Holy fucking squirrel balls do conservatives despise democracy.
Well, not the reputation of democracy. Much like with academic scholarship or science, wingnuts absolutely love exploiting the goodwill and regard given to democracy because of the battles won by liberals. They love pointing to freedoms of religious pluralism, the equality of representation, or the ability of the people to redress wrongs when they want to feel smugly superior to brown muslimy people living in some country we’ve actively destroyed for decades.
But actual democracy? It might as well be rocket anus for how quickly they’ll dodge out of the way and shield themselves.
At every point of our nation’s history, conservatives have fought tooth and nail against the notion that “certain” people count, whether as voters or people and those marginalized groups have had to get bloody and battered to simply access the very first stage of having a voice in this country.
And the reason for it is very simple. Conservatives are repulsed by the central ideology of democracy. That their voice as rich white men in society should be treated as equivalent as a black trans* lesbian. That their concerns should be treated as equally important as those who are considered the least in our society is something that makes them physically ill and it’s why voting rights and meaningful representation is something conservatives have tried to undermine at every turn for huge swaths of the population.
Shorter (or the last port before Jungle):
Niggers and spics having the right to vote is the worst form of voter fraud.
For those who are blissfully unaware of everything having to do with the Book of Faces, Facebook recently changed their “male or female” gender options to also include a “custom” option, which if you click it, you can type a number of different transgender options including genderqueer, gender-fluid, and trans*. Coolest part of the whole affair is that you can set your preferred pronouns to neutral pronouns for those who do not identify within the binary.
This being the Book of Faces, I’m sure there is some nefarious advertising reason behind the top-level decision about this, but hey, if companies think trans* people are a big enough market share to be worth exploiting, that’s a compliment in and of itself.
Especially when you consider the shit storm they’ve ignited in the sub-rock populations.
Shorter (or the last port before Jungle):
Being an edumacated mans, I can says with absolute certainimititude that the existification of trans* people freaks me the fuck out and makes me worried about my masculinitiness.
Man, it is fucking educational to see the Wall Street Journal’s race to the motherfucking bottom. I mean, yeah, they’ve always been scum-sucking bastards. That’s just what you expect from a newspaper whose only raison d’être has been treating the rigged casino game sucking on our nation’s intestines like the world’s biggest tapeworm as if the dancing lines were somehow critical to life, the universe, and everything.
I mean, regular level suck, doucheastrophysics conservatism, a belief that the parasites are the poor suckers just trying to survive and not the people stealing millions of manhours of productivity in order to build a new fleet of luxury yachts? That’s the shit we’re used to.
But ever since the Journal was absorbed into Rupert Murdoch’s sweaty taint as part of his NewsCorp bid to make all English-speaking countries worse for his existence, it has continually amazed in the utter speed and enthusiasm to which it has plummeted into the wet mossy heart of the swamp where even the likes of American Thinker fears to tread.
I mean, today’s post is bad. Of course, it’s bad. It wouldn’t be on this site if it wasn’t bad. But I think it’s the fact that it’s labeled the “Best of the Web” that just adds that extra sheen of what the everloving fuck.
Shorter (or the last port before Jungle):
Hey, if she didn’t want the D, she shouldn’t have passed out. Am I right fellas? Holla! Also, what’s with this epidemic of false rape accusations. I mean, I could, I mean, poor men who aren’t me can be accused of raping someone just because we use our target’s inebriation as an excuse for raping someone. It’s totally unfair and feminism’s fault.
Best of the Web, ladies, gentlemen, genderqueers, and fluberts.
And the rest of the posts and links rounded up aren’t much better, mostly consisting with bizarre attempts to neg the New York Times as if that rotting bag of corpses was a)still relevant, and b)actually gave a shit what the likes of James Taranto thought about anything.
Which I get that it’s just the name of Taranto’s shitty little failed stand-up routine turned article, but the fact that those words are the first thing one encounters before a tired little flatulent bubble from the rapist’s lobby, just adds that extra little bit of fuck you to help start your morning.
The headline in the New York Times’s Education Life section reads “Stepping Up to Stop Sexual Assault.” The story, by reporter Michael Winerip, is more balanced than that.
I was Just at the Scottish Clown across the street and ran across a spare USA Today and discovered that The Brooklyn Nets had signed Jason Collins to a 10 day contract. After tossing a fist in the air and shoveling the rest of the fries and burger into my maw and despite the fact that I did not hit the rack after nearly 24 hours I figured that I needed return home immediately, grab the lappie, cross the street to the Sbucks across the way and get on the freaking KeyBoard.
This space does not break news and it has become a much more personal space since Cerberus and I have become the primaries. I don’t think that movement in focus represents a distraction of the mission of Sadly,No! Simply a reflection of the changes in the paradigm, addressed in other fashions. We tend to share many more personal elements of our lives. Which gives me a reason to relate that the primary reason I was up for nearly 25 hours involved an invitation to hang in a hot tub which involved myself and a couple of astonishingly beautiful ladies.
Apparently my money at the sbucks across the way is not worth anything as in generally speaking I get what I order and they wave me away, now generally speaking whether or not I have to pay I do tip generously, and was informed that it is not unusual for them to act in this fashion with people they like.
