown to expect from the nouveau stinkin' riche: Lots of marble, gold leaf, busts of gorgeous Roman babes whose togas have gone askew. Corinthian columns topped by busts of Guccione himself, presumably with olive-leaf crowns. There's no $5,000 shower curtain, but I'd hate to think what these toilets originally cost.
With estimates ranging from $400 to $5000, they sold for $150 to $400 apiece. Which I'm thinking is a pretty good bargain, considering cheapo porcelain toilets are $100 at Home Depot. These are far more tasteful, handcarved from the finest marble to look like giant seashells. In fact, I'll bet if you put your ear to them, you can hear --
I'll tell you after lunch.
Oh. Okay. Never mind.
Well, broke he went, and creditors seized his Manhattan townhouse with its 27 rooms and swimming pool. Last night they auctioned off some of its contents.
It's about what you've grown to expect from the nouveau stinkin' riche: Lots of marble, gold leaf, busts of gorgeous Roman babes whose togas have gone askew. Corinthian columns topped by busts of Guccione himself, presumably with olive-leaf crowns. There's no $5,000 shower curtain, but I'd hate to think what these toilets originally cost.
With estimates ranging from $400 to $5000, they sold for $150 to $400 apiece. Which I'm thinking is a pretty good bargain, considering cheapo porcelain toilets are $100 at Home Depot. These are far more tasteful, handcarved from the finest marble to look like giant seashells. In fact, I'll bet if you put your ear to them, you can hear --
I'll tell you after lunch.
Mindy McCready says she will tell the world about her relationship with Roger Clemens on an upcoming reality series, including that her long-term affair with the former Yankee pitcher kick-started a downward spiral when it came to her future relationships with men.
"He was the first person I fell madly in love with," McCready told the Daily News. "But having a person promise you the world and then not give it to you, that's the worst kind of abuse a person can suffer."
"Really?" Tina Turner said.
"He was the first person I fell madly in love with," McCready told the Daily News. "But having a person promise you the world and then not give it to you, that's the worst kind of abuse a person can suffer."
"Really?" Tina Turner said.
Monday, August 17, 2009
I don't do much gay stuff. I hate Madonna, hate the beach, hate skin-tight clothes and hate hair gel. In fact, I only do two things that are even remotely gay:
1. I have sex with men.
2. I subscribe to Interieurs magazine.
The latter is for the lamest of reasons. I saw an ad with photos of gorgeous apartments offering a year's subscription for $12. I figured maybe it'd help me my fix up my place, and I like getting fun stuff in the mail. I haven't really gotten a lot of surprises in my life since I started using condoms.
My first issue arrived within a week, and ten minutes later my telephone rang. "This is Mr. Norman from Interieurs," the man said. "Did you receive our magazine?"
I told him I did, but hadn't had time to leaf through it. No matter: he still wanted to hear what I thought. Was the cover photo provocative? Did the blurbs entice? Was the address label placed well on the page? I answered every question thinking it had to be the last but he continued quizzing me for nearly half an hour. My ear was numb when I finally hung up the phone, but I assured myself I'd done my part for market research.
A week later, though, "Mr. Arnold" called. Was I enjoying the magazine? he asked. Did I read the whole thing? What were my favorite parts? I honestly couldn't remember any of it, except for an ad where a shirtless hunk really, really enjoyed his new faucet. What else? Oh, I liked the pictures of Maya Rudolph's sundeck.
"That's Mr. Raymond's work," he said. "He'll be pleased to hear you enjoyed it." He told me Mr. Raymond did all the celebrity pieces, and after he asked me how I felt about Zach Galifianakis I told him I had to go.
A few days later Mr. Dean called. "I'm Managing Editor at Interieurs," he said. "I'd like to hear your thoughts on design." Sure, I was annoyed at being bothered again, but I was also flattered: the only other titled person who'd been interested in me was Mr. Bear Granddaddy of 2004. Once again, the questions were endless. Did I like Jonathan Adler? The color tangerine? Did I think Marimekko would ever come back? Twenty minutes later he was still peppering me about everything from shag carpeting to cuckoo clocks. I told him there was somebody at my door and he thanked me for my input.
No good deed goes unpunished, the saying goes, and it spiraled straight into the toilet from here. Pretty soon I was getting a phone call every day. "This is Mr. Wayne from Interieurs magazine," one caller said. "I just wanted to swing a story idea past you." "Do you have an email address?" Mr. Charles inquired. "We can't decide which photo to run." "This is Mr. Raymond from Interieurs magazine," a third caller said. "Did you really like my piece on Maya Rudolph's sundeck?
