Thursday, December 23, 2010

A Trip Through My Mailbox,Part III...

There are an awful lot of new visitors to the Asylum this week. I welcome you, and hope you enjoy your visit. Feel free to read anything you want and to post anything you like. I usually don't answer my e-mail (unless it's really good), but the Asylum Elves are on strike (they want dental, you see) and so in my capacity as Management, it behooves me to take on the menial tasks that they used to do in the name of good customer service.

Q: Wow! You've been blogging for a long time now! How come I never saw this blog before?

A: Because you weren't looking for it, obviously. Then again, I wasn't sitting here trying to be noticed. I don't advertise, and frankly, when I started this crap seven years ago it was supposed to be therapy. I never really expected anyone to actually read it, so I didn't promote it. Really, I mean, some of the stuff I wrote back then is absolutely awful, but in my defense, if I wasn't drunk, then I was zonked on Xanax or Zoloft , or suffering from severe sleep deprivation. Promoting my blog -- with my mental distress pasted all over it -- wasn't exactly something I was out to achieve.

If you've found this blog in the past, it was completely by accident. If you've found it in the last week or so, it was pretty much under the same circumstances. I didn't expect to find my rantings on Twitter, or for the New York Times to come a'callin' with a request for an interview. Anyways, so long as you're here, you might as well get a drink and fasten your seat belts; it's a wild ride pretty much all the time.

Q: Why are you so angry?
A: This is NOT anger. Believe me, you wouldn't like me when I'm angry -- as it's not even half as funny. What some take for anger is simply me being at a point in my life where I simply do not give a shit about what anyone else thinks of me. Therefore, I pull no punches, and I say exactly what is on my mind. Some people are uncomfortable with this level of frankness, but as I said, I really don't give a shit what you might think about it. This is still America, and I can say whatever I goddamned please.

I don't expect everyone to agree with me, and I certainly expect that most won't. I'm also aware that this sort of blunt expression makes some people shake their heads and tsk-tsk, especially with the language that gets used here, but I'm sorry: I'm a native New Yorker and it's fucking genetic. Deal.

Q. Why do you hate Muslims/Christians/Women/Blacks/Poor People/Democrats so much?
A. If you seriously have to ask why anyone should hate Muslims, then I suggest you have your family sign that Do Not Resuscitate Order right fucking now. But if you must know, the story goes something like this:

I had a freakin' absolutely awesome life before 9/11. I had a bitchin' career. I had a ton of money. I was comfortable, and although I had to work hard, that never really bothered me any. Then 19 idiots who couldn't get the blond girls to chuck' em one decided that it would be a good idea to ram a couple of airliners into the tallest buildings in New York City in the name of their phony-baloney God. I was lucky --no one close to me was hurt or killed that day --but mostly because I had only left 1 WTC a minute or so before the first plane struck. But I did find myself directly underneath the first kamikaze, and if that, plus witnessing the murders of 3,000 other people, doesn't freak you out, there's something wrong with you. The resulting mental disorders cost me everything, and seven years of my life.

As for Christians, well, if one God would force 19 douchebags to kill themselves in order to get it's attention, then any God is likely to do the same. Besides, I get a chuckle out of people who tell me their God is all-powerful, all-knowing, knows what's in my heart, and is watching me 24-hours a day who can then turn around and tell you that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are pagan constructs that will lead the True Believer off the Righteous Path.

I don't know about you, but I can't remember the last time Peter Cottontail or Ol' St. Nick demanded the blood of innocents, flooded the planet because no one would listen to them, sanctioned war and slaughter,and threatened to return to lead the last great battle that will destroy the world. Apart from a little bit of good-natured breaking-and-entering (in which they actually leave stuff behind!), Kris Kringle and Peter Rabbit are actually far more amenable; the worst they ever did was to skip someone's house, or leave a lump of coal as a gentle reminder of the wages of sin; Yahweh tosses people into great big lakes of fire and brimstone to their eternal torment at the hands of a fallen angel that She created, but then couldn't control, either.

