I am slightly obsessive about my teeth for two reasons. One, I had braces for five years. Two, I hate the dentist. So I brush and floss and rinse and spit and cross my fingers and wonder if there's a dentist somewhere around here who will put me under the next time I need a filling, because the last time, we discovered that Novacaine doesn't work on me. And by "we," I mean I screamed and tried to get away and the dentist laughed and continued drilling into my head. There is something vaguely serial-killer about that, I think.
So usually after I eat, I check my teeth just to make sure there's nothing stuck. There almost never is, but I do it anyway. Yesterday, I was about to inspect my choppers when someone walked into the bathroom. Not wanting to look like a fool with my face all up in the mirror, I washed my hands and left. I probably smiled at whoever it was, too. She was the first person who should have said something.
I went on with my day, had a meeting of sorts with a supervisor (a particularly fun time in the day when you're pulled into a darkened room and told everything that you've done wrong, which is also printed out in list form for your personal enjoyment -- it seems like there should be spankings, too, but so far, no luck) and talked to various people. I'm sure I smiled at every one of them.
I got home and watched some tv with Mom. I had a couple drinks. I went to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror, and there, framing my two front teeth like two very tiny but precisely placed bookmarks, were the biggest fucking pieces of pepper I've ever seen in my life. I suspect they stowed away in my honey mustard dipping sauce I had with my Wendy's deliciousness for dinner. (By the way, that sauce should be included in the Bill of Rights. No American should be forced to eat fries without honey mustard.) Either that or they were in the salad dressing. Maybe it was a mix-and-match kind of thing, a United Nations of fast-food condiments joining forces in my mouth with the common goal of making me look like a goober.
Really, I should be proud.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Sunday, July 23, 2006
never go to planned parenthood without your camera and a zoom lens
Tonight Trina and I went to the Dixie Chicks concert because my Mother won tickets at work. The concert was fantastic -- when they first walked on stage, they played "Hail to the Chief." That's the first time in a long time I've heard that song and didn't feel suicidal.
Anyway, the concert, while excellent, isn't what I want to tell everyone (all 5 of you) about. Rather, it's the freaks who were lining the sidewalks in front of the Mellon Arena carrying pictures of "aborted" fetuses. It's hard to make anti-choice idiots funny, but I'll do my best.
One man tried to give me information about breast cancer. (One of their favorite myths is that abortion and breast cancer are linked. They also like to pretend that birth control is linked to breast cancer. If they were morally opposed to rutabagas, they would say that rutabagas cause breast cancer. It's a favorite threat that they cling to it even though there is no scientific evidence to back it up. Check with the American Cancer Society, the National Cancer Institute, a doctor, or anyone who can read above a 5th-grade level and they'll all tell you the same thing -- no correlation.)
I told Breast Cancer Man that I was on my way to get an abortion today, but his picture of a mangled fetus changed my whole outlook on life, and thank you ever so much. Trina told him to get a vasectomy. Good times.
Then we booed some other idiot with a fetus poster. On the other side, the thing said "Abortion kills babies and hurts women." I'm all about equality and I don't like men-bashing, but a sign like that really loses whatever impact it might have when it's held by a man.
Then we yelled at some stupid woman holding a sign. I think I may have called her a disgrace to women everywhere -- who can remember? I think the cunt actually started praying. That really sends me into a rage. Don't fucking pray for me. Me and my soul are just fine.
Then we talked -- rather civilly, in fact -- to another woman holding up one of these fetus-boards. First of all, let me tell you a little bit about this fucking fetus. Its intestines are all on the outside, it's got half a leg, and other assorted reasons why nature said "no." Is it sad? Of course. Especially since it was (allegedly) a 28-week fetus, which looks remarkably like an actual human being. (Unlike the fetuses that are actually aborted, which look like jello that got dropped in dirt.)
So this woman told us the story of this allegedly aborted fetus. She said it was found in a dumpster with "thousands" of fetuses. She told us it was so mangled because it was a chemical abortion. She also told us its name was Malachi.
How tragic for poor little Malachi. But anyone with slightly more intact faculties than a mangled fetus is capable of coming up with a few little handy bullet points to contradict every word she said.
- All aborted fetuses are required by law to be cremated. They don't throw a surgically removed tumor into the regular trash -- why the fuck would they toss out a fetus like that?
- In what city are there thousands of abortions performed in one clinic on one day? I'll even give them a week. Thousands? That would be Mt. Fetus. Also, whose job is it to go wading through this pile of goosh? There's an episode of "Dirty Jobs" you're not going to see anytime soon.
- A chemical abortion is only used in the first trimester, and this fetus was allegedly 28 weeks. And it's not like napalming your uterus -- it's a pill.
- Malachi is a stupid-ass name. Why not just name it New Testament?
I looked all this up here. (Among other places.) It has a copy of the photo we saw. Apparently there are two versions of this photo -- one where the color has been altered and another where it hasn't. The real photo shows the fetus with gray skin. That means that it died in utero.
We saw the doctored-up photo where it's all pink, because I guess they want their mangled fetuses to look as cute and cuddly as possible. The moral of the story is that the fetus was technically aborted, BUT that it was aborted because the fetus was already dead. It's removing dead matter from your body, not terminating the pregnancy.
