Month: March 2013

I Find Your lack of Humor Disturbing.

” You have offended mah honor suh”, says the Southern gentleman as he removes a fine suede glove and slaps you across the cheek.  He was unhappy with your views on his secret chicken recipe and now you will pay with your life.  The days of sword or gun duels are long gone but the need for people to bitch about being offended by such and such still exists, actually, with duels no longer being legal, I would wager that the bitching has gotten worse.  If the offended party has little to no chance of being maimed or killed when spouting about the supposed offense, they are far more likely to shoot their annoying mouths off about what they feel is burning their delicate sensibilities.  I cannot express how lucky so many people are to have the time to be offended by something and the energy and resources to tell so many other people about it.  A hundred years ago in America a person would have been so busy trying to make ends meet that, upon arriving home, they would simply flop from exhaustion and rest up for the next day of back breaking labor.  Such a person would never have the energy to discover that someone from a half a continent away was slighting them.  Modern technology and comforts have changed everything for the easily put off among us and they love to let us know about it.  A friend of mine recently asked if I had watched the Oscars, I hadn’t because I have a life that doesn’t involve watching celebrities jerk each other off,  my pal went on to explain that I had missed Seth Macfarlane being “very offensive”.  After the fourth or fifth article I read about the ‘We Saw Your Boobs’ song, all I could think was, what the hell do you expect?  You didn’t foresee the mind behind The Family Guy shocking anybody?  When you don’t expect the obvious, I consider you a special kind of asshole and anyone that didn’t see the nasty man coming is exactly that form of posterior perforation.  The academy knew that Mr.  Macfarlane was going to offend the sensitive and their bet paid off.  Do the people that are bitching not realize that a whole lotta people said okay to that shit before it aired? It’s not spontaneous, it is produced and directed and choreographed and made to perk your ears up and make you  pay attention.  The Oscar celebration fiasco was just troll and people fell for it because, as I love to point out, people en mass are fucking stupid.  I am amazed that folks in this day and age can be shocked by anything that passes network censors, the curmudgeons with the specific  job of censoring anything that may raise the ire of the simple minded, so anything that gets by them was allowed on the air.  Jamie Lee Curtis and Jane Fonda have been heavily quoted about their offense toward the tawdry boob song.  I am a pretty big fan of Jane Fonda’s early films, which she has been doing since 1960’s Tall Story with Anthony Perkins.  By 1966 Miss Fonda was pretty well established as an actress, having almost a dozen films under her belt, including Cat Ballou, a personal favorite.  In August of 1966 she did a boobies out pictorial for Playboy, it was very artistically done and I am sure plenty of men artistically jacked it while exploring the mostly black and white spread.  Jamie Lee Curtis has also graced movies I love such as 1983’s Trading Places and the all time great, A Fish Called Wanda but she also had several films and television shows to her credit before whipping out the teats in Trading Places. Fonda and Curtis had more things going for them other than already respectable career, parents that were film icons.  I would wager that neither of them felt they had to show their breasts to get a role in a film, you could get pretty far in L.A. back in the day with Henry Fonda, Janet Leigh,  or Tony Curtis on your resume under family.  The last point I will make on the boob song is this, In Hollywood if you are young and attractive with a fan base starving to see you naked and you show your shit, people say you were exploited.  On the other side, if you are fat or old or just gross, people say you are brave for going nude and defying a patriarchal culture.  Fuck you, somebody spanked it to Cathy bates in About Shmidt but as a show of what a progressive male I am, I spanked it to the hobbling scene in Misery.