I don't hate women. I love women. I just hate the confused-by-feminism little girls hiding in a woman's body. Especially the ones that tell you "I don't need no man!", and then beg you to pay their rent, buy shit for them, and then solve all their problems brought about by their own stupidity for them, and then take out their unrequited revenge fantasies against the Ex Husband/Boyfriend that did them wrong on you. Sorry, but there's plenty of vaginas out there, and I prefer the ones without baggage and some common sense.

I don't hate blacks, either. I just think it's easier to automatically assume that all black people are clueless, insensitive, loudmouthed, selfish. pigheaded, bigoted doofuses, because after a lifetime of ersatz "Reverends", Affirmative Action, and spending what seems like a year of my life in Diversity Training and monthly Diversity Meetings, that's what they seem to think of me, sans evidence. What's good for the goose, and all that. However, if a black person should happen to earn my respect (much like I expect to have to earn theirs), then we're cool.

As for the rest, what's to LIKE about welfare queens and democrats (sorry, that was redundant)?

Hope this answers some of your questions, Newcomers! Oh, and Merry Fuckin' Christmas.

Hey, S.E. Cupp: I Already Wrote This!

Dear S.E. Cupp: if you've lifted one my posts, then you owe me. Since it's Christmas, I'd like you to arrive at my doorstep, in a bikini, with a bottle of something good, and a fistful of $100 bills. We'll find a hot tub later, Sugarshorts.

Now, I'm not accusing anyone of anything, because I have no proof of anything untoward. But when I read Cupp's Opinion piece in the NY Daily News this morning, I had a feeling of deja vu. I wrote the almost exact same post back in January! It's possible that two people might have the same exact idea eleven months apart, but it's kinda spooky, dont'cha think? Then again, great minds thinking alike and all that.

You be the judge. Here's mine.

l'll be waiting for your call, S.E., you sexy beast.

UPDATE: Updated the link.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Helping Mom "Feel Human" Again...

We're into our third week of recovery. The physical therapist says that Mom should get up and exercise some more, and that short walks would be a nice idea -- so long as we don't over-do it. This dovetails nicely with Mom's re-discovered ability to shower on her own (she still needs a little help into and out of the tub, though), which she says gives her a feeling of being a"decent human being, again". She is regaining mobility at a rate which is greater than expected, which means she gets to do things that she hasn't been able to do for the last few weeks: like look in the bathroom mirror, and notice that them stubborn grey roots have returned.

With the pain and anxiety gone, for now, she can turn her attention from harassing me to an inhuman extent to paying attention to her personal appearance.

So, a trip to the Beauty Parlor is in order. The one she normally uses is within walking distance, so why not kill two birds with one stone and get her a little exercise while she engages in the futile battle to hold the ravages of Old Age at bay? I'll accompany her (despite her protests) because I don't want her falling over in the street, and because there are two public high schools in this neighborhood full of bussed-in Urban Aborigines who's only apparent contribution to campus life seems to be to make the white kids look physically un-coordinated by their superhuman ability to break tackles, or dunk a basketball.

When some of these...ahem...students...aren't under the direct supervision of their zookeepers, they're notorious troublemakers and petty criminals. A fat white lady on a cane who moves at a snail's pace with a nice, plump pocketbook is simply too tempting a target. Low-hanging fruit. So, I decide the best thing to do is to ride shotgun, just in case.

The first indication that this is an exercise in futility is that you realize that there is very little correlation between the name of the place (i.e. Beauty Parlor) and the activities going on within; You know you're in trouble when the "beauticians" are all misshapen lumps who seem to have put their make-up on with a spray gun and spackle trowel, and none has a coiffure that can be considered "attractive" if it wasn't on a Shetland Pony. It seems the only purpose of a Beauty Parlor is to give the high-school dropouts within the opportunity to gossip all day and experiment upon each other's hair and faces, mostly unsuccessfully. I could see before we even entered the establishment that this was going to be an interesting ordeal.