(And that is what a late-term abortion typically is, not sucking the brain out of an otherwise healthy fetus. And if someone tells you otherwise, punch them in the fucking neck.)
Anti-choice groups are notorious for taking pictures of miscarriages from various places and using them as examples of abortions. They particularly like to use the third-trimester ones.
Once again, a conservative pet cause is masterminded by a small group of people who know what they're doing (in terms of propagandizing) in order to make a large group of well-meaning but intellectually weak people support something by relying on emotion and misinformation.
The debate is not over whether abortion is good or bad. I don't think anyone honestly thinks that abortion is some wonderful thing. The issue is whether it should be legal or not -- of course, the answer is yes. When abortion is criminalized, it doesn't stop. It just becomes more dangerous. If the anti-choice protestors like we saw today were really about helping babies, then they'd be lobbying for more readily available birth control, free condoms, and better sex education for kids and teens. They'd also give half a shit about these children after they're born and support programs like WIC.
Instead, these protestors are pawns in an emotional game meant to manipulate women and punish everyone for having sex without the desire to have a baby.
The men behind the curtain in this particular scheme are Santorum and his ilk. They want a society that is all the same -- because if we're all followers of his philosophy of life, then he can control us. He and other reptilian right-wingers want nothing but power and they will do anything to get it. They masquerade as pious men because piety is still revered by most. Then they take up causes that fit in with this false piety. Suddenly they're damn near holy. And what do idiots do?
They herd themselves to the polls.
Anyway, the concert, while excellent, isn't what I want to tell everyone (all 5 of you) about. Rather, it's the freaks who were lining the sidewalks in front of the Mellon Arena carrying pictures of "aborted" fetuses. It's hard to make anti-choice idiots funny, but I'll do my best.
One man tried to give me information about breast cancer. (One of their favorite myths is that abortion and breast cancer are linked. They also like to pretend that birth control is linked to breast cancer. If they were morally opposed to rutabagas, they would say that rutabagas cause breast cancer. It's a favorite threat that they cling to it even though there is no scientific evidence to back it up. Check with the American Cancer Society, the National Cancer Institute, a doctor, or anyone who can read above a 5th-grade level and they'll all tell you the same thing -- no correlation.)
I told Breast Cancer Man that I was on my way to get an abortion today, but his picture of a mangled fetus changed my whole outlook on life, and thank you ever so much. Trina told him to get a vasectomy. Good times.
Then we booed some other idiot with a fetus poster. On the other side, the thing said "Abortion kills babies and hurts women." I'm all about equality and I don't like men-bashing, but a sign like that really loses whatever impact it might have when it's held by a man.
Then we yelled at some stupid woman holding a sign. I think I may have called her a disgrace to women everywhere -- who can remember? I think the cunt actually started praying. That really sends me into a rage. Don't fucking pray for me. Me and my soul are just fine.
Then we talked -- rather civilly, in fact -- to another woman holding up one of these fetus-boards. First of all, let me tell you a little bit about this fucking fetus. Its intestines are all on the outside, it's got half a leg, and other assorted reasons why nature said "no." Is it sad? Of course. Especially since it was (allegedly) a 28-week fetus, which looks remarkably like an actual human being. (Unlike the fetuses that are actually aborted, which look like jello that got dropped in dirt.)
So this woman told us the story of this allegedly aborted fetus. She said it was found in a dumpster with "thousands" of fetuses. She told us it was so mangled because it was a chemical abortion. She also told us its name was Malachi.
How tragic for poor little Malachi. But anyone with slightly more intact faculties than a mangled fetus is capable of coming up with a few little handy bullet points to contradict every word she said.
- All aborted fetuses are required by law to be cremated. They don't throw a surgically removed tumor into the regular trash -- why the fuck would they toss out a fetus like that?
- In what city are there thousands of abortions performed in one clinic on one day? I'll even give them a week. Thousands? That would be Mt. Fetus. Also, whose job is it to go wading through this pile of goosh? There's an episode of "Dirty Jobs" you're not going to see anytime soon.
- A chemical abortion is only used in the first trimester, and this fetus was allegedly 28 weeks. And it's not like napalming your uterus -- it's a pill.
- Malachi is a stupid-ass name. Why not just name it New Testament?
I looked all this up here. (Among other places.) It has a copy of the photo we saw. Apparently there are two versions of this photo -- one where the color has been altered and another where it hasn't. The real photo shows the fetus with gray skin. That means that it died in utero.
We saw the doctored-up photo where it's all pink, because I guess they want their mangled fetuses to look as cute and cuddly as possible. The moral of the story is that the fetus was technically aborted, BUT that it was aborted because the fetus was already dead. It's removing dead matter from your body, not terminating the pregnancy.
(And that is what a late-term abortion typically is, not sucking the brain out of an otherwise healthy fetus. And if someone tells you otherwise, punch them in the fucking neck.)
Anti-choice groups are notorious for taking pictures of miscarriages from various places and using them as examples of abortions. They particularly like to use the third-trimester ones.
Once again, a conservative pet cause is masterminded by a small group of people who know what they're doing (in terms of propagandizing) in order to make a large group of well-meaning but intellectually weak people support something by relying on emotion and misinformation.