Another story I recently found to be a view of our national idiocy was the story about the Vermont newspaper, The Caledonian Record, making a poster on their back page that said, “Go Toppers, Fry Rice”, fry rice was printed in fortune cookie text and people had to take offense and yell racism.  The poster was a reference to a local sports team called the Toppers taking on a rival, Rice.  Someone had to yell racism about the fact that they used a font that is commonly seen in oriental restaurants.  Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing a newspaper could have done but if you are going to yell racism about that you may have to look at other racist font usages.  P.F. Changs China Bistro is a huge company that, while originally started by two men, Paul Flemming and Phillip Chiang, was sold in 2012 to Centerbridge Partners who’s CEO at the time had the last name Federico, that is a Tuscan name god damn it.  So how racist is it that a company that was founded by A guy from Shanghai and another that I can only assume was Belgian became owned by a company run by an Italian but they kept the Asian style font on the signage?  For the sake of shitty food, La Choy is owned by Conagra Foods who’s CEO is named Gary Rodkin.  Not only do I not have a glimmer of a guess what nationality Rodkin is, I can only surmise it ain’t that far easterly of a name.  My point about this is, if a company uses images of the orient to sell their shit and they are run by a non-Asian entity, they are as, if not more racist than a newspaper in a hick town in the 49th most populous state in the U.S.  You really had to be digging for something to be offended by to find a story like that.  Of course that is the real problem with all this bullshit.  People actually have time to dig, scratch and skim media for the opportunity to be offended.  I have spent a good portion of my life pissing people off and have never found it easier than now.  Everyone feels so entitled to live a life of zero discomfort that they think that you should give a flying fuck about  their feelings, sorry, I have things to do and none of those things involve being concerned with the outcome of your day.  Perhaps the use that particular font was of poor taste but if it was racist then Helvetica is racist to the Swiss and cursive is racist to Romans, Greeks and Arabians.  Now if they would have replaced the Rs with Ls, that I could see having racist overtones.

In the United States, freedom of speech is extremely important and it is constantly under attack by the political correction officers that roam our TV, radio waves and the internet looking to chip away at  things that make their ears sweaty and their pants tight.  Not too long ago in Arizona there was a bill being brought to the state to make offending people via electronic devices illegal, look up Arizona House bill 2549, it is disguised as an anti-bullying legislation, it’s a bunch more bullshit from them crazies in AZ.  I don’t want all people to have an uncomfortable life, I do want some people to burst into flames and fall off high things and survive until the mole people come to claim their sex toy/ dinner but that is only because I have been to a mall.  On a normal day I wish we could all just be nice and get along which will never happen as long as we allow people to make us feel like we need to coddle them  or make a gigantic, media hyped stink about things that are pretty much just judgement errors or rhetoric you want to live in a free society, you need to expect to not approve of everything you see, smell, taste, hear, read or touch.

Peace, love, dope!


It’s Bad Enough When Professional Athletes Take Up Acting

In what can only be vicious cruelty or possibly criminal negligence, my girlfriend frequently leaves the television on CNN when she goes to work.  When I wake up, my inability to comprehend the world around me until I’ve taken in about four cups of coffee, often prevents me from noticing what’s on the television while I stare at my computer.  After a healthy dose of caffeine has run through my system, the vapid talking heads on the Cable News Network come into focus and I am subjected to the events of the world.  This is a horrible state of affairs as I try to avoid the news until I’ve had enough scotch to numb the torturous effects of learning what Charlie Sheen is doing this week.  The 24 hours news network’s sole purpose, it seems, is to assault us with the idiotic behavior of celebrities.  They’re like Jerry Springer but with less of a conscience.

A few days ago, my hangover was interrupted by the sudden fear that I was back in the 1990’s because Dennis Rodman was on my TV.  As it turns out, Rodman is the first American to meet North Korea’s new leader – not president, that title still belongs to his dead grandfather – Kim Jong Un.  After Rodman tweeted about what a swell guy Kim Jong Un is, the news media took it upon themselves to talk about how wrong it was to tweet such kind words about such an evil dictator.  He was even interviewed by George Stephanopolis so that his statements might be clarified and perhaps he could learn a thing or two about his new pal.  And that interview has been rebroadcast and analyzed ad nauseum by all the other news outlets.

As soon as I noticed what was happening on my television, I quickly changed the channel to Navy Seals on HBO, because I wanted nothing to do with the Dennis Rodman story.  But, because I have serious psychological problems, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  Why in sweet hell would anyone ask Dennis Rodman about anything ever?  There is literally nothing that he could say that would be anything anyone should ever have to hear.  He’s Dennis Rodman, the mentally deficient sports player who made press because he dyed his hair and behaved like an awful shithead in the 1990’s.  The only thing Dennis Rodman can speak on with any authority is bouncing an orange ball, and fucking Madonna.  But there’s about a hundred other people who can give more up to date information about both.  And now, in 2013, they’re reporting his opinions about a tyrannical dictator.  Goddammit!

