This is to the anonymous doofus who keeps typing “Leslie Marshall Tits” into a search engine…every day for the last ten days, by the look of it…and somehow, keeps arriving at this blog, only to be disappointed:
a. Give it up, already. I too would like to see Leslie Marshall’s knockers, but alas, she’s yet to accidentally-on-purpose hit me up with a Twitter sext, and I doubt that's ever going to happen.
b. You will not find Leslie Marshall’s hooters here. I have no pictures of them, and I have never even made as much as a passing reference to Leslie Marshall’s Bra Buddies on this blog in the last seven-plus years…until now. If, by some strange chance, I ever did manage to acquire a photograph of Leslie's cans, you'll be the first to know (even before Brietbart), and then you can Grease the Pelican all you want to it, promise.
c. You would think that after being directed here at least 10 times, and upon arrival, finding absolutely no evidence of Leslie Marshall’s Rib Balloons, you might give up this Quixotic quest of yours and find something more worthwhile to do with your time…like maybe take up a search for Maureen Dowd’s snatch(apparently no one else has found that in about 25 years or so, to judge from her demeanor).
d. By the way, I happen to know that you’re the same dude who’s been searching here for ‘S.E. Cupp in a bikini”. Dude, I admire your taste in ladies, but really, how many times does it take until the message gets through? You’re not going to find what you’re looking for here.
e. Get some fucking help, you degenerate. One might get the idea that you're masturbating to the entire FoxNews female contributor line up.
Oh, and while we're on the topic of degenerates; it seems my peeps in the Middle East are back again in force, because the top search terms that led you to this blog this past month are “Pakistani Ass Sex”, and our perennial favorites 'Donkey Sexe’ or 'Donkeye Rape' (those are not typos: it’s how our masturbating bestiality aficionados in the Middle East manage to spoof the Islamic internet filters. And these people built nuclear weapons?).
Now, I’ve remarked on this phenomenon before, but what’s really disturbing is that it has persisted for over a year now. There’s an awful lot of horny Pakis out there, huh? What’s the matter bub? I know; it gets bitterly cold and lonely in those caves up in the Northwest Territories, or maybe it’s become unbearably hot and sticky in your cell at Gitmo, and you’re just up for a shag – but not the usual kind, because your five wives haven’t, as Howard Stern used to say “Shaved That Thang” since Allah was in knee socks – and maybe release has become problematic without all those turn-on barnyard sounds, or maybe you and the boys in Sana’a have simply worn out the local goats, but you won’t find donkey rape videos here, either.
If there’s anything more disgusting than the thought of Muslims, then its Muslims looking to rub one out over one of those shows you see in Tijuana on Spring Break. Note to Rep. Peter King: next time you hold hearings on the causes of terrorism and ‘radicalization’, you might want to line up a panel of psychiatrists to explain the Muslim penchant for sick sexual fetishes that involve animals.
You people are sick, you know that?
Showing posts with label Addiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Addiction. Show all posts
Monday, June 13, 2011
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
The Sorry Tale of Anthony Weiner…
The most aptly-named man in Washington, D.C. finally admitted to what the even the dumbest amongst us already knew, yesterday, and made a crying spectacle of himself on national television. Anthony Weiner did, indeed, shoot little beefcake photos of himself all over the internet to various women (he says six, but that’s probably no closer to the truth than his insistence that he was ‘hacked’ by right-wing hit squads was). He also admits to some telephonic heavy breathing, which is a vision that has firmly burnt itself into my mind's eye, much to my distress.
The entire apology/self-crucifixion production became surreal when Andrew Breitbart , the man accused of being Weiner’s ersatz hacker just happened to be in the neighborhood, and at the behest of the drooling press took over the event, demanding an apology while informing us that he has even more pictures of Weiner in even more compromising positions. This suggestion makes me fervently hope that my infected mind’s eye will do me a great favor and go blind before those are ever released.
There’s much talk amongst the flapping rectum class on television about Weiner’s ‘political future’. Only in America, and most annoyingly, only in New York, could a Congressman so obviously mislead the public, dissemble so unbelievably brazenly about the facts of his misdeeds, make a public penance in which he has to follow the man who’s been wrongly accused of wronging him, still consider it possible to have a career. Only in New York could such a man, who has a Congressional Ethics hearing or two in his future, probably an irate wife who can’t wait to rape him in the divorce trial (if she doesn’t divorce him after this, even if there’s no actual sex involved, she’s a retard), be considered worthy of having a Political Future.
Sadly, Congressdouche Weiner stands a better than even-money chance of being re-elected as things are now, barring some new revelation that one of his phone/e-mail playmates was underage, or a foreign spy. If it should turn out that one of Weiner’s phone friends was another man, the people of his district – where IQ is measured by that quaint expression ‘room temperature’; after all, they’ve already voted for the most insufferable asshole I’ve ever seen in my entire life six times, so they must be the cream of the crop, stupid-wise – even that wouldn’t stop them from voting for Congressman Chronic Online Masturbator.
Some would see it as an opportunity to vote for the first apparently bi-sexual member of Congress (so far as we know). That’s how liberal they are; voting for Weiner is a badge of courage.
Besides, here in New York we’ve come to expect that out elected officials are criminals, serial adulterers, or sexual deviants, vis-à-vis Rudy Giuliani, Eliot Spitzer, David Paterson, Eric Massa, Chris Lee, and now Anthony Weiner.
Hell, Charlie Rangel never met a tax he didn't write the regs for that he wouldn’t happily dodge, and he’s still in office.
I watched this sorry spectacle yesterday, and wanted to puke. The first vomit-inducing portion was the part where Weiner said “I will not resign”, which I thought was absolutely outrageous. Just a few weeks ago, a New York Republican (Chris Lee) resigned from office after being caught doing the same exact thing that Weiner has done, and there was no week-and-a-half of lying involved, there were no false accusations against a journalist, there wasn’t a ten day ordeal of press conferences where we’re arguing over the meaning of ‘certitude’, and the man in the crosshairs flounders in lawyerly language like Shelley Winters floundered in the flooded ballroom of the Poseidon Adventure.