The debate is not over whether abortion is good or bad. I don't think anyone honestly thinks that abortion is some wonderful thing. The issue is whether it should be legal or not -- of course, the answer is yes. When abortion is criminalized, it doesn't stop. It just becomes more dangerous. If the anti-choice protestors like we saw today were really about helping babies, then they'd be lobbying for more readily available birth control, free condoms, and better sex education for kids and teens. They'd also give half a shit about these children after they're born and support programs like WIC.
Instead, these protestors are pawns in an emotional game meant to manipulate women and punish everyone for having sex without the desire to have a baby.
The men behind the curtain in this particular scheme are Santorum and his ilk. They want a society that is all the same -- because if we're all followers of his philosophy of life, then he can control us. He and other reptilian right-wingers want nothing but power and they will do anything to get it. They masquerade as pious men because piety is still revered by most. Then they take up causes that fit in with this false piety. Suddenly they're damn near holy. And what do idiots do?
They herd themselves to the polls.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
i lived the dream! and vicariously, so can you
We all have certain things we've always wanted to see. For Dane Cook, it was a guy getting hit by a car. Living in Pittsburgh, where it seems every year some poor fool gets creamed by a bus in Oakland, that one's not too high on my list. (Note -- this is only because it is a given that I will eventually witness this. Don't wish for what's already written in the stars.)
Being a lover of bad movies, (bad in a sense that the plot holes are so enormous that even GW Bush would notice them, not bad in the sense that it stars Richard Gere) I have always wanted to see a movie where a guy who's supposed to be dead blinks and no one notices. And I don't mean we're supposed to think he's dead but he's really alive -- I want this fucker's role to be "Corpse" when he blinks.
Just the other night, I lived that dream. I watched "Snakeeater." If you have On Demand, go order it right now. (It's free, obviously.) Stop reading this and then go watch it because nothing I have to say about the movie is any funnier than watching it. If possible, watch it WITH someone and occasionally say what you think is going to happen in the next scene. You will always be right.
Here are just a few hilarious highlights for those of you who don't have the time to watch it or are bereft of On Demand. I'd like to point out that this movie is NOT a comedy. It's just so bad that it's a masterpiece of suck.
- A woman runs out of a room into a hallway. She leaves out sight, we hear a loud noise, and then she swings by the doorway in a giant net.
- A guy gets gagged with a live fish by a band of yokels. Hilarious on several levels, because nothing is preventing this guy from spitting out said live fish. Also because the lead yokel had to go fishing with the intention of catching a fish to gag a guy with. (This takes place on a houseboat in a river.)
- A woman gets killed by having her head boiled. She doesn't attempt to get away, scream, or really even resist. The guy salts the water before boiling her head.
- Several times, people get knocked out by being hit on the back with something.
- A guy refers to his motorcycle as a "hog chopper." (I'm not sure about this because I don't know much about motorcycles, but that seems to be an oxymoron of sorts. Are these not two different kinds of motorcycle? If any one of you five readers out there know if this is an actual term, let me know. Although I maintain that it still sounds ridiculous.)
- The one guy looks just like Kenny Rogers.
- A motorcycle gets turned into a speedboat, but they had no reason to ruin the motorcycle at all -- basically, it's just turned into a giant steering wheel. Who needs a rudder?
- A woman is kidnapped and locked up in a shack in the woods that has several windows with no glass in them and a dirt floor. She's not tied up. She has tools inside the shack. If you can't escape from that, then you deserve to be raped by a band of rednecks.
- A woman who lives on a marina inexplicably has roller skates hanging on her wall. If this doesn't immediately strike you as pants-shittingly hilarious, just imagine someone roller-skating down a boardwalk.
- The main character, on the motorcycle boat, hits some sort of floating-log trap. His gun, on clearly visible fishing line, goes flying.
- The band of yokels has a semi-retarded member who has the most bizarre haircut ever. You know how monks have that weird band of hair and the rest of their head is shaved? It's kind of like that, but in relief. He has a tuft of hair, a ring of baldness, and then a ring of hair. This man actually did this to his real hair. He had to get up every morning and shave his bald ring before going in to shoot.
- The main character paints himself with dirt while setting up a handful of traps in the woods. This is mostly hilarious because immediately before he gets all dirt-painted, you see him crouching down, shirtless, and it is impossible not to say "I'm surprised he hasn't smeared dirt in war-paint designs all over himself by now."
- The band of yokels apparently kill people using a fake bear claw. While they maul people to death, they snarl and sound just like freaking bears. They must have gone to a zoo or into a den to get this audio. We are supposed to believe that the Head Yokel is making these noises himself. This is how Kenny Rogers gets killed.
- After being KILLED, one yokel is lying on the ground in his new role as Dead Body, and as his yokel brethren are gathered around him, he blinks. It's not even a twitch -- it's a blink that is so obvious, you can even see it during rewind. And you will, because as you see it, you will go "Did that fucker just blink?!" and then you will rewind it. Then you'll go "Holy shit, he blinked!" and then you will roll around in your seat for a while. (If you're planning on watching the movie, it's the guy with the hat. Watch for it. Do not eat or drink before or during watching the movie. You will either shit yourself or vomit.)
- A brand-new threesome of characters is introduced in the last five minutes. You have no idea where they came from or who they are or why they are all firing so many shotguns or why those shotguns apparently never need to be reloaded.