The second indication that something is cosmically wrong is that smell. If I had to describe it, it's somewhere between dead skunk and burning muskrat, with just a hint of decomposing possum. This is the odor given off by the myriad of toxic chemicals that will be combined to give my mother that Cesar-Romero-Redhead color that is so popular with the over-60 set in these parts. You can't spit without hitting one of these bottle-redhead seniors, these days.

So, there I was, sitting silently and impatiently in this heady atmosphere: my mother is getting a hairstyle that I would describe as "butch", and having it tinted with some godawful mess of chemistry that will probably ensure that the patch of ground this place sits on will be declared a Superfund site by the EPA any day now. There isn't a thing to read...well, there is, but you'd have to be Gay to find it of much interest, and since I could give a flying fuck at a rolling donut about "Jennifer Anniston and Chelsea Handler: Budding Romance?", or the problems of getting your sexless marriage restarted with 101 new applications for chocolate syrup and Vick's Vapo- Rub, or whatever they're selling this month, I'm bored out of my skull. (It is somewhat funny to note from the covers of the magazines just what the current mental state of the American Housefrau is these days; if the magazine isn't all about selling fantasy to them, it's all about the sexual desires of the Average Man, As Told by Another Chick. Strange).

I go outside to smoke. I go out for coffee. I amuse myself by looking at the puppies in the pet store two doors down (I'm asked to leave, as this store has experienced a rash of attempted puppy-nappings in recent months). Finally, Mom has had her head re-enamelled and her female crewcut trimmed, and it's time to go home.

Except that it ain't. One cannot get a hairdo, and leave things at that. Only a barbarian would do something like that.

Part of this "feeling human again" ritual involves a second stop at the manicurist's. Point out that this place that just wrecked your hair also gives manicures, and you get a look that could curdle maple syrup; One comes here for a really bad, overpriced hairstyle, but for a really good manicure, you need to go some place else. Some place where there's Koreans, you fool. Some place a further two blocks away.

And so we shuffle off at approximately 0.001 miles per hour because now her knee is stiff, to the manicurist. If I was bored to tears before, I'm about to be bored to death. The only consolation was that at least the Korean chicks look better than the ones in the hairstylists. Except that that there's not that many Korean chicks to look at.

Because while the proprietors of the manicurist's shop may be Korean, the workers within are Hispanic. The American Dream in microcosm; the former labor class, Korean immigrants, are now the Industrial Overlords, and the new generation of immigrants, the illegal ones, have taken their place. If you thought the process of a woman getting a hairdo was an ordeal by fire, try sitting around waiting for one to get a mani-and-a-pedi! The truly disgusting part of this hell is that the air is full of fine dust, and it's the particulate matter that has has been scraped, sanded, rubbed, cut, and otherwise stripped from a multitude of feet and fingernails. Every woman in that place wore a surgical mask, and I can see why: I had to wash my coat just as soon as I could, for it was covered in a fine layer of unsanitary dust from some oversized bag of skin's hooves.

Needless to say, I spent the majority of this time outside, in the freezing cold, just to avoid picking up whatever pathogens are in the air in that place.

Eventually, the whole thing is over and we go home. I've had three hours of my day completely wasted. I'm covered in the dead-skin-dust of perhaps 12 strange women's feet. My nosehairs have been burned down to the follicles by the noxious aroma of hair dye. I want to shower and scrub myself thoroughly with a Brillo Pad just to get all that crap off of me. Oh, and it all cost me $75. Don't ask me how.

But Mom feels "human", so I guess that's something.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Oh, And Here's One More Reason Not To Visit Africa...

As if endemic Civil War, Exotic Diseases, Unwashed Scrotums, Biblical starvation, Communism, Islamic Hit Squads, Squalor and those annoying Vuvuzelas weren't enough, there's this:

The Great Frozen Chicken Horror.

And these are the people the United States spent Stimulus Funds on to teach basic hygiene?

Screw UNICEF...

...because Africa is apparently lousy with wealthy orphans!