The second thing that made me want to expel my lunch at terminal velocity was the use of the word ‘apology’. Weiner said ‘apologize’ or ‘I apologize’ what seemed to me to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 times. He apologized to his wife, his family, his staff, his ’constituents’ (i.e. the brain-dead legion that would have pulled the lever for him so as to keep the hot-and-cold running food stamps and Section-8 housing flowing, unless he’d admitted to child rape or tossing puppies into a wood chipper), Andrew Breitbart, but at no time did it ever appear to me to be sincere. Perhaps that’s because I have an instinctual dislike for Weiner that rivals the hatred between cats and dogs, or maybe it’s a by-product from having to listen to him lie out of both sides of his mouth, and his rectum, simultaneously, on ever subject under the Sun for a decade-plus.
Weiner claims to take ‘responsibility’ – another word he used profusely and unbelievably -- for what he’s done, but he truly hasn’t. Had Weiner a responsible bone(r) in his body, he would have resigned yesterday. That’s what responsible, truly sorry people do. Then again, he’s a democrat, so there you go; democrats are neither responsible, nor hardly ever sorry about anything.
Anthony Weiner didn’t ‘apologize’ profusely yesterday because he’s genuinely sorry. He’s apologizing and paying lip-service to accepting responsibility because he’s been caught. He’s apologizing because he got caught in such a stupid way, doing such a stupid thing. He’s apologizing because it’s part of a ’damage control’ operation, and the public relations experts told him that it’s time to come clean and at least appear to be contrite (note, however, that Weiner only ‘comes clean’ after irrefutable evidence is suggested of his guilt. Without it, he would have continued this charade for years to come). That series of apologies you saw yesterday was not of a penitent man, baring his soul to the world, begging forgiveness.
That was a man who’s come home drunk at three in the morning, smelling of perfume, lipstick smeared on his collar, and the used condom still stuck in his zipper, begging his wife to unlock the door, pleading ‘Honey, can't we talk this over?’.
Men, as a rule, do things because they can, or because they want to. Scale Everest, split atoms, fly to the Moon, or fuck the secretary with the big tits, and many of them never actually stop to consider the implications or consequences of their actions, especially where the sex drive and ego are concerned. We are biologically hard-wired to take risks, to ignore doubts and fears, and screw everything that moves. Nature made us this way, and it’s only a very smart or dedicated man who is able to control his baser urges.
When you look like Anthony Weiner, the very poster child for birth control, and have the arrogance that comes with power and the fawning adulation of the press – perhaps the laziest and dumbest class of people yet discovered -- that intelligence and dedication quickly flies right out the window. Add the possibility of sex to ego and poor impulse control, and you’re headed for disaster. Facilitate the roller-coaster-to-Hell with a medium that provides (some think) a measure of anonymity and distance, and you’re talking a sure-fire atomic explosion of stupidity.
Weiner’s first mistake was to get full of himself. His second mistake was to fail to engage his critical thinking skills (being a liberal democrat, we may question as to whether he possesses any). His third mistake was to choose mediums where the possibility of getting caught was somewhat remote (although, as we all know, nothing is private in Cyberspace, and even phone bills can be quite instructive). His fourth mistake was to make a habit of it. The final mistake was to believe that he could scrub the record clean, after the fact, brazenly lie about the entire…ahem…affair…and then, after the dust settles, continue life much as he did before, maybe taking a few extra precautions but not much more.
I can promise you: even after being put in a delicate, to say the least, position by the initial discovery of Weiner’s underpants pictures, Weiner would have gone right back to Greasing the Pelican and sending dick pictures online just as soon as decently possible. It’s a compulsion; a mere routine, it all becomes a part of Life, just like the morning commute, the tuna-salad-on-whole-wheat for lunch everyday, the three-martinis after work, the evening newscast, and brushing your teeth before bed.
No, Anthony Weiner was never sorry enough to realize just what he was doing and then stop doing it; he’s only sorry that we found out what he does with his Blackberry, and the thought that the public might believe he’s Yankin’ his Crank While Texting finally got that long-forgotten-and-suppressed shame reflex to kick in.
So, what’s next for Congresscritter Weiner? Well, to judge from past sex scandals (this may be the first where no actual sex, only the suggestion of it, took place. See how the Internet and social networking are changing our lives? When a politician says “I did not have sex with that woman…” and a computer is involved, you can actually half-way believe him! Weiner might give a whole new meaning to the term ‘Palm Pilot’.), the step after admission is usually, and oh-so-painfully-predictably rehab.
Congressman Weiner may be the first famous (or is it now infamous?) Internet Sex Addict. When Weiner makes that announcement -- I'm a sex addict -- his wife will be standing right next to him (somehow, the wives must always be seen as standing by their man, even when their man is a complete douchebag. Although her absence yesterday was telling); there will be the usual rigmarole about personal reflection, ‘my Faith in God’, and ‘coming to terms with the realization that I have a problem’, but dickhead still won’t resign, naturally.
There is a Congressional Ethics Committee investigation coming. Considering that democrats usually don’t find anything wrong with deviant behavior by one of their members, it’s merely a formality. It’s a kabuki play intended to lull the public into the false belief that, indeed, Congress can be trusted to police itself, which is complete and utter bullshit given the history of Congressional Ethics Investigations of the last 40 years. Weiner will receive but a light tap upon both wrists and told to sin no more. If they’re smart, they’ll take his Blackberry and Smartphone away, and cancel his subscription to AOL (people still have those?).
Despite all the public mea culpa, despite the coming-soon orgy of putting all his psychoses on public display, despite all the talk about ‘responsibility’, deep down in what passes for his black soul Anthony Weiner still thinks he’s done nothing wrong. He still believes he’s a victim…of something…but not of hubris or stupidity. Somewhere in his tiny little mind, he still feels justified in what he has done, and can’t believe people would make such a big deal out of such a little thing (I mean the scandal, not his Little Thing, per se). He’s wrong.
We’re the victims here. A sitting Congresscritter making a casual mistake with his send options on Twitter has just told everyone in the Solar System that he’s dumber than dogshit, and ripe for blackmail. He’s just told the American public that far from his usual insistence that he’s ‘fighting for the common folk’ he’s instead spending a great deal of time taking pictures of himself in the buff, e-mailing them hither-and-yon, hitting up women half his age. His subsequent actions – trying to delete the incriminating photographs, inventing a weak conspiracy theory cover story out of whole cloth, accusing an innocent man of potential criminality, stonewalling, misleading the public and press, lying to his wife, and the Staff or other members of Congress who may have defended him – show the character, or rather, lack thereof, of the man. If he’s capable of lying about this, what else has Anthony Weiner lied about? If he’s capable of going to these extreme lengths to avoid having the truth come out, what does that say about the benefits or veracity of anything he’s ever voted on?