Anyhoo, before we get to the nub of the biscuit, I just ran into a dude wearing a letter jacket from my High School alma mater, and out of the corner of my eye, I thought I recognized a familiar symbol…Sure enough he was a Cross Country Letterman. After a short chat following the introduction, I returned to this space worked on the last graph and then decided to plant a seed…and what this has to do with the first openly Gay professional Athlete in the NBA will have to wait, because after I finished the previous graph I felt the need to lay down a gauntlet. I approached my brother and explained that I had broken 5 minutes in the mile on every indoor track in town including a 4:59 on a 22 laps per mile track without a bank (believe me, not an easy task, which was why it was the last one attempted.) Anyway I asked that he make a similar attempt so the we could start a club, plus sent along greetings to my old coach, etc…
LOS ANGELES — Jason Collins became the first openly gay athlete to play in North America’s four major professional team sports Sunday when he played 11 minutes in the Brooklyn Nets’ 108-102 win over the Los Angeles Lakers at Staples Center.
I cannot tell you how much joy I feel that this barrier has finally been broken. While I am a black, cis, heteronormative male and former athlete of modest repute, which might suggest that I have not a dog in this revelation, I have gay, bi, and trans friends that I love dearly.
And while I know that it is only a 10 day contract, a ceiling has been transcended and that, in and of itself, gives me a glimmer of hope for humanity.
I hope to lay my broke ass hands on a #26 Nets Jersey, something I will wear with pride.
I honestly don’t fully know how to process this last week.
There’s been some colossal bad. My girlfriend’s disability discriminating employment saga ended with the seeming happy note just being an excuse to try and obscure the obvious fact that they were discriminating against someone they had heralded as exactly what they needed and the most qualified person they’ve seen in a while because she was disabled, leaving her without job. I’ve been struggling with the emotional fallout and depression of everything I went through last year finally starting to smash home. And my partner and girlfriend both got to see what a day in my life often looks like in the form of sitting through possibly one of the most belittling and unsubtle restaurant dick moves I’ve dealt with in a while**.
And there’s been some massive rays of light. Chief among them being that my Obamacare has come through and paying off. I had my first check-up at a super trans* and queer aware clinic and it was better than I ever hoped to dream it would be*** and I’m going to get hooked up with a number of resources that I’ve probably been needing for awhile****. I also had two fantastic Valentine’s Day celebrations, one with my partner and another with my girlfriend.
So with all that happening at once, it’s been hard to sort out how to feel. Elated? Miserable? Both at the same time?
So fuck it, time to delve into the sweaty underbelly of humanity where I know exactly how I feel about certain people.
And by sweaty underbelly, I mean Hollywood.
Shorter (or the last port before Jungle):
My ex-wife is an evil sorceress who has the power to create all the long-term effects and multiple angles of evidence one would expect if I was a child molester. Also apparently, she has used this power to convince her daughter I’m an asshole instead of using this magical power to rule the world.
The following stood out to me in Roy’s most recent piece at the Voice
Obama’s policies “may be archetypically liberal,” snarled FrontPageMag’s Daniel Greenfield, “but Obama carries his own reality with him, his own mathematics, his own history, his own dictionary and his own moral code which he adapts to the moment.”
Having never been previously acquainted with Greenfield and only vaguely with FPM, I decided to take a dive off of the boat. Inspired by the Octoplexiplese link to a hot air article titled “Study: Democrats more likely to think astrology is scientific, less likely to know Earth revolves around the sun.” Which when all is said and done is yet another example of “I am rubber, you are glue…” “It only took us 40 years to bolt 40 IMAX theatres together” levels of projection. Anyhoo let us take a look at the loon, and out of the gate comes:
“My first thought was, he lied in every word.” So began Browning’s famous poem and so began Bill O’Reilly’s interview of Obama.
Blink,,blink,,blink. Can there be enough drugs or alcohol on the planet to convince me that I do not exist in a temporal realm filled to the gills with assholes at the top end of the spectrum that actually pay a vastly more numerous batch of simpering shitheads to write such…I have no…Words escape.
I am not a big fan of poetry so I might be a liability on a quizbowl team on that account, but I presume he is referring to Elizabeth Barrett, [ed: and I would be wrong, it was actually Robert Browning] but what that has to do with “and so began…” other than to cop a veneer of sophistication and “erudition”, I can’t be bothered to cypher.
When Obama doesn’t like a question, he rephrases it. Challenged by Bill O’Reilly on the 72 percent out of wedlock birth rate among black women, he rephrased it as a question about the importance of men paying child support and taking responsibility for their children.
But he avoided the M word: marriage.
First of all, Obama should have countered by asking O’MutherFuckingTeaReilly on the out of wedlock birthrate in Whitemanistan. Fuck this asshole and the horses he rode in on. but one last point, while Obama avoided the “M word…” I guess there really is no bottom to the RacistShitHeelBarrel™
Had the pleasure of a return to the wall of sound last night and the jamming was good. Met a nice new guy, enjoyed some excellent food and for the first time in my experience had to tell a guy who was playing through a Marshal stack that he needed to turn it up because I couldn’t hear him.
I was playing through a much punchier amp (or setup) this time around had all of the tone and volume I could want. A couple more times (given that I was playing not my bass through not my amp) and I will get the shebang totally zeroed in. Also setting up right next to the drummer made it easier for us to lock in. Both of us are a bit out of shape and so these nights make for awesome workouts and we have a show in just under a couple of months and I would like to leave a cratered hole where the stage was when we finish our gig.