- One of these new guys takes several blasts to the chest and falls over dead. The camera cuts to something else for three seconds, then the nameless guy we just saw die is standing back up and gets off a few more shotgun blasts before he dies. Again.
- Lots of unnecessary rolling to avoid gunshots.
- Non-fatal kidney wound to the main character.
- A guy gets killed with a cow skull. (Almost Biblical when you consider the resurrections.)
- The Head Yokel talks with accents. Not with one accent, but with all of the different accents he could think of. He was vaguely southern, Appalachian, British, a New Yorker, a Bostonian, Irish, and, for a moment, Miss Cleo.
- There was someone in the credits with the title of "Continuity."
How could it get any better than that? I'll tell you -- there are sequels. Someone wrote and someone else financed not one, but two sequels. Comcast needs to get on this.
Being a lover of bad movies, (bad in a sense that the plot holes are so enormous that even GW Bush would notice them, not bad in the sense that it stars Richard Gere) I have always wanted to see a movie where a guy who's supposed to be dead blinks and no one notices. And I don't mean we're supposed to think he's dead but he's really alive -- I want this fucker's role to be "Corpse" when he blinks.
Just the other night, I lived that dream. I watched "Snakeeater." If you have On Demand, go order it right now. (It's free, obviously.) Stop reading this and then go watch it because nothing I have to say about the movie is any funnier than watching it. If possible, watch it WITH someone and occasionally say what you think is going to happen in the next scene. You will always be right.
Here are just a few hilarious highlights for those of you who don't have the time to watch it or are bereft of On Demand. I'd like to point out that this movie is NOT a comedy. It's just so bad that it's a masterpiece of suck.
- A woman runs out of a room into a hallway. She leaves out sight, we hear a loud noise, and then she swings by the doorway in a giant net.
- A guy gets gagged with a live fish by a band of yokels. Hilarious on several levels, because nothing is preventing this guy from spitting out said live fish. Also because the lead yokel had to go fishing with the intention of catching a fish to gag a guy with. (This takes place on a houseboat in a river.)
- A woman gets killed by having her head boiled. She doesn't attempt to get away, scream, or really even resist. The guy salts the water before boiling her head.
- Several times, people get knocked out by being hit on the back with something.
- A guy refers to his motorcycle as a "hog chopper." (I'm not sure about this because I don't know much about motorcycles, but that seems to be an oxymoron of sorts. Are these not two different kinds of motorcycle? If any one of you five readers out there know if this is an actual term, let me know. Although I maintain that it still sounds ridiculous.)
- The one guy looks just like Kenny Rogers.
- A motorcycle gets turned into a speedboat, but they had no reason to ruin the motorcycle at all -- basically, it's just turned into a giant steering wheel. Who needs a rudder?
- A woman is kidnapped and locked up in a shack in the woods that has several windows with no glass in them and a dirt floor. She's not tied up. She has tools inside the shack. If you can't escape from that, then you deserve to be raped by a band of rednecks.
- A woman who lives on a marina inexplicably has roller skates hanging on her wall. If this doesn't immediately strike you as pants-shittingly hilarious, just imagine someone roller-skating down a boardwalk.
- The main character, on the motorcycle boat, hits some sort of floating-log trap. His gun, on clearly visible fishing line, goes flying.
- The band of yokels has a semi-retarded member who has the most bizarre haircut ever. You know how monks have that weird band of hair and the rest of their head is shaved? It's kind of like that, but in relief. He has a tuft of hair, a ring of baldness, and then a ring of hair. This man actually did this to his real hair. He had to get up every morning and shave his bald ring before going in to shoot.
- The main character paints himself with dirt while setting up a handful of traps in the woods. This is mostly hilarious because immediately before he gets all dirt-painted, you see him crouching down, shirtless, and it is impossible not to say "I'm surprised he hasn't smeared dirt in war-paint designs all over himself by now."
- The band of yokels apparently kill people using a fake bear claw. While they maul people to death, they snarl and sound just like freaking bears. They must have gone to a zoo or into a den to get this audio. We are supposed to believe that the Head Yokel is making these noises himself. This is how Kenny Rogers gets killed.
- After being KILLED, one yokel is lying on the ground in his new role as Dead Body, and as his yokel brethren are gathered around him, he blinks. It's not even a twitch -- it's a blink that is so obvious, you can even see it during rewind. And you will, because as you see it, you will go "Did that fucker just blink?!" and then you will rewind it. Then you'll go "Holy shit, he blinked!" and then you will roll around in your seat for a while. (If you're planning on watching the movie, it's the guy with the hat. Watch for it. Do not eat or drink before or during watching the movie. You will either shit yourself or vomit.)
- A brand-new threesome of characters is introduced in the last five minutes. You have no idea where they came from or who they are or why they are all firing so many shotguns or why those shotguns apparently never need to be reloaded.
- One of these new guys takes several blasts to the chest and falls over dead. The camera cuts to something else for three seconds, then the nameless guy we just saw die is standing back up and gets off a few more shotgun blasts before he dies. Again.
- Lots of unnecessary rolling to avoid gunshots.
- Non-fatal kidney wound to the main character.
- A guy gets killed with a cow skull. (Almost Biblical when you consider the resurrections.)