And finally, his Twitter Bunnies are going to be exposed to public scrutiny. Two already have. I wonder if either will make an attempt to find Monica Lewinski and ask her how her career and life have gone after she was identified as the paramour of a once-powerful man. Everywhere she goes, men probably ask her to do her famous ‘Cigar Trick’, and automatically assume she’s up for a little ‘Executive Action’ at a moment’s notice. Monica had at least one saving grace in her favor: the Internet was in its infancy, and public memory is often short. For these women, once they’re publicly identified, Weiner’s Weiner will be permanently stapled to every job application they ever fill in.
They might as well have actually done the deed for real, because for all intents and purposes Anthony Weiner has shackled each with a permanent, electronic, Pearl Necklace.
And the Happiest Man in the World Today is Arnold Schwarzenegger, because Anthony Weiner just took the spotlight off of him, at least for the foreseeable future.
The entire apology/self-crucifixion production became surreal when Andrew Breitbart , the man accused of being Weiner’s ersatz hacker just happened to be in the neighborhood, and at the behest of the drooling press took over the event, demanding an apology while informing us that he has even more pictures of Weiner in even more compromising positions. This suggestion makes me fervently hope that my infected mind’s eye will do me a great favor and go blind before those are ever released.
There’s much talk amongst the flapping rectum class on television about Weiner’s ‘political future’. Only in America, and most annoyingly, only in New York, could a Congressman so obviously mislead the public, dissemble so unbelievably brazenly about the facts of his misdeeds, make a public penance in which he has to follow the man who’s been wrongly accused of wronging him, still consider it possible to have a career. Only in New York could such a man, who has a Congressional Ethics hearing or two in his future, probably an irate wife who can’t wait to rape him in the divorce trial (if she doesn’t divorce him after this, even if there’s no actual sex involved, she’s a retard), be considered worthy of having a Political Future.
Sadly, Congressdouche Weiner stands a better than even-money chance of being re-elected as things are now, barring some new revelation that one of his phone/e-mail playmates was underage, or a foreign spy. If it should turn out that one of Weiner’s phone friends was another man, the people of his district – where IQ is measured by that quaint expression ‘room temperature’; after all, they’ve already voted for the most insufferable asshole I’ve ever seen in my entire life six times, so they must be the cream of the crop, stupid-wise – even that wouldn’t stop them from voting for Congressman Chronic Online Masturbator.
Some would see it as an opportunity to vote for the first apparently bi-sexual member of Congress (so far as we know). That’s how liberal they are; voting for Weiner is a badge of courage.
Besides, here in New York we’ve come to expect that out elected officials are criminals, serial adulterers, or sexual deviants, vis-à-vis Rudy Giuliani, Eliot Spitzer, David Paterson, Eric Massa, Chris Lee, and now Anthony Weiner.
Hell, Charlie Rangel never met a tax he didn't write the regs for that he wouldn’t happily dodge, and he’s still in office.
I watched this sorry spectacle yesterday, and wanted to puke. The first vomit-inducing portion was the part where Weiner said “I will not resign”, which I thought was absolutely outrageous. Just a few weeks ago, a New York Republican (Chris Lee) resigned from office after being caught doing the same exact thing that Weiner has done, and there was no week-and-a-half of lying involved, there were no false accusations against a journalist, there wasn’t a ten day ordeal of press conferences where we’re arguing over the meaning of ‘certitude’, and the man in the crosshairs flounders in lawyerly language like Shelley Winters floundered in the flooded ballroom of the Poseidon Adventure.
The second thing that made me want to expel my lunch at terminal velocity was the use of the word ‘apology’. Weiner said ‘apologize’ or ‘I apologize’ what seemed to me to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 times. He apologized to his wife, his family, his staff, his ’constituents’ (i.e. the brain-dead legion that would have pulled the lever for him so as to keep the hot-and-cold running food stamps and Section-8 housing flowing, unless he’d admitted to child rape or tossing puppies into a wood chipper), Andrew Breitbart, but at no time did it ever appear to me to be sincere. Perhaps that’s because I have an instinctual dislike for Weiner that rivals the hatred between cats and dogs, or maybe it’s a by-product from having to listen to him lie out of both sides of his mouth, and his rectum, simultaneously, on ever subject under the Sun for a decade-plus.
Weiner claims to take ‘responsibility’ – another word he used profusely and unbelievably -- for what he’s done, but he truly hasn’t. Had Weiner a responsible bone(r) in his body, he would have resigned yesterday. That’s what responsible, truly sorry people do. Then again, he’s a democrat, so there you go; democrats are neither responsible, nor hardly ever sorry about anything.
Anthony Weiner didn’t ‘apologize’ profusely yesterday because he’s genuinely sorry. He’s apologizing and paying lip-service to accepting responsibility because he’s been caught. He’s apologizing because he got caught in such a stupid way, doing such a stupid thing. He’s apologizing because it’s part of a ’damage control’ operation, and the public relations experts told him that it’s time to come clean and at least appear to be contrite (note, however, that Weiner only ‘comes clean’ after irrefutable evidence is suggested of his guilt. Without it, he would have continued this charade for years to come). That series of apologies you saw yesterday was not of a penitent man, baring his soul to the world, begging forgiveness.
That was a man who’s come home drunk at three in the morning, smelling of perfume, lipstick smeared on his collar, and the used condom still stuck in his zipper, begging his wife to unlock the door, pleading ‘Honey, can't we talk this over?’.
Men, as a rule, do things because they can, or because they want to. Scale Everest, split atoms, fly to the Moon, or fuck the secretary with the big tits, and many of them never actually stop to consider the implications or consequences of their actions, especially where the sex drive and ego are concerned. We are biologically hard-wired to take risks, to ignore doubts and fears, and screw everything that moves. Nature made us this way, and it’s only a very smart or dedicated man who is able to control his baser urges.
When you look like Anthony Weiner, the very poster child for birth control, and have the arrogance that comes with power and the fawning adulation of the press – perhaps the laziest and dumbest class of people yet discovered -- that intelligence and dedication quickly flies right out the window. Add the possibility of sex to ego and poor impulse control, and you’re headed for disaster. Facilitate the roller-coaster-to-Hell with a medium that provides (some think) a measure of anonymity and distance, and you’re talking a sure-fire atomic explosion of stupidity.