I get 7 or 8 of these Nigerian Scams a week, and they get progressively better with the advance of time. They all follow the same predictable pattern, though. The first clue is that it seems all these poor-little-rich-girls have masculine first names.

A young woman in (insert Third-world shithole here) has just finished her prayers. This, I find amazing because to guess from all the outcry about African overpopulation, you get the idea that any girl who has the time to pray is probably even too ugly for an African man to do the nasty with. This, after all, is how one usually achieves the sort of overpopulation common to the poorest nations of Africa. Why, the problems attendant to all that uninterrupted fucking going on over there are so serious that American Stimulus dollars had to be spent to deal with the horrific consequences.

Anyway, the point is that we apparently have the only praying virgin on the African continent writing us e-mails, and this new one happens to be in an extremely acute emotional state, as we shall soon see.

Anyways, you'll find that this chaste and pious young thing is the recently-orphaned daughter of Minister X of the Ministry of XY&Z. It doesn't even matter which Ministry Daddy worked for; the Ministries and Names and Countries in these scams are interchangeable. Daddy is always killed in a plane crash (of which there seem to be an awful lot in Africa), and just so you understand that a) yes, they do have airplanes in Africa, and b) yes, they sometimes do, indeed crash, a hyperlink is included to a news story on the crash in question, or at least to a crash.

Being an African Minister for Anything is a job as dangerous as New York City Gypsy Cab driver, 'twould seem. If I were ever appointed (because they don't have real elections in Africa, no matter what Jimmy Carter says, it would have to be an appointment from this week's tin pot dictator) to, say, Minister for Lint Collection in Ivory Coast, I would positively demand that the first condition under which I would take this job is no fucking flying.

Because all African Government ministers die in plane crashes, these days. Not like the good old days when they used to get shot to pieces in front of the Ministry of Juicy Yellow Fruits building, or catch Ebola touring the rain forest, or get the "bad" oyster while overindulging in the midst of their starving citizens. But I digress...

So now this orphaned waif, all alone in the world, always makes an incredible discovery; it's usually "I looked in my father's briefcase and found...", which leads one to ask "must have been some damned good luck that Dad didn't have his briefcase with him when the plane crashed, huh?". Always, serendipity takes a hand in the course of a young orphan's life, and she finds out that she's fabulously wealthy.

Because Daddy provided for her, probably by siphoning off Western Aid meant to feed hungry AIDS victims (you find one every seven feet or so over there), and bring some solace to the victims of Civil War and religious persecution, drought, and whatever fifteen-thousand plagues strike Africa this month because heaven forbid anyone ever takes a fucking vitamin over there, washes properly, or learns what soap is, or the proper rules of basic sanitation -- you'd have to stop fucking long enough to do that -- and depositing his gains in that Cayman Islands of Africa, Burkina Faso.

Upon discovering her new-found bounty, the young girl travels to Burkina Faso to speak personally with the bank manager, who tells her that, unfortunately, her father has left instructions that the money he left for her not be released because of bureaucratic mix ups, improper documentation, a requirement for marriage, etc. I gather that Holocaust victims were given similar, heart-wrenching treatment by Swiss Banks, post-war. Whereupon our damsel-in-distress does what any young girl who can't get access to her multi-million-dollar inheritance does.

Write anonymous e-mails to complete strangers on the internet, seeking their help usually with the hint of a marriage of convenience. Once the intended victim is caught on this hook, the predictable happens: she'll need a secure bank account in the States to transfer the funds to; can she use yours? If so, what is the account number? She'll need a valid address; what is yours? Phone number? A few weeks later: The Bank in Burkina Faso cannot transfer the funds without your Social Secuity number. What is it? And then when she's, amazingly, been granted a visa to come fulfill her pledge to you, she can't afford a plane ticket. What is your credit card number, so that she may purchase one?

Oh, and they all have evil uncles out to kill them, too.