When the phone rang at eight one morning, that was the straw that broke this camel's back. I told Mr. Wayne I was extremely busy. I told Mr. Arnold that I didn't have time to talk. I told Mr. Raymond to tell all the other Misters not to call me again. And then when the phone rang once more, I told Mr. Walter to cancel my subscription.
He kept a stiff upper lip, until he started to cry.
Still, I didn't feel the least bit guilty. This was the first morning in two months where I wasn't woken by the phone, and it was absolutely blissful. I got out of bed late, stumbled to the bathroom, took a long, hot shower. When I got out, though, bare-ass naked, I noticed a face pressed up against the window.
I was surprised. He was surprised. And just before he disappeared into the shrubbery he shot me a look that said, you know, that carpet doesn't match those drapes.
1. I have sex with men.
2. I subscribe to Interieurs magazine.
The latter is for the lamest of reasons. I saw an ad with photos of gorgeous apartments offering a year's subscription for $12. I figured maybe it'd help me my fix up my place, and I like getting fun stuff in the mail. I haven't really gotten a lot of surprises in my life since I started using condoms.
My first issue arrived within a week, and ten minutes later my telephone rang. "This is Mr. Norman from Interieurs," the man said. "Did you receive our magazine?"
I told him I did, but hadn't had time to leaf through it. No matter: he still wanted to hear what I thought. Was the cover photo provocative? Did the blurbs entice? Was the address label placed well on the page? I answered every question thinking it had to be the last but he continued quizzing me for nearly half an hour. My ear was numb when I finally hung up the phone, but I assured myself I'd done my part for market research.
A week later, though, "Mr. Arnold" called. Was I enjoying the magazine? he asked. Did I read the whole thing? What were my favorite parts? I honestly couldn't remember any of it, except for an ad where a shirtless hunk really, really enjoyed his new faucet. What else? Oh, I liked the pictures of Maya Rudolph's sundeck.
"That's Mr. Raymond's work," he said. "He'll be pleased to hear you enjoyed it." He told me Mr. Raymond did all the celebrity pieces, and after he asked me how I felt about Zach Galifianakis I told him I had to go.
A few days later Mr. Dean called. "I'm Managing Editor at Interieurs," he said. "I'd like to hear your thoughts on design." Sure, I was annoyed at being bothered again, but I was also flattered: the only other titled person who'd been interested in me was Mr. Bear Granddaddy of 2004. Once again, the questions were endless. Did I like Jonathan Adler? The color tangerine? Did I think Marimekko would ever come back? Twenty minutes later he was still peppering me about everything from shag carpeting to cuckoo clocks. I told him there was somebody at my door and he thanked me for my input.
No good deed goes unpunished, the saying goes, and it spiraled straight into the toilet from here. Pretty soon I was getting a phone call every day. "This is Mr. Wayne from Interieurs magazine," one caller said. "I just wanted to swing a story idea past you." "Do you have an email address?" Mr. Charles inquired. "We can't decide which photo to run." "This is Mr. Raymond from Interieurs magazine," a third caller said. "Did you really like my piece on Maya Rudolph's sundeck?
When the phone rang at eight one morning, that was the straw that broke this camel's back. I told Mr. Wayne I was extremely busy. I told Mr. Arnold that I didn't have time to talk. I told Mr. Raymond to tell all the other Misters not to call me again. And then when the phone rang once more, I told Mr. Walter to cancel my subscription.
He kept a stiff upper lip, until he started to cry.
Still, I didn't feel the least bit guilty. This was the first morning in two months where I wasn't woken by the phone, and it was absolutely blissful. I got out of bed late, stumbled to the bathroom, took a long, hot shower. When I got out, though, bare-ass naked, I noticed a face pressed up against the window.
I was surprised. He was surprised. And just before he disappeared into the shrubbery he shot me a look that said, you know, that carpet doesn't match those drapes.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Did Jamie Foxx post a naked picture of himself on a free website?
Absolutely not. Positively not. Definitely never.
The real Jamie Foxx would never do anything like this.
He'd buy heyimjamiefoxxandivegotanenormousdick.com and then charge people $29.99 to look.