One of the cool things about playing in a completely unstructured fashion is that you are forced to think on your feet, inside and outside the box and that any one can be driving the bus at any given time. Having a combination of tone and punch nearly to my liking allowed me to drive the bus about half of the evening and no one seemed to bother. In fact I think that the host and his friends are happy to have a rythym section that can play any style they can, can lock into a groove nearly immediately, and can turn on a dime and follow when something interesting appears.
At the end of the evening I was queried earnestly by each of the three if I actually enjoyed comming out to play. My answer was a resounding yes. Generally speaking, while I have had the pleasure of playing with more talented guitarists, these guys are better than good enough. Most importantly they listen, are creative, can lead and follow, and this is an act that I would not hesitate to take live. Though I admit that I would prefer to perform with an actual set list, unless we were hosting a musical feast, during a holiday.
Bottom line, if those guys could not play, the room of amps would not be enough of an enticement for me to return with any regularity. I definitely look forward to the opportunity to get my “sound” dialed in.
Also, too, Tesla.
Don’t know why the first pic is sideways but fuck it for now…
Once the drooling runs its course consider this an open thread.
Oh and a post jam, jam session led to the discovery that at least four of us had been at the same Bad Brains show in cincy early 90′s. Now those nice young men knew how to properly crater a stage.
Thursday afternoon I received a text from my drummer indicating that that evenings rehearsal would start as a run-through at his place then head to a space about five minutes away where he indicated I would see eight Marshall stacks and what would prove to be two full drum-sets previously owned by Kenny Aranoff. The picture of what a version of Musical Valhalla might begin to look like to me was taken by my phone after my initial freekout was allowed (once I cleared the top of the landing and allowed my lower jaw to return to its normal location I did a quick count and informed my buddy that there were not eight stacks but in fact nine, at which point I went immediately to my spot where the four string was-extreme right side of the picture examined the insane wall of speakers and amps, studied the drum kits in detail.) I returned to the three waiting on the other end of the room.
I am pretty sure that the owner of the place gets a kick when a musician that has never seen it arrives, and I am certain that I followed a predictable script, one which he has seen several times.
Once back I was alerted to the ground rules, which started with asking me if I would be offended by the presence of smoking and my answer was a firm no, to which his reply was “perfect” then followed by an inquiry about whether I would like wine, whiskey or beer, “I’ll start with a beer.” “Perfect.” And no sooner than that, a 16 oz can of Bitburger was thrust into my hands, shortly after that a cigarette, after which, I was informed that in these jam sessions “We don’t do covers” I said “Cool; generally speaking, neither do I.”
At this point his partner in crime stepped in to ask me about what I played and whether I would be interested in playing other instruments. I explained that that would not be a problem at all, but given that there was only one person in the room with which I had played previously and the fact that we were going to be pulling shit out of our ass that I would prefer to start with the four string.
After that was sorted, and my request to take some pictures was granted and that mission accomplished we started for the wall of 9 amplifiers and 72 speakers. And I knew that I had just become acquainted with two nut-jobs that were right up my alley. After about 20 minutes of jamming in the keys of E and A I inquired of the partner in crime if it might be possible to introduce a little structure, as in say start in A, shift somewhere in the middle to a diminshed minor 7th and finish in say D minor or F. He was not opposed to the idea, but indicated that he was not quite sure what I was on about.
We took a break after that for a dinner that I had not been aware was in the offering and it was delicious. My buddy and I had, prior to arrival , snarfed down some chips, salsa, and guacamole, but the short workout had managed to reinvigorate our appetites.
After dinner we retired to the studio and played for another hour and a half. I had the pleasure of pounding on both drum kits and thought about taking the 88 key keyboard for a stroll, but that will wait for another day.
A blast was had by all, I was given an open invitation to return and participate in future jams at the joint and provided with a roadie…namaste!
Postscript and Prelude.
As we entered the house and were walking through the garage the owners buddy made a point of mentioning that his pal had an electric car. I’ll have to admit that with the vision of Marshall stacks running through my head I had given the sleek blackness little thought. Wheeling around and laying my eye on the rear end I exclaimed something along the lines of “Holy shit, a Tesla”
which seemed to surprise the partner in crime who asked “You are familiar with them?” as I began the requisite “are you fucking kidding me” lap around the little thing swabbed in carbon fiber, studying the lines, the two seated interior, recalling that I was looking at a sub 4 second to 60mph vehicle…Stifling the urge to ask about looking under the hood and recognizing that a day was being made…
As I was attempting to remain on my best behavior and knowing that there might be a wall of music waiting…Actually the existence of the Tesla kinda confirmed what awaited upstairs…We started upwards towards a room that would re-blow my mind.
Thursday was a perfect distillation of why I will have to sell the auto-bio as a work of fiction. A day that started with possibly ferreting out the identity of our resident pustule, followed by a wheel build (lacing, actually, one spoke shy) ending in Musical Nirvana that began with the coolest thing I have ever seen (I have yet to visit the Louvre)…Days like these do not often come my way, but for some reason they do tend to seek me out.
Now I would like to dig through the crate filled with bags of fancy hammers and take a certain cartoonist to task. The party in question embodies everything that wingnut welfare, balance, and the scourge of mediocrity has wrought upon not only the body politic in general but humanity at large.