What's really amazing is;

a) there's someone in Africa who has enough time between starving to death, or dying of a preventable disease, to write these things, and

b)Someone always falls for this scam. Someone must, or it would have stopped a very long time ago.

Wrote about it last week, here. This week's is almost the same exact letter (hyperlinks removed for security):

Hello Dearest,
I am writing this mail to you with tears and sorrow from my heart. With due respect trust and humanity, I appeal to you to exercise a little patience and read through my letter I feel quite safe dealing with you in this important business having gone through your remarkable profile, honestly I am writing this email to you with pains, tears and sorrow from my heart, I will really like to have a good relationship with you and I have a special reason why I decided to contact you, I decided to contact you due to the urgency of my situation, My name is Miss. Nathaniel Kipkalya Kones, 24yrs old female and I held from Kenya in West Africa.

My father was the former Kenyan road Minister. He and Assistant Minister of Home Affairs Lorna Laboso had been on board the Cessna 210, which was headed to Kericho and crashed in a remote area called Kajong'a, in western Kenya . The plane crashed on the Tuesday 10th, June, 2008. You can read more about the crash through the below (hyperlink removed for safety).

After the burial of my father, my stepmother and uncle conspired and sold my father's property to an Italian Expert rate which the shared the money among themselves and live nothing for me. One faithful morning, I opened my father's briefcase and found out the documents which he have deposited huge amount of money in one of the banks in Burkina Faso with my name as the next of kin. I travelled to Burkina Faso to withdraw the money for a better life so that I can take care of myself and start a new life, on my arrival, the Bank Director whom I met in person told me that my father's instructions to the bank is that the money would only be release to me when I am married or present a trustee who will help me and invest the money overseas. I am in search of an honest and reliable person who will help me and stand as my trustee so that I will present him to the Bank for transfer of the money to his bank account overseas. I have chosen to contact you after my prayers and I believe that you will not betray my trust.

But rather take me as your own sister or daughter. Though you may wonder why I am so soon revealing myself to you without knowing you, well I will say that my mind convinced ed me that you may be the true person to help me. More so, I will like to disclose much to you if you can help me to relocate to your country because my stepmother has threatened to assonate me. The amount is ($12.8 USD) Million United State Dollars and I have confirmed from the bank in Burkina Faso on my arrival.

You will also help me to place the money in a more profitable business venture in your Country. However, you will help by recommending a nice University in your country so that I can complete my studies. It is my intention to compensate you with 30% of the total money for your services and the balance shall be my capital in your establishment. As soon as I receive your positive response showing your interest I will put things into action immediately. In the light of the above, I shall appreciate an urgent message indicating your ability and willingness to handle this transaction sincerely.

Awaiting your urgent and positive response. Please do keep this only to your self for now until the bank has transferred the fund. I beg you not to disclose it till I come over because I am afraid of my wicked stepmother who has threatened to kill me and have the money alone, I thank God Today that am out from my country (KENYA) but now In (Burkina Faso) where my father deposited these money with my name as the next of Kin. I have the documents for the claims.

Yours Sincerely,

Miss Nathaniel Kipkalya Kones

Monday, December 20, 2010

"Unfair, Ungrateful and Uncouth..."

That's what the New York Times had to say about this blog.

Uncouth? I'll have you know, Ms. New York Times Health blogger, I have more fucking couth in my little finger than Marueen Dowd has had botox, and infinitely more than Thomas Friedman has in his entire ridiculous-looking toupee!

You're not fooling anyone, Tommy!

Actually, I'm rather happy that the Times saw fit to point people to this diseased-dialogue-with-myself; as of this posting, my traffic has increased by a factor of 400%. Unfortunately, this does not translate into Instant Dead Presidents for Yours Truly, but it did result in two (and counting) job offers to write for other blogs. For pay. Apparently, I'm funny.

The only problem is that they want me to work "clean". How fucked up is that? I must be the Lenny Bruce of the least for today (Ha! As if!)

I just find it rather peculiar that the New York Times would characterize me as uncouth, while ignoring some of the most Unfair, Ungrateful and Uncouth people that wander it's formerly-hallowed halls.