(Via Queerty)
Big Ass, Whole Foods
John Mackey, co-founder and CEO of Whole Foods, recently wrote an editorial for the Wall Street Journal against Obama's health care overhaul. The piece is lengthy and difficult to get through, so I'll break it down into manageable bits.
Translation: The U. S. government can't afford to help the poor.
Translation: Besides, poor people should pay their own freakin' bills.
Translation: I mean, if poor people don't have a house and they don't have food, what makes them think they should be able to see a doctor?
Translation: Here's how America works: if you can't pay for it, you don't get it. It works for yachts, and it works for insulin.
Translation: Anyway, if you need to see a doctor, it's your own damn fault for eating all those Cheetos and Big Macs.
Translation: So head to Whole Foods and buy our locally-grown, sustainable produce starting at just $24.99 a pound and leave me the fuck alone.
(Via Joe.My.God)
[T]he last thing our country needs is a massive new health-care entitlement that will create hundreds of billions of dollars of new unfunded deficits. . . .
Translation: The U. S. government can't afford to help the poor.
Instead, we should be trying to achieve reforms by moving in the opposite direction—toward less government control and more individual empowerment.
Translation: Besides, poor people should pay their own freakin' bills.
While all of us empathize with those who are sick, how can we say that all people have more of an intrinsic right to health care than they have to food or shelter?
Translation: I mean, if poor people don't have a house and they don't have food, what makes them think they should be able to see a doctor?
Health care is a service that we all need, but just like food and shelter it is best provided through voluntary and mutually beneficial market exchanges.
Translation: Here's how America works: if you can't pay for it, you don't get it. It works for yachts, and it works for insulin.
Recent scientific and medical evidence shows that a diet consisting of foods that are plant-based, nutrient dense and low-fat will help prevent and often reverse most degenerative diseases that kill us and are expensive to treat. We should be able to live largely disease-free lives until we are well into our 90s and even past 100 years of age.
Translation: Anyway, if you need to see a doctor, it's your own damn fault for eating all those Cheetos and Big Macs.
We are all responsible for our own lives and our own health. We should take that responsibility very seriously and use our freedom to make wise lifestyle choices that will protect our health.
Translation: So head to Whole Foods and buy our locally-grown, sustainable produce starting at just $24.99 a pound and leave me the fuck alone.
(Via Joe.My.God)
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Thursday News Round-Up
A New York judge has recently decided that you cannot sue someone who says you had gay sex.
In a decision involving Howard K. Stern, Anna Nicole Smith's longtime boyfriend and lawyer, U.S. District Judge Denny Chin declared that although there is still prejudice against gays and lesbians, homosexuality is no longer viewed as contemptible or disgraceful, so a book's claim that Mr. Stern had oral sex with Ms. Smith's baby-daddy Larry Birkhead aren't grounds for a lawsuit.
When told of the decision, Tom Cruise said, "What? Oh, holy shit!"
Marty Beckerman recently spent a day with sperm all over his face.
The curious journalist visited upscale Townhouse Spa in New York City for their $250 Norwegian "Spermine" beauty treatment, and after admitting that the process is unsettling, reluctantly agreed that it works.
And all this just to explain to his girlfriend how he got a stain on his shirt.
(Via Queerty)
A tortoise is to become a father at 110. Billy and his partner Tammy, 47, have seven eggs due to hatch in eight to twelve weeks.
Their owner found the eggs buried in six inches of soil in his garden last week after spotting Tammy crawling around in a flower bed.
Tammy was quoted as saying, "Yeah, he the father. Uh-huh. He the father."
In a decision involving Howard K. Stern, Anna Nicole Smith's longtime boyfriend and lawyer, U.S. District Judge Denny Chin declared that although there is still prejudice against gays and lesbians, homosexuality is no longer viewed as contemptible or disgraceful, so a book's claim that Mr. Stern had oral sex with Ms. Smith's baby-daddy Larry Birkhead aren't grounds for a lawsuit.
When told of the decision, Tom Cruise said, "What? Oh, holy shit!"
Marty Beckerman recently spent a day with sperm all over his face.
The curious journalist visited upscale Townhouse Spa in New York City for their $250 Norwegian "Spermine" beauty treatment, and after admitting that the process is unsettling, reluctantly agreed that it works.
And all this just to explain to his girlfriend how he got a stain on his shirt.
(Via Queerty)
A tortoise is to become a father at 110. Billy and his partner Tammy, 47, have seven eggs due to hatch in eight to twelve weeks.