- The Head Yokel talks with accents. Not with one accent, but with all of the different accents he could think of. He was vaguely southern, Appalachian, British, a New Yorker, a Bostonian, Irish, and, for a moment, Miss Cleo.
- There was someone in the credits with the title of "Continuity."
How could it get any better than that? I'll tell you -- there are sequels. Someone wrote and someone else financed not one, but two sequels. Comcast needs to get on this.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
adventures with stupid
I had a couple Cokes tonight, so I'm a little buzzy with caffeine. So I'm going to use this opportunity to talk to you all about a problem that I believe is destroying our world. That problem, my darling readers, is stupidity. I know you have witnessed stupidity in your own lives -- in those around you and maybe even occasionally in yourselves. I know I have.
Last night as I was about to go through the Ft. Pitt tunnel, I saw that the left lane was closed. Specifically, I noticed the first of several large orange signs conveniently placed by the shoulder of the road telling me about the lane closure. I also saw the road flares, line of giant orange-and-white barrels, the giant red X hanging over the lane, and the flashing yellow arrow that is the size of my (now normal-sized) car. So I changed lanes. I slowed down a little, put on my turn signal, looked to my right, and moved over. This is all standard car-operating procedure, right? I don't really recall a question on the driver's test that asks "what do you do when PennDOT has closed your lane?" or "what does a giant flashing arrow pointing to the right mean?"
Clearly, they have overestimated the intelligence of the average Pittsburgh driver.
Apparently somewhere in the possible answers for both of the imaginary questions I have just posed is the option of "slow down, swerve around as though drunk, then jam the accelerator while you have an average space of 3.8 inches between a) your front bumper and a giant orange-and-white barrel and b) your rear bumper and the car behind you."
See? I didn't know that, but that's what you do. Assuming, of course, that you are not only illiterate and color-blind, but also drunk. (Those are what we call "variables.")
They had out every warning system that is currently available. They just hired a guy to stand out there on stilts juggling more yellow arrows, but his drug test results won't be back until Monday. The sooner he gets out there on the job, the better. Lives depend on the PennDOT juggler.
There's all kinds of road morons. Like the people who think it's my job to let them into traffic. If I slow down and flash my lights at you, I'm doing you a fucking favor. It was not your excellent driving skills that hit my brake -- it was my right foot. Acknowledge this with a little wave. Just a flick of the wrist will say to me "Thank you, fellow human, for letting me in." Because otherwise, I will spend the rest of my drive wishing horrible, agonizing death upon you -- I will wish that you run over Ben Roethlisberger's foot and break his Big Toe. See what happens to you then.
Or the people who think they're going to drive over the edge of a cliff if they don't merge into the fast lane in wall-to-fucking-wall traffic. First of all, if you don't know how to merge correctly, then you do not get to drive over here on the left with the rest of us. Also, holding up the right lane for three miles while you try to somehow navigate your Chevy Behemoth into a space in the coveted left lane that is more fitted for a moped does not make life better for you, me, or the 9,000 people you just made late for work.
And if you are this jackass and I let you in to do the people BEHIND you a favor because you are clearly so stupid that you need help from those around you just in order to function on the road, and you don't so much as nod your head towards me...it's on, bitch.
The thing is, these might be otherwise-intelligent people. They live life perfectly fine except they should be forced to take the damn bus wherever they go so as to spare the rest of us a brain aneurysm someday as we are sitting next to the stupid goddamn sign on 376 that says "Maintain Speed Through Tunnel. Your Speed Is:" and the electronic display reads something like "12" because everyone who passes it is for some reason humbled and awed by a digital display.
Then there are the unforgivable kinds of stupid. I can forgive people who get to the front of the Cash-Only line and whip out a Visa. I can forgive people who randomly ask me if I'm a Christian, as though any answer but "yes" means that I sacrifice infants to Satan. I can even forgive people who think that seafood and marinara sauce is a good combination.
Unforgivable stupid is stuff like voting for Rick Santorum or still insisting that this war was a great idea or being racist. There are even degrees of racist. There are the two-faced racists, who smile at their black cashier at the Giant Eagle and then count their change in the car because they "don't trust those people." Or the ones who chat up a white person in the elevator and ignore the Indian person right next to them.
But then there's another level of racist. These aren't even the KKK members, who keep their identity secret because they know, deep inside themselves, that they should be ashamed of themselves. I'm talking about the people who are proud of their racism like the rest of us are proud of our own accomplishments.
"I graduated from college!"
"I threw a rock at a Navajo!"
I actually had a conversation with one of these Nazis once. He seemed normal, and I gave him my number when he asked for it. And then when he called me, he started dangling his "I'm a racist fucker" medals all around the conversation.
One of the first things he asked me was "Have you ever dated a black person?" (His phrasing was slightly different.)
I was hanging up laundry while we were talking and my mouth hung open for a minute while I formulated a response.
"Of course I have," I lied. I had started seeing a black man once, but it didn't work out.
"Really," he said.
"Yeah -- and I infer from your word choice that you have some sort of problem with that."
"Huh?"
If only I had a cave wall to paint something on for him so I could make him understand.
He went on to tell me why black people are all drug-dealing thugs because he got into a fight with a black guy once and the black guy's friends all joined in the fight and kicked the shit out of him. (I was glad we were on the phone so he couldn't see me celebrating when he got to that part of the story.) And that was it. One bar fight means every single person who is slightly more brown than alabaster is sub-human. Follow the logic from point A to...hey, where'd it go?