Some of you may be familiar with the work of Edward Bruce Tinsley the fourth for he is the auteur behind the Mallard Fillmore Comic strip syndicated by King Features. He became an editorial comic writer because some ass clown at the Washington Times King Features was interested in “balance” feeling the need to add halfwit lacking wit to whatever truth based, facts have a Liberal bias, cartoonist was being published at the time. Oddly enough while there were idiots with megaphones in the early nineties, It had not yet come to pass that being an abject idiot was regularly within the intersection of a Venn diagram with circles consisting of sets “cool” and “well off.” Unfortunately we have come to a place in time and space where being a vacuous dunderheaded asshat can pay the bills. Hell it is what keeps the doors of this place open. Random offering of a piece of Tinsleys “work”
Aside from the fact that IT IS ALWAYS PROJECTION for this particular Octoplexipus the number of logical phallusies, tendentious rendering of history, us v themisms, and missing points like baseball teams missing pitches thrown by Bob Gibson on his best day in 1968 or 1967.
Such is the density of stupid piled upon moronity that frequently serves as humor in Bruce’s “art” that one familiar with physics might wonder why a singularity has not swallowed up the building housing their local fishwrap. The foil in his “gags” is always a straw liberal of the type that only exists in the fevered imaginings of someone who is likely to spend half a night worrying if a terrorist is lying in wait under their beds or people who mainline Megan Kelly and Fox News, though now that think about it, that Venn diagram almost certainly would be indistinguishable from a single circle.
In this comic strip, you get 382 percent more asterisks than in Doonesbury*. Mallard Fillmore has more asterisks than an MLB record-book. Why? So you can check out the sources of the outrageous assertions and iconoclastic animadversions I put in my little comic strip. Because I try to give you the scoop that the mainstream media don’t. Lots of readers find my valuable information so incredible, that they think it must BE incredible.Hence the *s.
My favorite kind of emails are the ones that start out, “I didn’t believe you, but I checked it out”, and end with “why wasn’t THAT on the news?”
I’m not gonna bother to unpack this one, but do note a familiar tone, arrogance and fractured syntax that lead me to speculations concerning the identity of a certain tenacious resident underpass dweller. While it is possible that the shartiste, Edward Bruce Tinsley the fourth is not the the troll that when not nym-jacking goes by the nom de plume of Dennis, it would be irresponsible not to speculate.
If I was a believer in a God-like being that watches over us (no offense to those who are), one who was responsible for how our lives are ordered and what befalls us, it would be tough for me not to assume that deity was malevolent and hateful, a force worth fighting to the death to stop.
Because all around me, like a constant barrage of theodicy, me and mine keep getting plowed under by this broken ass system we find ourselves trapped in. The sheer number of brilliant, many-talented, deductive, kind, and empathetic people I know who seem to get regularly slammed in one horrifying way or another. It’s at the point where there is not a single one of the people I know intimately who doesn’t have symptoms of PTSD. Who hasn’t struggled with depression or homelessness or being a rape survivor or being a victim of discrimination or having an impossible time finding a job or paying the bills or more often, all of the above.
And not to base an argument solely from anecdotal evidence, but it really does hammer home just how broken this system is. I mean, sure, I could cite the statistics on happiness and economic opportunity. I could bring in my observations and the observation in studies of Danish life and how much better that system serves those within it by establishing robust safety nets and thus allowing a great freedom of entrepreneurship. But it would just be window dressing on the thing that even the most addled-minded capitalism-fetishist knows: That there is something terribly wrong with America and the American Way of Life. Read the rest of this entry »
Recent almost events; triggers that have caused me to contemplate pulling mine have led me to the following epiphany: As I am the oldest of three (first born male) with two younger sisters I have always been burdened with a predilection towards protecting or helping those that lack strength or agency. My sisters are now far from me, and I know that they are equipped to handle themselves, but the residuals remain.
On Sunday I work with my favorite crew, and it coincides with the bosses day off (I actually like and respect the boss, but you know, boss.) Winner winner, Tandoori dinner. Actually I make a point on most Sundays to show up an hour early and make breakfast for all of us, because I really enjoy their company, and they really enjoy my eggs.
I have known the boss since second grade and I am not too far from beginning my fiftieths turn round the sun. There is someone we work with whose default setting is asshole (strongly suspect libertarian tendencies.) He also tends to regard himself as the smartest guy in the room, which on occasion, when I or one of my aforementioned Sunday co-workers are not in the building, might be the case, and I might give a fuck, if it mattered to me. Anyway the dude in question had managed to spend the last two weeks metaphorically standing on my balls and I decided to set up a meeting with the boss to discuss my problems with the guy.
I am from the school of management that Praises in Public, Rebukes in Private, but with the fact that we work in one room, are generally busy as all fuck and staffed in such a way that it is impossible for two people to leave the place at a given time…Showing up for work three hours early to take the pulse of the boss seemed the best place to start. What I wanted to avoid was going fully Nuclear on a day which represents my Friday. The following morning after one of my co-workers made it clear that she would like me to wait, I called off the meeting, deciding to sleep on it over my “weekend.” The bosses response was one of palpable relief. As I have said, this guy and I have known each other for a long time and he is well aware that I do not traffic in trivial complaints.
I do not know if words of my concern were exchanged, or the delivery of the extended “Live at Leeds” CD delivered on that day, or both had any pull, but the dude in question demonstrated that the phrases “thank you” “please” and “you’re welcome” have suddenly entered his workplace vocabulary.