Their owner found the eggs buried in six inches of soil in his garden last week after spotting Tammy crawling around in a flower bed.
Tammy was quoted as saying, "Yeah, he the father. Uh-huh. He the father."
David Mamet Will Write, Direct Film Version of "The Diary of Anne Frank"
"I keep my ideals, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are pretty fuckin' far out."
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
This is absolutely un-freakin-believable. I just got this email from an anonymous reader giving details about Obama's health care plan that haven't been released to the press, and it's far, far worse than any of us ever guessed. And to think I voted for him! How stupid I feel now. It's crazy! It's crazy socialism! I hate to say it, but the Republicans were right.
Here's the email:
Is that incredible? C'mon, we all know those judges. I guarantee, every single one of the appointment times will go to tow-headed girls wearing American flag dresses who sprained an ankle during their baton-twirling class. And far worse than the death squads Sarah Palin's been warning us about, we're going to have Kardashians in charge of our health care.
I'm heading straight for one of those town hall meetings, where we all exchange opinions in an open and honest manner, and I swear I'm shouting down anybody who isn't seriously appalled by this.
Here's the email:
Nervous about all the negative press his health care plan is getting, President Obama has arranged a small-scale test run. Here's how it's going to work.
Everyone who thinks they'll get sick during the month of September needs to line up at Salt Lake City's Western Sports Mall starting at six a.m. on Saturday, August 27. NO LINEUPS BEFORE 6 A.M. or you will be hauled away by police. Wristbands bearing appointment times will be handed out to the first 500 people in line, but if you're holding a sign praising the president exceptions will be made.
Those people lucky enough to get wristbands return at their allotted time, when they face the Admissions Squad. For September this will be David Hasselhoff, Sharon Osbourne, and Piers Morgan, but this is a temporary gig ONLY. When the real thing rolls around count on a Kardashian or two to be involved.
You then have sixty seconds to describe your symptoms and/or show the judges your physical ailments. They will buzz you if they think your symptoms aren't serious enough, and two buzzes mean you IMMEDIATELY leave the stage.
If you make it to the end, the judges will decide whether or not you'll receive medical treatment. Several important government officials assure me that in the future they'll add a "save" program where the audience can override the judges' decision, but right now nobody's willing to promise a thing.
Now, I'll be honest: there are good points and bad points to this plan. Good points? It'll give the country's competent doctors a lot more time to play golf. Bad points? Unless you're in the right neighborhood, you're out of luck.
Nobody will go on record to tell me where October's tryouts will be, but folks in Ohio shouldn't be TOo LEt DOwn.
Is that incredible? C'mon, we all know those judges. I guarantee, every single one of the appointment times will go to tow-headed girls wearing American flag dresses who sprained an ankle during their baton-twirling class. And far worse than the death squads Sarah Palin's been warning us about, we're going to have Kardashians in charge of our health care.
I'm heading straight for one of those town hall meetings, where we all exchange opinions in an open and honest manner, and I swear I'm shouting down anybody who isn't seriously appalled by this.
Oooh, SNAP!
How fat are the mannequins at J. C. Penney?
"They probably need special insulin-based epoxy injections just to make their limbs stay on."
"They probably need special insulin-based epoxy injections just to make their limbs stay on."
Facebook Firing?
Oh. Okay. So, let's recap how this went.
GIRL: I think I'll check in on Facebook. Hey, lots of peeps in the house! Yo peeps! God, Brenda never shuts up, does she. And Carol, stupid cow. Holy Jesus -- my pervy boss accepted my friend request! He thinks I like him! What a sap. (Pause.) Okay, what's new? "OMG I HATE MY JOB."
I'm guessing she's about eight seconds away from a book deal.
(Via Joe.My.God)
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
I was cruising around on Twitter the other day when I noticed an ex-president posting there. No, not Clinton, and no Bush. A little farther back: John Quincy Adams, to be precise.
That's ridiculous, you say. All the famous people on Twitter are fake, you say. Idiots with too much time on their hands pretend to be celebrities, you say. Well, I reply, who on earth would pretend to be John Quincy Adams? I mean, nobody's pretending to be Millard Fillmore, and he's at least got a cool name.
I clicked on the button to follow JQ, and the more he tweets the more I'm convinced he's the real deal.
Last evensong I had relations with a strumpet from Paris. Talk about your Continental Congress!
What a confounding morning. I told Thomas Jefferson that I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Whig and the old fusspot stuck me atop his head!