Isn't it amazing that I'm single when I have guys like this around to choose from? Not that the women are much more sane, but at least I've never met a racist lesbian. (Ah, but I am still young.)
Then there's the kinds of stupidity that you don't even realize exist until you start overthinking. Just today in the Post-Gazette, I read a little blurb about a serial killer who was charged with killing "11 prostitutes and another woman." The more I thought about this, the angrier I got. Do we have to specifically say that they were prostitutes? Yes, serial killers often target prostitutes because they're easy targets and because it's easy to forget their humanity. And when we refer to the victim of a horrible crime as a prostitute instead of a person, it helps reinforce that status. It didn't say "11 prostitutes and an investment banker," so why does it matter how those 11 other women paid their rent?
I'm not saying that I think prostitution is some wonderful institution. But let's not be so fucking Biblical, shall we? Leave the moralizing to Fox News. After all, there are a lot of worse jobs that pay a lot less. But at least you get health insurance if you work at the dump, and you don't get serial fucking killers trying to get you into the back of their van.
So there are some Adventures With Stupid for you.
Next time I'll tell you why the only thing more idiotic than the War on Drugs was the advice to crawl under a piece of furniture if an atomic bomb is dropped on your town.*
*This is tied with the Terror Alert system, which makes all Pennsylvanians wish for a whiskey IV drip because we remember Tom Ridge before his skull cracked open and vital parts of his brain died and frankly, this just makes us sad and wish for drunken oblivion.
Last night as I was about to go through the Ft. Pitt tunnel, I saw that the left lane was closed. Specifically, I noticed the first of several large orange signs conveniently placed by the shoulder of the road telling me about the lane closure. I also saw the road flares, line of giant orange-and-white barrels, the giant red X hanging over the lane, and the flashing yellow arrow that is the size of my (now normal-sized) car. So I changed lanes. I slowed down a little, put on my turn signal, looked to my right, and moved over. This is all standard car-operating procedure, right? I don't really recall a question on the driver's test that asks "what do you do when PennDOT has closed your lane?" or "what does a giant flashing arrow pointing to the right mean?"
Clearly, they have overestimated the intelligence of the average Pittsburgh driver.
Apparently somewhere in the possible answers for both of the imaginary questions I have just posed is the option of "slow down, swerve around as though drunk, then jam the accelerator while you have an average space of 3.8 inches between a) your front bumper and a giant orange-and-white barrel and b) your rear bumper and the car behind you."
See? I didn't know that, but that's what you do. Assuming, of course, that you are not only illiterate and color-blind, but also drunk. (Those are what we call "variables.")
They had out every warning system that is currently available. They just hired a guy to stand out there on stilts juggling more yellow arrows, but his drug test results won't be back until Monday. The sooner he gets out there on the job, the better. Lives depend on the PennDOT juggler.
There's all kinds of road morons. Like the people who think it's my job to let them into traffic. If I slow down and flash my lights at you, I'm doing you a fucking favor. It was not your excellent driving skills that hit my brake -- it was my right foot. Acknowledge this with a little wave. Just a flick of the wrist will say to me "Thank you, fellow human, for letting me in." Because otherwise, I will spend the rest of my drive wishing horrible, agonizing death upon you -- I will wish that you run over Ben Roethlisberger's foot and break his Big Toe. See what happens to you then.
Or the people who think they're going to drive over the edge of a cliff if they don't merge into the fast lane in wall-to-fucking-wall traffic. First of all, if you don't know how to merge correctly, then you do not get to drive over here on the left with the rest of us. Also, holding up the right lane for three miles while you try to somehow navigate your Chevy Behemoth into a space in the coveted left lane that is more fitted for a moped does not make life better for you, me, or the 9,000 people you just made late for work.
And if you are this jackass and I let you in to do the people BEHIND you a favor because you are clearly so stupid that you need help from those around you just in order to function on the road, and you don't so much as nod your head towards me...it's on, bitch.
The thing is, these might be otherwise-intelligent people. They live life perfectly fine except they should be forced to take the damn bus wherever they go so as to spare the rest of us a brain aneurysm someday as we are sitting next to the stupid goddamn sign on 376 that says "Maintain Speed Through Tunnel. Your Speed Is:" and the electronic display reads something like "12" because everyone who passes it is for some reason humbled and awed by a digital display.
Then there are the unforgivable kinds of stupid. I can forgive people who get to the front of the Cash-Only line and whip out a Visa. I can forgive people who randomly ask me if I'm a Christian, as though any answer but "yes" means that I sacrifice infants to Satan. I can even forgive people who think that seafood and marinara sauce is a good combination.
Unforgivable stupid is stuff like voting for Rick Santorum or still insisting that this war was a great idea or being racist. There are even degrees of racist. There are the two-faced racists, who smile at their black cashier at the Giant Eagle and then count their change in the car because they "don't trust those people." Or the ones who chat up a white person in the elevator and ignore the Indian person right next to them.
But then there's another level of racist. These aren't even the KKK members, who keep their identity secret because they know, deep inside themselves, that they should be ashamed of themselves. I'm talking about the people who are proud of their racism like the rest of us are proud of our own accomplishments.