Weiner’s first mistake was to get full of himself. His second mistake was to fail to engage his critical thinking skills (being a liberal democrat, we may question as to whether he possesses any). His third mistake was to choose mediums where the possibility of getting caught was somewhat remote (although, as we all know, nothing is private in Cyberspace, and even phone bills can be quite instructive). His fourth mistake was to make a habit of it. The final mistake was to believe that he could scrub the record clean, after the fact, brazenly lie about the entire…ahem…affair…and then, after the dust settles, continue life much as he did before, maybe taking a few extra precautions but not much more.
I can promise you: even after being put in a delicate, to say the least, position by the initial discovery of Weiner’s underpants pictures, Weiner would have gone right back to Greasing the Pelican and sending dick pictures online just as soon as decently possible. It’s a compulsion; a mere routine, it all becomes a part of Life, just like the morning commute, the tuna-salad-on-whole-wheat for lunch everyday, the three-martinis after work, the evening newscast, and brushing your teeth before bed.
No, Anthony Weiner was never sorry enough to realize just what he was doing and then stop doing it; he’s only sorry that we found out what he does with his Blackberry, and the thought that the public might believe he’s Yankin’ his Crank While Texting finally got that long-forgotten-and-suppressed shame reflex to kick in.
So, what’s next for Congresscritter Weiner? Well, to judge from past sex scandals (this may be the first where no actual sex, only the suggestion of it, took place. See how the Internet and social networking are changing our lives? When a politician says “I did not have sex with that woman…” and a computer is involved, you can actually half-way believe him! Weiner might give a whole new meaning to the term ‘Palm Pilot’.), the step after admission is usually, and oh-so-painfully-predictably rehab.
Congressman Weiner may be the first famous (or is it now infamous?) Internet Sex Addict. When Weiner makes that announcement -- I'm a sex addict -- his wife will be standing right next to him (somehow, the wives must always be seen as standing by their man, even when their man is a complete douchebag. Although her absence yesterday was telling); there will be the usual rigmarole about personal reflection, ‘my Faith in God’, and ‘coming to terms with the realization that I have a problem’, but dickhead still won’t resign, naturally.
There is a Congressional Ethics Committee investigation coming. Considering that democrats usually don’t find anything wrong with deviant behavior by one of their members, it’s merely a formality. It’s a kabuki play intended to lull the public into the false belief that, indeed, Congress can be trusted to police itself, which is complete and utter bullshit given the history of Congressional Ethics Investigations of the last 40 years. Weiner will receive but a light tap upon both wrists and told to sin no more. If they’re smart, they’ll take his Blackberry and Smartphone away, and cancel his subscription to AOL (people still have those?).
Despite all the public mea culpa, despite the coming-soon orgy of putting all his psychoses on public display, despite all the talk about ‘responsibility’, deep down in what passes for his black soul Anthony Weiner still thinks he’s done nothing wrong. He still believes he’s a victim…of something…but not of hubris or stupidity. Somewhere in his tiny little mind, he still feels justified in what he has done, and can’t believe people would make such a big deal out of such a little thing (I mean the scandal, not his Little Thing, per se). He’s wrong.
We’re the victims here. A sitting Congresscritter making a casual mistake with his send options on Twitter has just told everyone in the Solar System that he’s dumber than dogshit, and ripe for blackmail. He’s just told the American public that far from his usual insistence that he’s ‘fighting for the common folk’ he’s instead spending a great deal of time taking pictures of himself in the buff, e-mailing them hither-and-yon, hitting up women half his age. His subsequent actions – trying to delete the incriminating photographs, inventing a weak conspiracy theory cover story out of whole cloth, accusing an innocent man of potential criminality, stonewalling, misleading the public and press, lying to his wife, and the Staff or other members of Congress who may have defended him – show the character, or rather, lack thereof, of the man. If he’s capable of lying about this, what else has Anthony Weiner lied about? If he’s capable of going to these extreme lengths to avoid having the truth come out, what does that say about the benefits or veracity of anything he’s ever voted on?
And finally, his Twitter Bunnies are going to be exposed to public scrutiny. Two already have. I wonder if either will make an attempt to find Monica Lewinski and ask her how her career and life have gone after she was identified as the paramour of a once-powerful man. Everywhere she goes, men probably ask her to do her famous ‘Cigar Trick’, and automatically assume she’s up for a little ‘Executive Action’ at a moment’s notice. Monica had at least one saving grace in her favor: the Internet was in its infancy, and public memory is often short. For these women, once they’re publicly identified, Weiner’s Weiner will be permanently stapled to every job application they ever fill in.
They might as well have actually done the deed for real, because for all intents and purposes Anthony Weiner has shackled each with a permanent, electronic, Pearl Necklace.
And the Happiest Man in the World Today is Arnold Schwarzenegger, because Anthony Weiner just took the spotlight off of him, at least for the foreseeable future.
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
About Charlie Sheen...
Sometimes, when you take a certain position on a subject you have to expect that there will occasionally arise circumstances which either blow your stance to smithereens, or which thrusts you into the curious conundrum of having to split rhetorical hairs in order to justify your viewpoint. For example, I have, on this page, tried to make distinctions between, say, Mohammed Atta and Jared Lee Loughner (one the 9/11 'leader; and the other the Arizona lunatic who shot Rep. Giffords this past January). Both have committed murder, and the immediatly-obvious differences between the two are the scale of their heinous crimes and the motivations behind them.
Atta was a religious fanatic, pumped up on the Islamic propaganda that blames Western Culture for the plight of hapless Arabs (instead of, say, the totalitarian mindset, seventy generations of inbreeding, the sheep-shagging, and a bad mixture of politics and religion), and Loughner was a known nutjob who could find no help in a country with the best healthcare system ever known to mortal men.
I make no excuses for the actions of either. There are no excuses for either, however, I can (and often do) make the following, important distinction; Atta was a trained killer -- a volunteer -- who went into his kamikaze mission convinced of the righteousness of his cause, and the correctness of his method, while Loughner is probably a schizophrenic; before Loughner went off and killed six people and wounded a dozen more, he was simply a very sick man that the "System" (the mental health services, the courts, the Police) -- not to mention his own family -- utterly failed. Had Jared Loughner gotten the same attention as Charlie Sheen at some point in his miserable life, six people might still be alive, and Gabby Giffords would have one less hole in her head.
If Mohammed Atta had found at least one blond with no self-esteem, taste, or gag reflex, there would probably still be two buildings sitting over the 19-acre hole in Lower Manhattan.