Correction: it's frequently about the Benjamins. But it's sometimes about the Zacharys and the Chesters, too.
Andrew Jackson brought his wife and three children over to Mount Wollaston for our annual autumnal fete. They're an attractive group, doubtless to say, but I reckon this small green planet shall never see a stranger Jackson 5.
That's a relief: As of 1998, I'm no longer the stupidest president who's another president's son.
That's ridiculous, you say. All the famous people on Twitter are fake, you say. Idiots with too much time on their hands pretend to be celebrities, you say. Well, I reply, who on earth would pretend to be John Quincy Adams? I mean, nobody's pretending to be Millard Fillmore, and he's at least got a cool name.
I clicked on the button to follow JQ, and the more he tweets the more I'm convinced he's the real deal.
What a confounding morning. I told Thomas Jefferson that I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Whig and the old fusspot stuck me atop his head!
Correction: it's frequently about the Benjamins. But it's sometimes about the Zacharys and the Chesters, too.
Andrew Jackson brought his wife and three children over to Mount Wollaston for our annual autumnal fete. They're an attractive group, doubtless to say, but I reckon this small green planet shall never see a stranger Jackson 5.
That's a relief: As of 1998, I'm no longer the stupidest president who's another president's son.
American Vacation Turns Jamie Oliver Gay
This commercial confuses me. Is Graham Norton working the PA system at this airport? And the concept: visiting America makes you dress strange? Well, maybe that explains the Pope.
Still, I guess it's a good commercial, because it makes me want to see the show.
Another shot of Jamie's ass? Not so much.
Monday, August 10, 2009
History Fun
Social historians have a long-established theory as to why America's indigenous Indian population died off so quickly after Christopher Columbus' arrival in the New World. While the English immigrants and the natives got along well for several generations, it was perhaps inevitable that clashes would occur, and the winner of these clashes was naturally the better armed.
The weapons the Pilgrims brought over from England were primitive but effective. The snaphance was a predecessor of the flintlock, capable of firing several shots sequentially. The matchlock fired single shots but required the touch of a lit match.
The Native Americans, however, had two lesser weapons at their disposal: the tomahawk, and the Indian burn. Certainly native warriors were skilled at throwing tomahawks, but these weapons were immediately lost on the battlefield, leaving their owners reliant on a skin irritation system thought to have been invented by the early Sioux. It was effective, but no match for riflery. While the intruders fired indiscriminately from the comfort of their mounts, the Indians had to jump down off their horses, run over to the Pilgrims, grab their arms with both fists and then twist vigorously.
Obviously this caused temporary harm to the invaders -- perhaps, it is thought, on the level of a brain freeze -- but the effects must have worn off rather quickly, prompting an answering volley of speedy lead.
History buffs always like to play "what if," and in this case occasionally wonder what would have happened if the Chinese had arrived first at the scene and shown their more advanced weaponry to the Native Americans. Might some raccoon skins have been swapped for Chinese finger traps? It's certainly a possibility, and these insidious digit prisons might have disabled the English immigrants long enough for the natives to grab their guns. In this parallel universe, perhaps, we're all wearing papooses today.
The weapons the Pilgrims brought over from England were primitive but effective. The snaphance was a predecessor of the flintlock, capable of firing several shots sequentially. The matchlock fired single shots but required the touch of a lit match.
The Native Americans, however, had two lesser weapons at their disposal: the tomahawk, and the Indian burn. Certainly native warriors were skilled at throwing tomahawks, but these weapons were immediately lost on the battlefield, leaving their owners reliant on a skin irritation system thought to have been invented by the early Sioux. It was effective, but no match for riflery. While the intruders fired indiscriminately from the comfort of their mounts, the Indians had to jump down off their horses, run over to the Pilgrims, grab their arms with both fists and then twist vigorously.
Obviously this caused temporary harm to the invaders -- perhaps, it is thought, on the level of a brain freeze -- but the effects must have worn off rather quickly, prompting an answering volley of speedy lead.
History buffs always like to play "what if," and in this case occasionally wonder what would have happened if the Chinese had arrived first at the scene and shown their more advanced weaponry to the Native Americans. Might some raccoon skins have been swapped for Chinese finger traps? It's certainly a possibility, and these insidious digit prisons might have disabled the English immigrants long enough for the natives to grab their guns. In this parallel universe, perhaps, we're all wearing papooses today.
Friday, August 7, 2009
But sadly, she just can't sleep with everyone.