"I graduated from college!"
"I threw a rock at a Navajo!"
I actually had a conversation with one of these Nazis once. He seemed normal, and I gave him my number when he asked for it. And then when he called me, he started dangling his "I'm a racist fucker" medals all around the conversation.
One of the first things he asked me was "Have you ever dated a black person?" (His phrasing was slightly different.)
I was hanging up laundry while we were talking and my mouth hung open for a minute while I formulated a response.
"Of course I have," I lied. I had started seeing a black man once, but it didn't work out.
"Really," he said.
"Yeah -- and I infer from your word choice that you have some sort of problem with that."
"Huh?"
If only I had a cave wall to paint something on for him so I could make him understand.
He went on to tell me why black people are all drug-dealing thugs because he got into a fight with a black guy once and the black guy's friends all joined in the fight and kicked the shit out of him. (I was glad we were on the phone so he couldn't see me celebrating when he got to that part of the story.) And that was it. One bar fight means every single person who is slightly more brown than alabaster is sub-human. Follow the logic from point A to...hey, where'd it go?
Isn't it amazing that I'm single when I have guys like this around to choose from? Not that the women are much more sane, but at least I've never met a racist lesbian. (Ah, but I am still young.)
Then there's the kinds of stupidity that you don't even realize exist until you start overthinking. Just today in the Post-Gazette, I read a little blurb about a serial killer who was charged with killing "11 prostitutes and another woman." The more I thought about this, the angrier I got. Do we have to specifically say that they were prostitutes? Yes, serial killers often target prostitutes because they're easy targets and because it's easy to forget their humanity. And when we refer to the victim of a horrible crime as a prostitute instead of a person, it helps reinforce that status. It didn't say "11 prostitutes and an investment banker," so why does it matter how those 11 other women paid their rent?
I'm not saying that I think prostitution is some wonderful institution. But let's not be so fucking Biblical, shall we? Leave the moralizing to Fox News. After all, there are a lot of worse jobs that pay a lot less. But at least you get health insurance if you work at the dump, and you don't get serial fucking killers trying to get you into the back of their van.
So there are some Adventures With Stupid for you.
Next time I'll tell you why the only thing more idiotic than the War on Drugs was the advice to crawl under a piece of furniture if an atomic bomb is dropped on your town.*
*This is tied with the Terror Alert system, which makes all Pennsylvanians wish for a whiskey IV drip because we remember Tom Ridge before his skull cracked open and vital parts of his brain died and frankly, this just makes us sad and wish for drunken oblivion.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
20,000 wolverines and my very own episode of psychic detectives (sort of)
On Sunday night, Trina, Peter, and I went to Flagstaff to watch the movie. Good times -- we even remembered a blanket. On our way back to the car, this homeless guy was yelling nonsense at all the people filing past. I'm going to break these few seconds down to give you all the full experience of walking past this guy.
He screamed to no one in particular, "I need 20..."
And I thought, "Is this guy really going to ask for $20? That's balls, even for a schizophrenic."
"I need 20 thousand..."
And then I thought, "$20,000? No kidding -- me too. That's more than I make in a year."
"I need 20,000 wolverines!"
And I thought, "How many Woodland Hills class reunions would that take, factoring in all the shooting deaths?"
Then as we walked by him, he leaned in to the three of us and addressed no one in particular in a sultry almost-whisper, "Baby..."
And I thought of that guy who told me I had "more stories than Storybook Forest," which I think is because that's the only time I've ever heard someone begin a sentence with "Baby."
"Baby," he said, "start the bath water."
The shenanigans don't stop there. Don't you know me by now?
So for several months, I've had this sort of notion in my head that one night on my way home from work, I'd find my friend Dave (a guy I work with who has a particularly amusing blog that, like this one, gets updated a couple times a month) broken down on the side of the road and I'd wind up helping him out in some way.
And since getting this new car, I've had this occasional image of him sitting in my passenger seat when it's dark. I didn't think much of this, as I love taking people for a ride in my new car. However, the feeling that I'd one day see Dave pulled over on the side of the road was incredibly strong, and I developed a habit of looking at every car I'd see on the side of the road to make sure it wasn't him.
I was behind Dave tonight as we were leaving work, and even though I had more than enough gas to get me home (about a quarter of a tank) I had the feeling I should go get gas. I hate getting gas on my way to work because it always makes me run late, no matter how early I go. So, as Dave turned left, I decided to switch my turn signal from left to right and go through Canonsburg, get gas, and be on my merry way. I wondered as I merged onto 79 if I'd wind up passing Dave anyway, which has happened before, oddly enough. I was almost to the 279 ramp when I saw a car on the side of the road. I slowed down, and of course, I saw it was Dave's car. I pulled over and rolled down the window.
What else could he say, really, other than "Holy shit!"
I wasn't expecting him to tell me that he had tripped over what appeared to be a body in a garbage bag on the side of the road at the strategically located emergency pull-off spot where he'd left his car.
"As I was walking down the road there my foot hit what felt like a skull."
I didn't want to ask him why he knew what a skull against his foot would feel like. Instead I told him that I'd help him investigate.
"Ever since all those episodes of Forensic Files," he said, referring to the countless hours we spent at work on Court TV shows, "I've been hoping I'd find a body somewhere. And what better place to dump a body than on a highway emergency pulloff?"