People who read this blog regularly ask me how it is that I can make excuses or distinctions for murderers, to which I reply: I most certainly don't, in the sense that I don't try to explain away the actual crimes that they commit. What I have done is simply to state the following truths about people like Jared Loughner, the Discovery Channel gunman, the guy who flew his Cessna into the IRS building in Texas, et. al.
These people have serious medical problems. Their issues are often well-known to the people around them, who never seem to actually do anything to help these guys before they go off, but then in the aftermath will tell any douchebag with a microphone that they knew he was a danger to others, and they were frightened by the prospect of his going ballistic, but never seem to have cared enough to actually take any meaningful actions which would have saved someone's life. But when you state opinions your detractors are always looking to turn whatever you say or write upside down in order to advance their agendas...or, maybe they're really just very poor readers who just don't (want to) understand what I've written...and so the next time someone goes off they want to know what you have to say about THAT, Mr. Defender of the Mentally Unstable?
And so we come to the curious case of Charlie Sheen.
I was hoping to avoid this topic for the simple fact that while Sheen obviously has issues (you have to be a democrat or an Irish Setter to miss them), there is a fine distinction to be made between him and the Jared Lee's and "Crazy Pat" Sherrill's (the Original Post Office Shooter) of this world; Sheen's problems are, probably, mostly self-inflicted wounds. The schizos and the psychotics are born that way and they can't help themselves. People who do enormous amounts of cocaine, bang porn actresses (and really, who in their right mind would? They've only been liberally painted, inside and out, by the jizz of a thousand men. The thought is so disgusting that I'd rather bang Hillary -- twice, with my eyes open, too -- than take a swing at any of those whores), and spend three-day weekends on a drug-and booze-fueled bender that either ends in an exploded ticker, or AIDS, or a combination of both.
Do not equate the Caligula-like excesses of Charlie Sheen with the plight of the seriously mentally ill. While there may be some indications of (minor) mental illness present in Sheen (and his Comrade in Porn-Star Excess, Tiger Woods), the real issues for him appear to revolve around poor impulse control and extreme narcissism. That is NOT the same as some dude born with a poorly-wired brain or a genetic defect that will eventually see him talking to his neighbor's Wiemeraner and coming to the conclusion that the best way to bag Jodie Foster is to shoot at the President of the United States.
Charlie Sheen isn't so much mentally ill as he is someone who's probably never been told "NO". He's living proof that certain personality traits -- which of themselves usually offer no direct threat to anyone -- combined with the ability to actually FINANCE the worst excesses you might imagine, can combine to create a monster. Charlie Sheen would probably be 'cured' if someone just took his fucking credit cards away, denied him access to his bank account for a while, and placed him in an environment where he could not exercise his piss-poor judgement. Given time, the thrills of cocaine and threesomes with extremely-well-used concubines would probably disappear. With the benefit of hindsight and sobriety, Sheen would eventually come around to the idea -- on his own -- that he's been nothing short of a complete ass.
I've seen the interviews: That man is still high, fucking wired, and I don't care how many 'drug tests' he says he's passed in recent weeks. People who are clean and sober don't talk at supersonic speed, don't express ideas that would strike the average person as incredibly bizarre, and aren't convinced that they're Superman and ready to do it all over again -- if only you'll leave him alone. The clean-and-sober also don't cry about being wanting to be left alone while simultaneously begging every swinging dick with a video camera to come and interview them. Charlie Sheen is simply a drug addict with a rather high opinion of himself and more money than most small nations available to boundlessly finance his stupidity; he's not on the same plane as someone who finally gives in to The Voices and shoots up their HomeEc class.
Now, I can't claim to have special knowledge of Charlie, personally. I just recognize the symptoms of his particular collection of issues. The first of these is that he probably has no self-esteem whatsoever, and the string of high-priced-courtesans-with-even-less-self-esteem are merely the first clue. He spends the majority of his time in these recent interviews beating his own chest, posturing, extolling his supposed virtues, bragging. He's proud of what he's 'accomplished' , i.e. ingesting enough cocaine to kill a woolly mammoth and surviving, and making a public spectacle of himself. He truly isn't, though; it's all bravado. Somewhere in his head is the thought "I'm worthless" and the coke-drenched soirees are both escape and deathwish being played out simultaneously. I know this because I've had the same relationship with Rye Whiskey, Tequila and a certain recreational plant in my own life. I look at Charlie and shake my head; been there, done that. The only difference is that I never had the sort of bank account one normally equates with an Oil Sheik, or I might have died a long time ago.
He really wants to destroy himself, on some level, I think, but just doesn't have the courage to put a gun to his head, step out in front of a moving freight train, or jump off a bridge. He's either hoping the booze, drugs and chicks will erase the feeling of helplessness and worthlessness, or, if he's really lucky, take him out without him having to take any action whatsoever. Mostly, it's a front designed to get attention and sympathy. More than likely, he's hoping to 'kill' this version of Charlie Sheen, thinking there's another Charlie beneath it all, misunderstood, unheeded, just itching to bust loose...if only we'll take the time, and give him enough attention, to drag it out. It's a game; Charlie wants us to peel back all his complex layers, all the while putting up a show of resistance. This behavior is probably subconsciously designed to lead him to some tragic event which serves as the "time to grow the fuck up moment" which releases the 'real' Charlie.
Sheen's underlying mental (so-called) 'illnesses' are treatable, but never really 'curable'. Most of these problems are solved with simple behavior modification. Feeling sorry for one's self, narcissism, poor impulse control, craving attention (even negative attention) stupidity and an unerring ability to consistently make the wrong decisions are simple character flaws -- not illnesses. The Psychiatric Establishment has a vested interest in classifying such things as diseases because otherwise it would go bankrupt, and have no reason to exist. It's one thing to 'cure' you of your fingernail biting, addiction to smoking, or poor social graces -- those are the easy ones that don't even involve any actual medicine be practiced at all -- it's an altogether different thing to 'cure' someone who hallucinates without drugs, or who is convinced the Pope is sending him coded messages through his fillings that Piers Morgan is the Anti-Christ. There is no (permanent) medical regime for that, no matter how much the Pshrinks would like you to believe the contrary.
Modern Mental Medicine understands the underlying factors inherent in bad behavior and how to change them; it knows comparatively jack-shit about the inner-workings of a healthy human brain -- let alone one that is laboring under the weight of schizophrenia or psychosis.
But then again, Sigmund Freud was a cocaine addict, too. And he's their God. But, I digress...