You know, Unfair, Ungrateful and Uncouth people like the aforementioned Thomas Friedman, who's never met a terrorist he wouldn't perform fellatio upon, and who is absolutely besotted with the Red Chinese Kleptocracy. Only don't ever expect Tom to leave his palatial mansion for the greener pastures of Western Sichuan province, where he could send his kids to those wonderful Chinese private schools, built of the finest papier mache and situated in only the toniest of notorious earthquake zones, easily the equal of the Suburban Old Money Academies he probably sends his children to now (assuming someone could stand him long enough to make the Beast With Two Backs and then bear his offspring without eating them in infancy).

It so wonderful to hear the Ungrateful American Wealthy Who Didn't Earn Their Fortune By Working For It sing the praises of iron-fisted Communism for the rest of us, but never for themselves.

And when Friedman isn't succeeding in making an ass out of himself, there's the Times Raging-Menstrual-Cycle-In-Residence, Maureen Dowd, who wrote this just a few weeks ago:

"These women — Jan, Meg, Carly, Sharron, Linda, Michele, Queen Bee Sarah and sweet wannabe Christine — have co-opted and ratcheted up the disgust with the status quo that originally buoyed Barack Obama. Whether they’re mistreating the help or belittling the president’s manhood, making snide comments about a rival’s hair or ripping an opponent for spending money on a men’s fashion show, the Mean Girls have replaced Hope with Spite and Cool with Cold. They are the ideal nihilistic cheerleaders for an angry electorate…"

Somehow, MoDo gets paid a shitload of bucks to be Unfair, Ungrateful and well as a bitch... and I don't?

Actually, both of them were named to the Top Ten Hack Journalists in America List by their fellow libtards at Salon. Friedman came in at Number 3, and Dowd at Number 8. She probably would have come in first, but she probably wouldn't put out.

You know your paper is full of talentless hacks if the other talentless hacks at Salon (except for Camille Paglia...I love that woman!) devoted 20% of their Biggest Assholes with a Word-Processor list to the Old Gray Lady. Or maybe it's just that Salon, as MoDo would say (with a girlish giggle that hides the succubus within) "has penis envy".

My complaint...well, it's not really a complaint, just an observation... is that a Times writer would call me"unfair, ungrateful and uncouth" (Completely agree! But that's why it's funny as hell! And it's besides the point!), ignoring the fact that she writes for an alleged newspaper that employs, at huge salaries, two of the most unfair, ungrateful and uncouth alleged-newspaper-columnists in the Solar System.

And as for that other overpaid mental midget employed at the Times, that Paul Krugman fellow? I'll bet that if you put Paul Krugman's brain in a bird, it would fly backwards, and then up it's own ass.

But, in the end, I must thank Ms. Span and the (probably-) drunken editor who made the decision to post my venom this week, and now I'm really pissed off that I took Google AdWords off this thing! I could have made at least $3.00 today!

I harbor no ill-will towards Ms. Span. She seemed like a lovely person on the phone. So, I don't want anyone to think that this is an attack upon her, because it ain't.

I'm actually rather grateful, and the outrage is totally feigned for dramatic effect. I just couldn't resist the opportunity to take a crack as Krugman, Friedman and Maureen-the-Aging-Life-Support-System-for-A-Vagina-That-No-Man-In-His-Right-Mind-Wants-Anymore. Then again, I often do come across on the page as the worst person on Planet Earth; I have to remember that what works for me in communicating with others in person (sarcasm and directness) doesn't always carry as well when it comes to the written word.

At The Movies With Mark...

One of the duties of being an uncle is to take your young charges to places their parents haven't the time or patience to bring them to. I have, for the last 14 years, faithfully and cheerfully, carried out this serious responsibility; I have lost a small fortune in the local Chuck E. Cheese. I have been to more kiddie amusement parks than I can remember tossing my lunch in. Had I stock in McDonald's, Burger King or Wendy's, I'd be a very poor man, for my dividends would consist largely of the return of my own money.