For the sake of being thorough, and to get a good screen capture, I actually watched the interview.  I’ll save you, dear reader, the IQ diminishing agony of watching it yourself by just telling you to imagine a meth-addicted clown with Alzheimer’s talking about austerity measures in Greece, and the clown decides to use an unidentifiable accent for no fucking reason.

This is the go to guy for information about world affairs.

Yes, I want to know about North Korea.  I also want to know more about our government screwing us all over by bowing down to big business interests.  I want to know about the president that I begrudgingly voted for, killing more civilians than terrorists with drone strikes.  But I don’t want to know what a retarded carny thinks about it.

The Joys of Labial Bifurcation


A close of mine friend recently gave birth to her second child.  For those of your unfamiliar with childbirth, it’s a beastly endeavor that leaves all involved physically or emotionally scarred for a very long time.  Why anyone would go through it more than once will forever evade my understanding.  The entire process is a bitter miracle, from broken condom until dying from high blood pressure caused by the 400th time the kid asks where his shoes are.  They’re right in front of you!  I have one of these disgusting creatures myself, and while I love him with every atom in my being, another might just send me over the edge.  My own excuse for drinking aside, my friend, we’ll call her Ethel to protect her identity, popped out a second one, and on purpose no less!  Unlike the deep psychological damage done to me by witnessing this ghastly blessing when my son was born, Ethel ended up with a split labia.

I have, always have had, an ineffable air about me that makes women feel comfortable telling me everything about themselves, no matter how personal, no matter how embarrassing, no matter how much I don’t really want to know(it should be noted that split labia is something that I absolutely want to know about).  One woman even took me shopping for sex toys with her.  It got awkward when my friend who worked at the sex toy shop decided to “help” her.  She later said to me, “I think he was hitting on me, but really I was more disturbed by how much he knew about the sex toys.”  Know your product I guess.  The only explanation for my “gift” that I can come up with is that I’m such a depraved individual that I couldn’t possibly judge anyone else for anything.

So, Ethel called me up one night, the sole reason for this call – and she never calls, only texts – to tell me that her labia was split in half while giving birth to her daughter.  I thought it was pretty cool, like a battle scar, and told her so.  I had never heard of this happening, but as it turns out, it’s quite common.  When my son was born, he ripped his mother open and she had to be stitched up.  A bifurcated labia was a new concept to me.  Anyway, she called me up to ask my opinion as to whether she should have it repaired.  And she suggested, after her decision was made, that I write about it on the blog, though, she refused to provide me with a photo for reference, despite how much I insisted that it would be a tasteful close-up picture of her crotch.  I even offered to use an Instagram filter to class it up, something old timey.  Some people just don’t understand the artistic process involved in writing a blog.

Vaginal modification has become extremely popular in recent years in an ever growing campaign to get women to torture themselves in order to live up to the expectations created by others getting the surgery.  While many cosmetic surgeries have important applications, that women are convinced they need to be pretty everywhere speaks to the tragic depths to which we have descended in our vanity and sense of entitlement.  We don’t just expect hot women, no, they must be perfect.  We demand large tits, but they can’t sag, big butt, but it must be firm.  Shaved, waxed, tweezed, bleached.  They need to wear sexy underwear, tight dresses, high heels.  But if they get sexually assaulted, well, they should have dressed more modestly, flirted less.  There are products to bleach labia, lest they not be that perfect shade of pink; assholes, lest they take on an unsightly brown color.  This might all make sense since women’s fashion is just a few short years away from being complete nudity save for a large neon arrow pointing at their genitalia.  Apart from all the aesthetic products, there’s the age old odor control issue.  A vast array of feminine hygiene products are available in order to keep lady parts from smelling like lady parts, potentially throwing off the delicate balance of essential bacteria ensuring that women feel the need to use these products forever.   

After considering all of this, naturally I advised Ethel to keep her battle scar.  And she, having already come to a decision, agreed.  She felt it was a reminder of how strong she can be.  This put in my head the image of her squatting over a mirror before an important job interview saying, “You can do this.”  But I got her point.  Of all the women I’ve been with in my short time on this planet, which is no slouchy number by an stretch, I have never encountered a vagina that wasn’t pretty enough.  Sure, just like everything else, there’s a certain aesthetic difference from person to person, but none so severe that I would end up telling stories about it around the fire to terrify my fellow campers.  Ladies, your pussy is fantastic, scars and all.  No man worth his salt would want you to change a thing.  Strange as it may sound, a few of us actually like women.