The Obsessive Compulsive Foundation's annual conference is taking place this weekend. About 1,200 people have signed up to listen to speakers and attend seminars.
I hope this year's conference goes better than last. After everyone finally settled in their chairs, they started 6,406 hours late.
Michael Douglas' son is a major drug dealer, according to a criminal complaint filed Thursday.
The complaint alleges that Cameron Douglas traveled coast to coast dealing large quantities of methamphetamine and referred to the drug with the code words "bath salts."
The police were initially confused by talk that these bath salts could make your nose bleed but figured Douglas probably wholesaled to J. C. Penney.
Fox TV has declined to air an episode of "Family Guy" whose plot centers on abortion.
The episode features matriarch Lois Griffin acting as a surrogate mother for an infertile couple who are then killed in a car crash.
A Fox spokesman defended the decision, saying it might alienate viewers who've grown to accept the family headed by a dude with testicles for a chin.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Yes, dolphins are the only animals aside from man who have sex for pleasure.
All the rest have mothers-in-law waiting on the sidelines screaming "WHEN THE HELL ARE YOU GOING TO GIVE ME GRANDKIDS?"
This is why turtles usually stop having sex after they reach 100 years of age. The males turn to their wives and say, "Hey, we've already got FOUR BILLION KIDS. Give me a fuckin' break."
This reminds me of a National Geographic article that said male seahorses frequently "inadvertently" have sex with each other. Which raises the question, how did these researchers know? Did the seahorses actually say they were looking for pussy? Did they lay the blame on tiny cans of beer? Or did they swim off with a horrified look on their faces after discovering their partner had a tiny cock and balls?
Note to researchers everywhere: Eddie Murphy wasn't just giving a stranger a ride.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Five Reasons Why Paula Abdul Left "American Idol"
1. Says she can make more money at International House of Pancakes cooking, you know, whatever they call those flat, round things.
2. Sitting in Simon's shadow was giving her a tan line with man boobs.
3. Wants to spend more time with her dolls, and not the kind that sit in a chair and quietly freak you out.
4. There are literally thousands of fabulous pop songs out there just demanding to be kind of sung.
5. She couldn't think of a word more positive than spectacutastic.
2. Sitting in Simon's shadow was giving her a tan line with man boobs.
3. Wants to spend more time with her dolls, and not the kind that sit in a chair and quietly freak you out.
4. There are literally thousands of fabulous pop songs out there just demanding to be kind of sung.
5. She couldn't think of a word more positive than spectacutastic.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Well, Obama's "beer summit" is ancient history, and now other stories are making the news. Unfortunately, the fallout from this isn't going away. I mean, we've always told black people that we'll treat them okay if they dress like us, talk like us, and get an education.
And then a black Harvard professor gets harassed by the police.
Oops. Sorry about that, guys! Hope it's not too late to take those Dockers back to the Gap.
I'm not real sure why, but the New York Times decided to post just some random question about Science on their website today, along with an answer provided by an expert.
Q. After a five-day cruise, I felt the ground ashore rolling under my legs for days, as if I were still at sea. What¹s going on?
It's almost interesting. I mean, after I spend a day swimming at the beach, when I go to bed I still feel like I'm floating around on waves.
The Times' answer?
You're a pre-menopausal woman being 40 and 50.
Oh. Okay. Thanks for that. I'm taking two Midol as we speak.
An Indian man plans to get into the record books by having the flag of every nation in the world tattooed on his body.
Guinness Rishi, 67, plans to cover his entire body, including his private parts, with 220 flags. He's already been tattooed with the flags of the UK, Canada, India, USA, Cyprus, and India.
Unfortunately, it's causing a few problems in the sack. His wife keeps jumping to her feet and saluting every time Old Glory waves.
And then a black Harvard professor gets harassed by the police.
Oops. Sorry about that, guys! Hope it's not too late to take those Dockers back to the Gap.
I'm not real sure why, but the New York Times decided to post just some random question about Science on their website today, along with an answer provided by an expert.
Q. After a five-day cruise, I felt the ground ashore rolling under my legs for days, as if I were still at sea. What¹s going on?
It's almost interesting. I mean, after I spend a day swimming at the beach, when I go to bed I still feel like I'm floating around on waves.
The Times' answer?
You're a pre-menopausal woman being 40 and 50.
Oh. Okay. Thanks for that. I'm taking two Midol as we speak.