You can get over your anxiety disorder or drunkenness by modifying your behavior or recognizing when you're about to do something stupid and taking positive action, but those are not options when you're truly sick. When you're really ill, the only options psychiatric medicine can offer you is either some 'wonder pill' that even the experts will admit to you that they can't explain how, or why, it works, brain surgery, or long-term commitment to a facility, and even all of those options are largely a hit-or-miss affair. Sheen doesn't have a mental illness; he's just a a great, big, full-of-himself douchebag.
So, for all of you jerkoffs filling my mailbox with "Why don't you defend Charlie Sheen, the Obvious Mental Patient, with the same fervor and feeling with which you defended the man who tried to assassinate Gabby Giffords" screeds, I can only reiterate:
The two cases are not comparable. Jared Loughner was/is a deranged man, suffering from a severe mental defect that cannot be cured by medical science, and who was made a pariah by a society that is quite happy to go through life expecting that 'someone' will 'do something' about him, and so spare them the necessity -- and personal inconvenience -- of having to take some responsibility for a sick son, brother, or friend, only to stand around shaking their heads in mock disbelief that the man they all knew was a ticking time-bomb would go berserk and start shooting up a supermarket parking lot.
Charlie Sheen, on the other hand, is just a douchebag with a large bank account, no self-discipline, and a huge ego that combined to become a perfect storm of stupid excess. The reason he gets attention before he does something that gets someone killed is because he's a celebrity, and somehow, in the Great Cosmic Code of Justice that I just don't understand, that makes him someone worth saving, and someone worthy of more sympathy than a would-be political assassin, right?
Fuck no! If all things were truly equal, Jared Loughner would have gotten the same attention Sheen has gotten -- before he killed and maimed -- without having to have been rich and famous. Celebrity Doctors would be rushing to treat Loughner's particular brand of crazy with the same breathless exuberance with which they try to explain away Sheen's on the Boob Tube. Loughner would have gotten the expensive course of 'treatment' (read; internment) that Sheen will no doubt retreat to when he finally tires of playing that 'leave-me-alone-no-come-bask-in-my-badass-self-routine' he's playing at now. Sheen, like Mohammed Atta, knows exactly what he's doing -- he's voluntered, in a sense, too.
There is no excuse for their actions -- whether it's murder or making a public spectacle of yourself -- but Loughner has this mitigating factor in his favor; he's truly sick in a way that medical science cannot comprehend, or effectively treat for very long. His course of 'rehab' now consists of an orange jumpsuit and ends with a lethal injection . Charlie Sheen is just plain sickening, and most --if not all --of his' illnesses' are probably just the result of his own stupidity, and his life will probably be saved.
Atta was a religious fanatic, pumped up on the Islamic propaganda that blames Western Culture for the plight of hapless Arabs (instead of, say, the totalitarian mindset, seventy generations of inbreeding, the sheep-shagging, and a bad mixture of politics and religion), and Loughner was a known nutjob who could find no help in a country with the best healthcare system ever known to mortal men.
I make no excuses for the actions of either. There are no excuses for either, however, I can (and often do) make the following, important distinction; Atta was a trained killer -- a volunteer -- who went into his kamikaze mission convinced of the righteousness of his cause, and the correctness of his method, while Loughner is probably a schizophrenic; before Loughner went off and killed six people and wounded a dozen more, he was simply a very sick man that the "System" (the mental health services, the courts, the Police) -- not to mention his own family -- utterly failed. Had Jared Loughner gotten the same attention as Charlie Sheen at some point in his miserable life, six people might still be alive, and Gabby Giffords would have one less hole in her head.
If Mohammed Atta had found at least one blond with no self-esteem, taste, or gag reflex, there would probably still be two buildings sitting over the 19-acre hole in Lower Manhattan.
People who read this blog regularly ask me how it is that I can make excuses or distinctions for murderers, to which I reply: I most certainly don't, in the sense that I don't try to explain away the actual crimes that they commit. What I have done is simply to state the following truths about people like Jared Loughner, the Discovery Channel gunman, the guy who flew his Cessna into the IRS building in Texas, et. al.
These people have serious medical problems. Their issues are often well-known to the people around them, who never seem to actually do anything to help these guys before they go off, but then in the aftermath will tell any douchebag with a microphone that they knew he was a danger to others, and they were frightened by the prospect of his going ballistic, but never seem to have cared enough to actually take any meaningful actions which would have saved someone's life. But when you state opinions your detractors are always looking to turn whatever you say or write upside down in order to advance their agendas...or, maybe they're really just very poor readers who just don't (want to) understand what I've written...and so the next time someone goes off they want to know what you have to say about THAT, Mr. Defender of the Mentally Unstable?
And so we come to the curious case of Charlie Sheen.
I was hoping to avoid this topic for the simple fact that while Sheen obviously has issues (you have to be a democrat or an Irish Setter to miss them), there is a fine distinction to be made between him and the Jared Lee's and "Crazy Pat" Sherrill's (the Original Post Office Shooter) of this world; Sheen's problems are, probably, mostly self-inflicted wounds. The schizos and the psychotics are born that way and they can't help themselves. People who do enormous amounts of cocaine, bang porn actresses (and really, who in their right mind would? They've only been liberally painted, inside and out, by the jizz of a thousand men. The thought is so disgusting that I'd rather bang Hillary -- twice, with my eyes open, too -- than take a swing at any of those whores), and spend three-day weekends on a drug-and booze-fueled bender that either ends in an exploded ticker, or AIDS, or a combination of both.
Do not equate the Caligula-like excesses of Charlie Sheen with the plight of the seriously mentally ill. While there may be some indications of (minor) mental illness present in Sheen (and his Comrade in Porn-Star Excess, Tiger Woods), the real issues for him appear to revolve around poor impulse control and extreme narcissism. That is NOT the same as some dude born with a poorly-wired brain or a genetic defect that will eventually see him talking to his neighbor's Wiemeraner and coming to the conclusion that the best way to bag Jodie Foster is to shoot at the President of the United States.
Charlie Sheen isn't so much mentally ill as he is someone who's probably never been told "NO". He's living proof that certain personality traits -- which of themselves usually offer no direct threat to anyone -- combined with the ability to actually FINANCE the worst excesses you might imagine, can combine to create a monster. Charlie Sheen would probably be 'cured' if someone just took his fucking credit cards away, denied him access to his bank account for a while, and placed him in an environment where he could not exercise his piss-poor judgement. Given time, the thrills of cocaine and threesomes with extremely-well-used concubines would probably disappear. With the benefit of hindsight and sobriety, Sheen would eventually come around to the idea -- on his own -- that he's been nothing short of a complete ass.