For the time being, in any event, I will choose to let sleeping dogs lie.
Prevarication and Prejudice…
Which brings us to the spawn of the “Loins of Lucifurryanne™” also known ’round these parts as “DoughBob LoadPants” and whom was roundly taken to task by Cerberus, our current SnarkMeister In Chief™ for whom I would like to coin a new sobriquet, DoughJo™, though I must admit that preceding DoughJo™ with teh the, might also be an appropriate way to describe “The Corner” as in “I went to the DoughJo™ and discovered that their mastery of martial idiocy is where anything resembling coherence shuffles off to die, almost like an elephant graveyard of anything encroaching upon the realm of sanity and yet where the corpses are picked clean, reassembled and re-branded for “rubesylvanians” as they claw their way through Regnery’s remainder bin.
Upon further reflection, I suggest that “the DoughJo™” should become part of the Sadly, No! lexicon moving forward when referring to “The Corner”, though I am open to arguments.
Back to LoadPants™ If the laziest beast in the entirety of time, who blew his wad on the shittiest tome to make its way past the goalies at what ever pathetic publishing house actually sidled up to back the most a historically inaccurate piece of crap that has, aside from the bible, taken down a forest, continues to collect a paycheck, then there is something wrong with us all.
At this point I will admit to not either reading his magnum dopus, nor having the remotest concern of who published the excrescence. If damning with faint praise and waisting my time were within my wheelhouse I might be inclined to oblige the nepostistic bastard, that is, if I might find me a sucker to pay me for a review. Needless to say, one need look no further than the title of the piece which gives the entire game away.
When Goldberg farts it is certain that a turd is honking for the right of way, looking for the choicest seat at the nearest Octoplex.
Spite and Sensitivities
While I have a dump truck full of bags of hammers remaining to dump on the Goldbergian subversion of meritocracy, I feel the need to move on to a Colorado state Senator, one Vicki Marble.
MARBLE: We can’t force them to stop doing what they choose to do, but to give them the information. These are our families and our neighbors in the black community… Honestly, I learned how to smoke meat from my black friends down in Texas because they lived with me… and stayed at my house… Did we talk about cooking? Yes. The whole time.
Unpacking this line of reasoning could result in a, hell, fuck the one, multiple, graduate level theses. Starting with the paternalistic and patriarchal “version” of what passes for “freedom” as she jumps out of the gate, following with a wonderful variation of the “I have Black friends therefor I am not a racist” dodge, while demonstrating the racism inherent inside by using the word “they” which at the very least stands as a textbook example of an “othering”.
Beep, beep, beep (signifying the warning sound of heavy machinery backing up) I find myself looking at the stinkbug that I am currently watering while figuring out how to parse the “…but to give them the information.”
When one is born of privilege, White, under educated, and a discredit to ones sex, yet a protector of the current presumptions about race that are prevalent, one is likely to assume that facts not in evidence an argument makes. I am sure that someone in comments will educate me to the proper Latin phrase to describe the logical phallusy, though QED comes to mind.
Sorry, reader(s), I have to admit that I have not the Goucher education that Jonah received, and while I spent a minute in college, I have only 18 credit hours banked.
However, I decided to set up my own institute of technology, which unfortunately has been hijacked by necessity to focus on the evisceration of wingnutology.
I would like to add that I had a wonderful conversation on the phone with Fenwick yesterday morning. Adding another feather in my good fortune of meatspace greetings with previously “only known in comment sections” pals.
If anyone thinks I might just be a fan of the work of Jane Austen, they might just be right.
Stinky is still hanging out on the moistened napkin that was prepared for it. This, for some reason, makes me happy.
If you add onto that projects I am actively working on or have plans to start soon, that workload starts to scream into the stratosphere. Tomorrow, or rather what is rapidly becoming today I have various tasks and duties and job stuff from 8 am to midnight. That is not an uncommon day for me.
And I try to do right by my obligations. I mean, yes, I gotta eat, but if I’ve promised somebody something, I aim to deliver, because at the end of the day, I want to be known as a woman of my word. In point of fact, I’ve just posted something on my personal blog. A little asexual polyamorous manifesto, simply because a friend of mine wanted help finding something like that for her grey-asexual boyfriend and there just wasn’t a good one online that I could find.
I don’t say these things to brag or to beg sympathy when I leave you all hanging for days. But rather because of two reasons.
1) That’s rather quickly become the new normal for my generation and a lot of working poor, working unsustainable workloads in order to pay the rent and feel like a full human with something to offer the world and I want to relate that honestly.
And 2) Jonah Fucking Goldberg.
Shorter (or the last port before Jungle):
Huh what? That State of the Union thing that it should be my top job to respond to right now? But it’s like… early…late… in the morning… evening… afternoon, something like that, anyways, why don’t one of you do the job of responding for me so I can get back to my nap?
It’s a very transformative time to be a conservative tribe member these days. Years of piling on the bullshit and shunning non-believers has lead to a new normal where not only must one believe false things. Where not only must they, in fact, live in a world wholly unsullied by the filthy liberal-loving hand of reality. But to be perfectly ignorant of any other reality to the point where you are only barely capable of navigating the real world at all, if that.