(Dream it, you fucking dreamers. We all need dreams.)
So we took off down to a gas station and did some figure-8s around 79 and we got back to his car. We all know I'm always up for a good adventure, so I did indeed climb out of my car on a highway shoulder and go scrambling over the gravel, grass, and bizarrely huge piece of cardboard that looked like it could conceivably be part of a body-dumping plan.
And then we saw the bag. Black, densely packed, tied several times with expert knots. Dave tried to move it. It just lay there. It seemed smaller than I expected. It couldn't be a kid, could it? My heart pounding, I felt the bag. It seemed oddly familiar. And then I knew.
"I think it's sand to keep this sign from moving." Next to the sign, a few feet away and concealed by the darkness, were several identical bags. I assumed these were bags of sand and not a family of obese midgets murdered by PennDOT.
"Damn," said Dave. And really, he was right.
Still, that would have made a kick-ass half-hour of television. "79 Northbound: Expect Delays."
He screamed to no one in particular, "I need 20..."
And I thought, "Is this guy really going to ask for $20? That's balls, even for a schizophrenic."
"I need 20 thousand..."
And then I thought, "$20,000? No kidding -- me too. That's more than I make in a year."
"I need 20,000 wolverines!"
And I thought, "How many Woodland Hills class reunions would that take, factoring in all the shooting deaths?"
Then as we walked by him, he leaned in to the three of us and addressed no one in particular in a sultry almost-whisper, "Baby..."
And I thought of that guy who told me I had "more stories than Storybook Forest," which I think is because that's the only time I've ever heard someone begin a sentence with "Baby."
"Baby," he said, "start the bath water."
The shenanigans don't stop there. Don't you know me by now?
So for several months, I've had this sort of notion in my head that one night on my way home from work, I'd find my friend Dave (a guy I work with who has a particularly amusing blog that, like this one, gets updated a couple times a month) broken down on the side of the road and I'd wind up helping him out in some way.
And since getting this new car, I've had this occasional image of him sitting in my passenger seat when it's dark. I didn't think much of this, as I love taking people for a ride in my new car. However, the feeling that I'd one day see Dave pulled over on the side of the road was incredibly strong, and I developed a habit of looking at every car I'd see on the side of the road to make sure it wasn't him.
I was behind Dave tonight as we were leaving work, and even though I had more than enough gas to get me home (about a quarter of a tank) I had the feeling I should go get gas. I hate getting gas on my way to work because it always makes me run late, no matter how early I go. So, as Dave turned left, I decided to switch my turn signal from left to right and go through Canonsburg, get gas, and be on my merry way. I wondered as I merged onto 79 if I'd wind up passing Dave anyway, which has happened before, oddly enough. I was almost to the 279 ramp when I saw a car on the side of the road. I slowed down, and of course, I saw it was Dave's car. I pulled over and rolled down the window.
What else could he say, really, other than "Holy shit!"
I wasn't expecting him to tell me that he had tripped over what appeared to be a body in a garbage bag on the side of the road at the strategically located emergency pull-off spot where he'd left his car.
"As I was walking down the road there my foot hit what felt like a skull."
I didn't want to ask him why he knew what a skull against his foot would feel like. Instead I told him that I'd help him investigate.
"Ever since all those episodes of Forensic Files," he said, referring to the countless hours we spent at work on Court TV shows, "I've been hoping I'd find a body somewhere. And what better place to dump a body than on a highway emergency pulloff?"
(Dream it, you fucking dreamers. We all need dreams.)
So we took off down to a gas station and did some figure-8s around 79 and we got back to his car. We all know I'm always up for a good adventure, so I did indeed climb out of my car on a highway shoulder and go scrambling over the gravel, grass, and bizarrely huge piece of cardboard that looked like it could conceivably be part of a body-dumping plan.
And then we saw the bag. Black, densely packed, tied several times with expert knots. Dave tried to move it. It just lay there. It seemed smaller than I expected. It couldn't be a kid, could it? My heart pounding, I felt the bag. It seemed oddly familiar. And then I knew.
"I think it's sand to keep this sign from moving." Next to the sign, a few feet away and concealed by the darkness, were several identical bags. I assumed these were bags of sand and not a family of obese midgets murdered by PennDOT.
"Damn," said Dave. And really, he was right.
Still, that would have made a kick-ass half-hour of television. "79 Northbound: Expect Delays."
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
and now everyone at work knows why my mom calls me "wheezy"
Today at work I was assigned to a show with a really poor video. The color was all screwed up and thusly became the reason for today's mini-tale from officeland.
Caleb: Is that a penguin?
Amanda: ...That's Hulk Hogan.
Caleb: Is that a penguin?
Amanda: ...That's Hulk Hogan.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
john gardner is spinning in his grave and somewhere, bob mooney is weeping
This had me laughing so hard that I started coughing. Then I drooled a little. Then I had to pee. I didn't laugh so hard I had to pee or anything. I just sort of had to pee when I started reading it and then I thought about having to pee but that thing was so funny that I kept reading and then the more aware I became of how I kind of had to pee, the more I felt like I had to pee, so by the end I was twisting in my chair and sort of bouncing.
My Wife will like the first one the most. It made me snort.
My Wife will like the first one the most. It made me snort.
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