I've seen the interviews: That man is still high, fucking wired, and I don't care how many 'drug tests' he says he's passed in recent weeks. People who are clean and sober don't talk at supersonic speed, don't express ideas that would strike the average person as incredibly bizarre, and aren't convinced that they're Superman and ready to do it all over again -- if only you'll leave him alone. The clean-and-sober also don't cry about being wanting to be left alone while simultaneously begging every swinging dick with a video camera to come and interview them. Charlie Sheen is simply a drug addict with a rather high opinion of himself and more money than most small nations available to boundlessly finance his stupidity; he's not on the same plane as someone who finally gives in to The Voices and shoots up their HomeEc class.
Now, I can't claim to have special knowledge of Charlie, personally. I just recognize the symptoms of his particular collection of issues. The first of these is that he probably has no self-esteem whatsoever, and the string of high-priced-courtesans-with-even-less-self-esteem are merely the first clue. He spends the majority of his time in these recent interviews beating his own chest, posturing, extolling his supposed virtues, bragging. He's proud of what he's 'accomplished' , i.e. ingesting enough cocaine to kill a woolly mammoth and surviving, and making a public spectacle of himself. He truly isn't, though; it's all bravado. Somewhere in his head is the thought "I'm worthless" and the coke-drenched soirees are both escape and deathwish being played out simultaneously. I know this because I've had the same relationship with Rye Whiskey, Tequila and a certain recreational plant in my own life. I look at Charlie and shake my head; been there, done that. The only difference is that I never had the sort of bank account one normally equates with an Oil Sheik, or I might have died a long time ago.
He really wants to destroy himself, on some level, I think, but just doesn't have the courage to put a gun to his head, step out in front of a moving freight train, or jump off a bridge. He's either hoping the booze, drugs and chicks will erase the feeling of helplessness and worthlessness, or, if he's really lucky, take him out without him having to take any action whatsoever. Mostly, it's a front designed to get attention and sympathy. More than likely, he's hoping to 'kill' this version of Charlie Sheen, thinking there's another Charlie beneath it all, misunderstood, unheeded, just itching to bust loose...if only we'll take the time, and give him enough attention, to drag it out. It's a game; Charlie wants us to peel back all his complex layers, all the while putting up a show of resistance. This behavior is probably subconsciously designed to lead him to some tragic event which serves as the "time to grow the fuck up moment" which releases the 'real' Charlie.
Sheen's underlying mental (so-called) 'illnesses' are treatable, but never really 'curable'. Most of these problems are solved with simple behavior modification. Feeling sorry for one's self, narcissism, poor impulse control, craving attention (even negative attention) stupidity and an unerring ability to consistently make the wrong decisions are simple character flaws -- not illnesses. The Psychiatric Establishment has a vested interest in classifying such things as diseases because otherwise it would go bankrupt, and have no reason to exist. It's one thing to 'cure' you of your fingernail biting, addiction to smoking, or poor social graces -- those are the easy ones that don't even involve any actual medicine be practiced at all -- it's an altogether different thing to 'cure' someone who hallucinates without drugs, or who is convinced the Pope is sending him coded messages through his fillings that Piers Morgan is the Anti-Christ. There is no (permanent) medical regime for that, no matter how much the Pshrinks would like you to believe the contrary.
Modern Mental Medicine understands the underlying factors inherent in bad behavior and how to change them; it knows comparatively jack-shit about the inner-workings of a healthy human brain -- let alone one that is laboring under the weight of schizophrenia or psychosis.
But then again, Sigmund Freud was a cocaine addict, too. And he's their God. But, I digress...
You can get over your anxiety disorder or drunkenness by modifying your behavior or recognizing when you're about to do something stupid and taking positive action, but those are not options when you're truly sick. When you're really ill, the only options psychiatric medicine can offer you is either some 'wonder pill' that even the experts will admit to you that they can't explain how, or why, it works, brain surgery, or long-term commitment to a facility, and even all of those options are largely a hit-or-miss affair. Sheen doesn't have a mental illness; he's just a a great, big, full-of-himself douchebag.
So, for all of you jerkoffs filling my mailbox with "Why don't you defend Charlie Sheen, the Obvious Mental Patient, with the same fervor and feeling with which you defended the man who tried to assassinate Gabby Giffords" screeds, I can only reiterate:
The two cases are not comparable. Jared Loughner was/is a deranged man, suffering from a severe mental defect that cannot be cured by medical science, and who was made a pariah by a society that is quite happy to go through life expecting that 'someone' will 'do something' about him, and so spare them the necessity -- and personal inconvenience -- of having to take some responsibility for a sick son, brother, or friend, only to stand around shaking their heads in mock disbelief that the man they all knew was a ticking time-bomb would go berserk and start shooting up a supermarket parking lot.
Charlie Sheen, on the other hand, is just a douchebag with a large bank account, no self-discipline, and a huge ego that combined to become a perfect storm of stupid excess. The reason he gets attention before he does something that gets someone killed is because he's a celebrity, and somehow, in the Great Cosmic Code of Justice that I just don't understand, that makes him someone worth saving, and someone worthy of more sympathy than a would-be political assassin, right?
Fuck no! If all things were truly equal, Jared Loughner would have gotten the same attention Sheen has gotten -- before he killed and maimed -- without having to have been rich and famous. Celebrity Doctors would be rushing to treat Loughner's particular brand of crazy with the same breathless exuberance with which they try to explain away Sheen's on the Boob Tube. Loughner would have gotten the expensive course of 'treatment' (read; internment) that Sheen will no doubt retreat to when he finally tires of playing that 'leave-me-alone-no-come-bask-in-my-badass-self-routine' he's playing at now. Sheen, like Mohammed Atta, knows exactly what he's doing -- he's voluntered, in a sense, too.
There is no excuse for their actions -- whether it's murder or making a public spectacle of yourself -- but Loughner has this mitigating factor in his favor; he's truly sick in a way that medical science cannot comprehend, or effectively treat for very long. His course of 'rehab' now consists of an orange jumpsuit and ends with a lethal injection . Charlie Sheen is just plain sickening, and most --if not all --of his' illnesses' are probably just the result of his own stupidity, and his life will probably be saved.
Friday, January 07, 2011
Mental Illness as Your Gateway to Stardom...