But the one child-appropriate activity I have always enjoyed is taking the wee ones to the local theatres to sample the child-appropriate movies. I have spent literally weeks over the course of my four nephew's lives inside over-air-conditioned or hot-enough-to-grow-orchids movie theatres, stuffing them with enough sugar to ensure that when I return them to their home they have the energy to drive my sister and brother-in-law to drink with their frenetic activity.

It's one of the joys of being an uncle; you get to spoil the child rotten, and then let someone else deal with the aftermath. While you go home.

I have four nephews, the youngest being five now, and just old enough to sit still for a 75-90 minute CGI feature and enjoy it. In the last six weeks or so, we've been to the movies three times to see the latest offerings of this age of movies (mostly-) without actors, and often, a story worth a bucket of warm spit. Here's a quick review of them, just in case you have little ones you want some"us" time with;

1. Megamind: we saw this one first, the very day it hit the theatres. Mark enjoyed it, but then again, anything that allows him unlimited popcorn (the boy could live on the stuff) and soda is already bound to be a big hit. I must admit it did have it's moments, but I have two minor complaints about it;

a. When was Will Ferrell ever funny? If I recall, the biggest moments of his career came when Christopher Walken said "I need more cowbell!", and when when George W. Bush said "strategery". He's made a living off Bush, and with any luck he'll be making another living off when he has to pick nuts and berries off them before he returns to the refrigerator box he'll soon be living in.

For the Saturday Night Alum, his Belushi-like suicide will probably be funnier than anything he ever did in life.

b. Tina Fey is going to be very, very sorry when Sarah Palin finally wears her welcome with the American public out from sheer over-exposure, and that impression is no longer current or relevant. She might actually have to work for a living when that happens.

I find her decidedly unfunny (then again, I laugh like a ten-year-old when someone farts, so really, what do I know?), and after a while, annoying.

2. Tangled: This one was not such a big hit with Mark. First of all, it's kind of a musical, which hearkens back to the days when Disney made movies like Snow White and Cinderella, but which doesn't go all the way and present a memorable score that even adults would be happy to whistle while they worked,and would remember 50 years later.

It's a retelling of the Rapunzel fairy tale, which makes it boring for a five-year old boy, I guess, and while it had it's funny moments (funny in a kindergarten motif that a child would recognize as humor), it had just enough adult jokes and subject matter (not inappropriate, just serious) in it to cause a serious loss of attention span. Mark almost never asks to go home when we're out doing something...unless it's a story about a teen aged girl with really long hair.

I have to say, though, I kind of liked it.

3. Yogi Bear: Where to start? I actually had two of my nephews along for this one this past weekend; the 12 year-old one fell asleep, and Mark was asking to go home 20 minutes before the movie ended; he'd seen the one part that appealed to him (from the previews and television commercials) and then just wanted out.

The problem with Yogi Bear was the cast, I think. While Yogi and Boo-Boo were done rather well(Dan Aykroyd and Justin Timberlake...sheesh, how does that guy keep getting jobs?) the "human" actors, Tom Cavanaugh and Anna Feris, acted as if the whole thing might have been a community theatre production.

Cavanaugh is goofy-looking, and while I used to think Feris was really cute, it's becoming clear that she's maybe the one actress you call to make really bad movies that other actresses won't touch with a ten-foot pole. The rest of the"human" cast is a who's-who of people who probably took this gig because there wasn't a really cool jock itch medication commercial in the offing.

I grew up on Yogi and Boo-Boo, and I was rather disappointed, too.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Don't Ask, Don't Tell Gets Through the Senate...

Via Althouse.

Expect to see this headline very soon:

"Army Medic Court Martialled: Refused to Treat Fallen Comrade He Believed Had AIDS."

Should happen any day now.

It all reminds me of these classic Monty Python Sketches:

The Recruitment Office.

Court Martial/Trivializing the War.

Ooops! I forgot this one!