And that’s lead to a lot of new concerns for the wingnut population. I mean, yeah, living life literally in a psychotic break may be fun in terms of making liberal heads explode and can be spun in exciting ways when it turns out polls are real and elections can’t just be wished the right way, but what about things like propaganda.
I mean, after all, you still need to enforce which lies people believe. I mean, take something like the new “liberals are the real bullies” pose. It’s a great bit of IT’S ALWAYS PROJECTION pose, but when everyone is doing their best to really truly believe it, it runs the risk of letting everyone know who the super macho top dog really is.
So what is one propaganda merchant to do?
Shorter (or the last port before Jungle):
Now some of you may have gotten the idea from drinking our propaganda horseshit surprise that liberals are a terrifying bunch of masterminds and super butch bullies and therefore are intelligent and “manly” by our toxic understanding of such. And I just want to assure you that no, most liberals are indeed the pussy fag ignoramuses you have always felt good about beating down for being gaywads who are being manipulated by a very tiny group of super-scary ten-foot tall super geniuses capable of deluding everybody that blacks and women are real people. Isn’t that much better?
First off I want to say that I just watered a stinkbug, which may or may not prove to be a good thing (will fires be fueled, no idea.) I simply noticed that its movements seemed a bit desperate and that it was tending to return to my libations. Having woken and noting the utter lack of humidity and putting a pot of water on the hotplate to ameliorate my suffering, I decide to drop a pool on the desk. The little thing has been at its waterhole for the last half hour, and I may have only one of those** to get this one through the transom.
I happened to fall asleep before the end of tsam personally winning the NFC Championship* and spent a couple of days blissfully unaware that Nigzilla had erupted on the sidelines after the game, possibly scaring a blond white woman.
As we live in a “post racial” Amercia we simply cannot stand an athlete enthusiastic about his contribution to his teams victory to voice said enthusiasm. This cannot be tolerated, under any circumstance, unless of course you are or look like John McEnroe (Davis Cup, bitches.)
**half hour before the ‘bucks connection gets too occupied, in which case across the street I must go.
Mr. Stinky seems to have had his fill of moisture and seems satisfied. I am sure that my concern for another life form, recognition and attendance to its needs, should be the default response of a proper human…That is at least how the Provider rolls. So yes, I watered a Stink bug, and Sherman burned down Hatelanta™ I mean Seattle, and a Niggocalypse™ was born.
When Erin Andrews asked Sherman to rehash the play, the cornerback instead barked out: “I’m the best corner in the game. When you try me with a sorry receiver like Crabtree, that’s the result you’re gonna get! Don’t you ever talk about me!” Then he glared directly into the camera.
It was so powerful, so raw of a reaction that Andrews needed a moment before proceeding. The league’s best cornerback had made the best move of his career on the biggest play of his career to win the biggest game of his career, against an opposing wide receiver and college head coach with whom he shares not a little bad blood. This was a triumphant moment, and still to a lot of people there was something viscerally ugly about Sherman standing over a pretty blonde woman, yelling into our living rooms with an emotional mixture of joy, relief, and excitement, arrogance, and anger. Dude was turnt up.
This humble author has in his day been an extremely competitive person and an athlete of minor note in a variety of pursuits; if you could see me right now you would be looking at a cat who was willing to put his head between the throw from third and the first baseman’s mitt to acquire a safe position at first. I am kind of nuts like that, so I can get the “take no prisoners” aspect of exuberance and anger.
In my relative dotage, I appreciate that never did I block a throw to first with my head as I just happened to be quick enough, most of the time, to beat the throw, In the parlance of the time my next plate appearance was usually accompanied by a warning from the third baseman that I had “wheels.”
The previous is only Germain to the fact that those of us who love competition, no matter how rational we may appear in normal day to day existence, can be moved to craziness in service of competition. Ever seen a bicycle roll through a 90 degree turn at 30 mph with a rear wheel two feet in the air? Neither have I, but I have been the guy with his hands on the handlebars on three such occasions.
Let us take a gander at the outrageous display that led to lifting the veil on what remains a hideous stain on our Country.
Terrifying stuff to be sure, what with a black dude expressing his feelings in the heat of the moment after making one of the more amazing game saving plays I have ever seen…[attempting to find a vid that I can embed...]
As one who has assembled a highlight reel of “how the fuck did he do/get away with that” that could easily be green-lighted for a top ten on sportscenter, I have to say again that the play in question was among the finest plays I have seen.
Within a minute, he responds to a question about the play and responds in a way that a black man is not ever supposed to do.
Millions of Americans took to their cell phones, to social media, to the bar patron next to them, to cluck at Sherman. We called him classless, a bad sportsman, a troll. We called him a monkey and a nigger. We threatened his life. We said that he set black people and race relations back 30, 50, 100 years.
Because in that moment, Sherman—a singular kid from Compton who won both the athletic and intellectual lottery so completely, so authoritatively, that he spent three years playing on Stanford’s football team at wide receiver before converting to defensive back and becoming the NFL’s best at the position—was in the public eye. In that moment, whether he knew, cared, or neither, Richard Sherman, a public figure, became a proxy for the black male id.
When you’re a public figure, there are rules. Here’s one: A public personality can be black, talented, or arrogant, but he can’t be any more than two of these traits at a time.
The only problem your not so humble scribe has with the last sentence is that not in any of the many lives have I experienced has a black person been given a complete pass at arrogance. One can not be black and arrogant without suffering and talent will only abrogate the arrogance until a justification to destroy the edifice is uncovered.