An Indian man plans to get into the record books by having the flag of every nation in the world tattooed on his body.
Guinness Rishi, 67, plans to cover his entire body, including his private parts, with 220 flags. He's already been tattooed with the flags of the UK, Canada, India, USA, Cyprus, and India.
Unfortunately, it's causing a few problems in the sack. His wife keeps jumping to her feet and saluting every time Old Glory waves.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Well, the verdict is in, so now it's time for the pundits to compare and contrast.
On Friday, a federal jury ordered Joel Tenenbaum, a Boston University graduate student, to pay $675,000 to four record labels for sharing their songs online.
Under federal law, the recording companies were entitled to as much as $150,000 per track, but jurors ordered Tenenbaum to pay just $22,500 for each incident of copyright infringement.
Meanwhile, for his third DUI arrest in five years, Rip Torn paid a fine of less than $10,000. For his second DUI -- you know, the one where he spontaneously offered his thoughts about Jews -- Mel Gibson paid a fine of $1300.
Our court system has made its priorities clear, and as a responsible blogger it's my duty to help get the message out.
In America, we'd rather have a drunk man hurtling down Pacific Coast Highway than an unlicensed copy of "Don't Stop Believin'" up for grabs on Pirate Bay. Because while the drunk man can certainly cause property damage or bodily injury, at least he won't prompt some prepubescent Korean to sing along with "My Heart Will Go On."
Trees can be replaced. Fenders can be pounded out. Bones heal. But bad karaoke can burn its way into your brain and stay there even after memories of your boyfriend or your parents are gone.
Yes, a drunk man behind the wheel of a car can be deadly. But a white woman with a bootleg copy of "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" can be absolutely disastrous. First she'll start humming along, then singing, and next thing you know she'll be crying and asking strangers why after four dozen dudes have done her she hasn't found Prince Charming yet.
One car can only do so much damage. It plows into things, slows, then stops. The same thing can't be said for a Village People song. It could be downloaded by, say, administrators at an senior center, and while you assumed file-sharing was a totally victimless crime, suddenly your thoughtless behavior has led to 50,000 old people across the globe whose pale, saggy limbs are trying to form the letters YMCA.
Wisely, our courts have realized this, and the lesson is clear. If you're thinking about breaking the law, keep our wise judicial system in mind. Next time you're falling down drunk and tempted to fire up LimeWire and share "She Bangs" with some tweener in Massachusetts, be a thoughtful, responsible citizen and go for a drive instead.
On Friday, a federal jury ordered Joel Tenenbaum, a Boston University graduate student, to pay $675,000 to four record labels for sharing their songs online.
Under federal law, the recording companies were entitled to as much as $150,000 per track, but jurors ordered Tenenbaum to pay just $22,500 for each incident of copyright infringement.
Meanwhile, for his third DUI arrest in five years, Rip Torn paid a fine of less than $10,000. For his second DUI -- you know, the one where he spontaneously offered his thoughts about Jews -- Mel Gibson paid a fine of $1300.
Our court system has made its priorities clear, and as a responsible blogger it's my duty to help get the message out.
In America, we'd rather have a drunk man hurtling down Pacific Coast Highway than an unlicensed copy of "Don't Stop Believin'" up for grabs on Pirate Bay. Because while the drunk man can certainly cause property damage or bodily injury, at least he won't prompt some prepubescent Korean to sing along with "My Heart Will Go On."
Trees can be replaced. Fenders can be pounded out. Bones heal. But bad karaoke can burn its way into your brain and stay there even after memories of your boyfriend or your parents are gone.
Yes, a drunk man behind the wheel of a car can be deadly. But a white woman with a bootleg copy of "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" can be absolutely disastrous. First she'll start humming along, then singing, and next thing you know she'll be crying and asking strangers why after four dozen dudes have done her she hasn't found Prince Charming yet.
One car can only do so much damage. It plows into things, slows, then stops. The same thing can't be said for a Village People song. It could be downloaded by, say, administrators at an senior center, and while you assumed file-sharing was a totally victimless crime, suddenly your thoughtless behavior has led to 50,000 old people across the globe whose pale, saggy limbs are trying to form the letters YMCA.
Wisely, our courts have realized this, and the lesson is clear. If you're thinking about breaking the law, keep our wise judicial system in mind. Next time you're falling down drunk and tempted to fire up LimeWire and share "She Bangs" with some tweener in Massachusetts, be a thoughtful, responsible citizen and go for a drive instead.
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