This would be the spot that would follow with the litany of assholishness on display, but just check the first link provided above.
*Just kidding with a bit of hyperbole, tsam. Happy for you and the other Northwestern Sadlynauts….Go Seahawks!!!
So yeah, you know that death plague that has been floating around… yeah, turns out that kids are great at transferring it to people… say, their teachers. So yeah, haven’t been a fun weekend to say the least for the Cerberus household.
So yeah, seeing as how I’m still at the phase where standing upright for prolonged periods of time is a hit-or-miss thing, writing one of my stamina-breaking epic pieces is probably not in the cards.
However, I’m happy to say that my new fever-induced delirium state puts me in the perfect condition to dive into the happy harbor of American Thinker’s broken-down madhouse and bring forth a few disease-ridden mangos while they still have no effect on my addled mind.
First up, is a nuanced take on Chris Christie’s recent revelation to be the exact small-minded “taking it out on his political enemies” asshole, we’ve always known him to be (I know! It’s so shocking!). What? He went out of his way to “punish” those he saw as not supporting him? Gosh, who could have seen that coming? What’s that NJ teacher’s union, you said you did? Ha ha, who listens to teachers these days?
Now, given that Christie is currently conservative Jesus and pretty much the only man with a hope or prayer for the Republicans in 2016 because he’s the only one who can occasionally sound halfway sane to the desperate bipartisan-seeking Beltway crowd, you might think this post will tend towards the hagiographic, trying to whitewash his sins as one more proof of the million-handed left-wing conspiracy (ha ha, as if we can spare any after ensuring that Saint Sarah can’t use her magic superpowers to make all non-conservatives disappear forever).
But you’re forgetting that he once accepted Obama’s help when his state was literally drowning instead of fucking himself over and crowing victory over the evil black man. And that means that he is SATAN TIMES A BILLION to the type of untreated psychotic that graces the front-page of American Thinker.
Legitimate Shorter this Time:
Chris Christie is a terrorist-loving liberal in cahoots with the time-traveling Obama birth-certificate hiders because he hasn’t killed every towel-head who has a residence in his state. Death to the infidel! Er… wait…
But ah, one post is far too short, it feels, so on my return sojourn, I make a little sidetrip down a tributary for one last mad-dash to shore.
Have I mentioned recently enough that I absolutely admire the conservative ability to always live lives based in the moral clarity, where even when mistakes are made, they always stand firmly behind their decisions and accept the consequences of their actions, no matter what they may be? Cause I really do. Also how they don’t try and erase whole embarrassing swaths of history just because it is inconvenient to their political ideologies. That really takes guts.
Totes Real Shorter Y’all:
The Reagan and Bush years never happened. The complete economic collapse and widening gap between rich and poor happened entirely because uppity bitches wanted to work outside of the home and poor people decided they had a right to basic survival.
*P.S. Occasionally some of you awesome fuckers send me things, maybe it’s an email, maybe it’s a card in the mail, or a little donation in my paypal with a little note on it. I don’t say it enough, but there has never been an occasion where that hasn’t brightened my day immensely and made me feel great. I just got a little New Year’s card this morning and it’s left me smiling all day. So thank you, you big old sentimental bastards and bitches. You melt this little doggie’s heart.
Ahhh, really fucking hesitant to circle back to this well so soon. I mean, I eviscerated “Dr.” Keith, what? Three posts ago? And I did my last trans* post only like two post ago. I mean, I know I have my regular ports of call and my usual obsessions, but I do try and mix it up a little on this blog.
So why are we here, doing the same dance on this Saturday night? Well, there’s two main reasons.
First? It’s about AB1266, i.e. The School Success and Opportunity Act, i.e AIIEEE trannies will be using bathrooms with your kids, California is officially an anarchic hellscape. And I’ve been waiting forevvvver to talk about this law. I mean, there’s been no shortage of TV talking heads acting like trans* kids being able to join the right sports programs or use the right bathrooms or locker rooms was Satanism plus 10, but I’ve been completely clit-blocked on finding a good right-wing freakout in print that I could use for the blog (until now).
And second? Well, just look at the title! So many times in anti-trans* screeds we get the same old angle, so often we could recite it by heart. “Trans bill, oh dear, no, that means there will be a ‘man’ in the girl’s room with your precious artifact daughter and then she’ll be molested, because that’s what happens whenever a ‘man’ is in a room where people remove their panties for any reason”. Rinse, dry, repeat.
But this time the panic is about trans-men invading the oh so precious spaces of cis-men with their “girl” cooties and I’m not seeing any way it’s not going to be homoerotic, gynophobic, and utterly novel in its immense stupidity.
So yeah, fuck it, we’re so doing this.
Shorter (or the last port before Jungle):
If “women” can be in the boy’s bathroom, then that’ll feminize the boys and make them self-conscious about their pee-pee size. Also, really, is it so much to ask of the trans* community that they hide themselves forever so that the little ones never have to know that trans* people exist, because learning things in school is unconstitutional.
This might be the “fight” that best exemplifies the right. I mean, let’s be frank, there isn’t a generation left on the planet for whom pot hasn’t been a major social institution, so common in usage to be wholly unremarkable. And yet, despite the fact that pretty much everyone, young and old at least knows someone who blazes up, the conservatives still react like shrieking death monkeys to every slow incremental change to reflect that reality.
And the amazing thing is that for nearly all of them, they have personal knowledge of how inane this “battle” is and how obscene it is that a drug less harmful on a personal or social level than tobacco or alcohol is only just now starting to become legal for wide use on a state by state basis. Many of the fuckers screaming their head off about the evils of legalizing pot or how obscene it is that Obama or Clinton have lit up have lit up themselves or done harder drugs.
But they keep up the “battle” out of loyalty to a legacy. To the fact that conservatives of the past cared about the issue and railed against it, so by the transitive power of dumb, so must they carry the torch to the giant flame of failure.
And those old bigots of days yore only cared about the damn sweet leaf to begin with because as a drug it was more associated with queers, blacks, beatniks, hippies, and assorted young people. That was the only reason why they hated it and fought so hard for such strict criminalization.
So yeah, we’ve got idjits holding their hands athwart history yelling stop because they have inherited a legacy hatred that only got started because “liberals liked it”.
If there is anything that better exemplifies modern conservatism, then I’ve yet to see it.
And if there’s anything that better exemplifies the fact that weed really shouldn’t be facing the barriers to legalization it does, it might be irony-soaking works like this one from anti-meritocracy proof incarnate Bobo Brooks.
Shorter (or the last port before Jungle):
Oh man, I remember when I used to smoke weed. God, that stuff’s so ubiquitous even a perpetual stuffed shirt like me lit up back in the day… oh wait, I’m supposed to be against it, because conservatism, right? Uh, weed is totes bad so we should like make it illegal, because morality and shit. I dunno, hey man, it’s puff, puff, pass, not hog the whole damn roach!
Dick. Trouser Titan. AC/DC’s Big Balls. Wang. One Eyed Snake Monster. Cock.
Bring up the subject of transwomen to most people on the planet and you can struggle to count the nanoseconds before people start wanting to wax poetic on ding-dongs and schlongs. Which isn’t to say that transmen get it any easier. Most general public discussion of transmen inevitably devolves to an endless round of snatch talk and muff elocution.
All. The. Fucking. Time. And one starts to wonder after awhile if there’s something desperately wrong with cisgendered people to cause them to become more obsessed with the exact state of trans people’s genitals than a family dog with their own butthole.
Overall, it is the thing that people think of when they think trans people and unfortunately like most “one things” that privileged people know about a minority community, it tends to become the sole vector of discourse and interaction. I’ve had random dudes on the street inquire about the state of my genitals simply that’s the only commonly understood point of understanding for too many people.
And it comes with a number of downsides. Obsession about my genitals and the state of them was used as an excuse for my dad to dismiss and look down upon my existence. And I guaran-fucking-tee that the association of trans* people with genitals and then the following attempt to associate that with me being a teacher was a driving force of the justification for discriminating me out of a decent job I loved.
And that being the only thing people associate with trans* people is what leads clueless, but well-meaning, people like Katie Couric to think that it’s required for a trans* person to talk about their junk on national TV on a daytime meaningless talk show.*
Which is why it was something remarkable and downright badass to have human awesome machine, Laverne Cox, actually get right down to the reality of what being trans* in America means instead of playing into the same old dance of letting the trans* experience begin and end with one damn procedure that a good number of trans* people do not even get.
Needless to say, conservatives lost their damn fool minds over this.
Shorter (or the last port before Jungle):
So-called trannies want to pretend that they are more than their genitals. But we must scrutinize every inch of their wing-wongs or vayjayjays in order to best know how to criticize them as the sex-obsessed freaks they are.
Please join me next week for my weekly article on how liberals are sex-obsessed crude assholes.
Dearly beloved, we are gathered today to mark the passing of a noble individual. Harold T. Marriage had a long life, long predating the religions that have sought to unilaterally own him. And he had a troubled life as a long-standing and rigid institution. Impossible to change, he rapidly spent life flitting between different incarnations, whether the hallowed institution of one man and an ever-sprawling harem of women and captured slaves forced into life-long rape or more recently, as a bill of sale from father to husband. He has served as soulless and loveless political unions of pointless royalty and as a means of acquiring houseslaves one could legally rape. Yes, he had a good life.
But sadly, all great lives must come to a close and after many years battling deep illness caused by his transformation into the creation of legal family for reasons of love, he finally succumbed and became no more in the dimming lights of 2013.
All those he has touched, the legally bound couples he has spent so many years tying together in warm loving connection must now become unholy fuckbuddies only able to refer to the people who light up their lives as “that guy/girl who lives in my house”. So it is written in our free copies of the Republican Bible, amen!
Shorter (or the last port before Jungle):
If we can’t have marriage (exclusively), then no one can have it! Burn it down as we retreat to future victories!
Did I survive that holiday season? Holy fuck, how?
So yeah, turns out that one’s first holiday season after being disowned sucks such great donkey balls that it served as Christ’s first bestiality porn show.
It’s a fitting end to 2013, a year which has served as probably the worst year of my entire life, I suppose. Which is a shame, because overall, I rather like the number 13.
But it’s no matter, for today is the beginning of a new year, one that I can’t really be too pessimistic about, because I swung by our good friends at American Thinker and, you know what, I found out that apparently, I’m some kind of badass ninja assassin or something.
Shorter (or the last port before Jungle):
Comedy is a deadly weapon because McCarthy is a joke.