Dr. Drew Pinsky is a pimp. He's not peddling flesh, as much as he is human misery. He's the Jerry Springer for the New Millennium. If he isn't exploiting teenaged mothers on MTV, then he's taking the piss out of people with serious mental and substance abuse problems, and calling it "reality television".
A despicable human being. He's not worthy of the honorific "doctor".
It's gotten out of hand. It's not fair to people who have real issues, and it's making addiction and teenaged pregnancy seem glamorous, and to be a really good career move.
Andrea Peyser in yesterday's NY Post says it all.
A despicable human being. He's not worthy of the honorific "doctor".
It's gotten out of hand. It's not fair to people who have real issues, and it's making addiction and teenaged pregnancy seem glamorous, and to be a really good career move.
Andrea Peyser in yesterday's NY Post says it all.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Now It's a Tax on Garbage?
The City of San Francisco, always a bastion of intelligence, rational thought and good government (NOT!), has decided to impose a tax on fast food as a means to wage an increasingly-expensive battle with litter.
Yeah, right. I'm buying that one.
I would think it safe to assume that what San Francisco's upper-crust has an issue with is NOT so much what's in it's trash; after all, I'm certain they're finding empty crack vials, used condoms, dirty hypodermic needles, and worse, in their trash bins.
The irony here is that City Government, at some level, is probably responsible for the worst kind of trash which finds it's way into The System, what with giving those hypos away free-of-charge to hardcore addicts, and the schools handing out condoms like candy -- all, of course, to prevent the spread of AIDS -- but no one would dare suggest that there be a tax levied on condoms or Homosexuals, or that we stop handing out drug paraphernalia to those determined to kill themselves.
We live in an upside-down world where encouraging people to engage in risky behavior that will probably kill them (by providing them with the means, the excuses, and the political mojo to make it happen) just so we can start taking extremely stupid and expensive measures to save them from themselves, somehow makes good financial sense to the Solons of the City By The Bay. To suggest that the City do otherwise and, say, discourage drug use -- so that the city doesn't spendmoney on free needles, and would have more cash tokeep the streets clean -- is somehow considered "Anti-Gay". No, the sainted Elders of San Fran would rather tax legitimate commerce, and under a false pretense, to boot, especially if they can pass the tax increase off as being good for society; in this case, they'll be supposedly getting litter off the streets, but in reality they'll be continuing the ongoing assault against society's slugs consuming whatever the fuck they feel like and then sticking the Taxpayer with the medical bills.
The Food Nazis in America will tell you that Wendy's is bad for you. That McDonald's will kill your children. That The Colonel is selling you a poison that will slowly rot your asshole from the inside out, but only after it stuffs you full of fats, salt, and concentrated sugars that, in the rather weird calculus of the American Libtard, are infinitely more dangerous than gay sex or intravenous drug use. No wonder they don't mind if Iran has nukes; Devil Dogs and Wing Dings constitute a greater threat to Civil Society.
Quite frankly, if someone dies of an overdose, that's his problem. Ask me if I give a shit. Same for the Anally-Injected-Death-Sentence; you put your pecker someplace it wasn't meant to go, and you take your chances, andpretty much deserve what you get. Somehow, the consequences incurred by the Stupid and Irresponsible became Everyone Else's -- and by that we mean The Taxpayer's -- Problem.
And now it's Everyone' Else's Problem because some poor shithead (read: "Minority") who can't stop at just one Krispy Kreme, and who practically lives on a diet that consists of KFC, pork rinds, Malt Liquor, and the Four Basic Food Groups of MSG, Salt, Sugar and Caffeine, might fucking drop dead as his swollen heart bursts from the strain of moving his 450-pound ass through the streets of San Francisco. Oh, they say it's to keep the streets clean, but no; the tax is really intended to make Pizza Hut too expensive for the average Welfare Recipient to afford to eat three meals a day.
What a fucking racket: they get paid to stay poor, stupid and exploitable, and then the very people who exploit them make sure they can't even eat what they please with their stolen taxpayer money. And yet, the Exploited just can't wait to vote for more of the same. The New Plantation is alive and well.
It's time for a little Social Darwinism to take hold in America before more self-appointed hall monitors, like the San Fran City Council, suddenly decide they have a vested interest (and can make a buck) in limiting your number of bathroom trips, dictating how many hours a day you can sleep, how much water you will get on a daily basis, or how many times you're allowed to yawn before all that excess carbon dioxide you're expelling makes you a weapon of mass destruction.
I want people to die as a consequence of their own stupidity; that's how Nature is supposed to work! Those that make the right choices thrive and prosper, and those who don't are dropped from the herd. If we actually had a society where consequences were geared to actions, and which was free of government interference on every subject, we'd all be a lot healthier, freer, and richer. The world would be a whole lot better if cans of pesticides didn't have little red labels warning"Do Not Spray In Mouth", or if oscillating fans didn't have safety cages on them, because the truly lazy and retarded amongst us would be pushing up the daisies -- and the government that preys on their stupidity, to the detriment of the rest of us, would be gone.
Yeah, right. I'm buying that one.
I would think it safe to assume that what San Francisco's upper-crust has an issue with is NOT so much what's in it's trash; after all, I'm certain they're finding empty crack vials, used condoms, dirty hypodermic needles, and worse, in their trash bins.
The irony here is that City Government, at some level, is probably responsible for the worst kind of trash which finds it's way into The System, what with giving those hypos away free-of-charge to hardcore addicts, and the schools handing out condoms like candy -- all, of course, to prevent the spread of AIDS -- but no one would dare suggest that there be a tax levied on condoms or Homosexuals, or that we stop handing out drug paraphernalia to those determined to kill themselves.
We live in an upside-down world where encouraging people to engage in risky behavior that will probably kill them (by providing them with the means, the excuses, and the political mojo to make it happen) just so we can start taking extremely stupid and expensive measures to save them from themselves, somehow makes good financial sense to the Solons of the City By The Bay. To suggest that the City do otherwise and, say, discourage drug use -- so that the city doesn't spendmoney on free needles, and would have more cash tokeep the streets clean -- is somehow considered "Anti-Gay". No, the sainted Elders of San Fran would rather tax legitimate commerce, and under a false pretense, to boot, especially if they can pass the tax increase off as being good for society; in this case, they'll be supposedly getting litter off the streets, but in reality they'll be continuing the ongoing assault against society's slugs consuming whatever the fuck they feel like and then sticking the Taxpayer with the medical bills.
The Food Nazis in America will tell you that Wendy's is bad for you. That McDonald's will kill your children. That The Colonel is selling you a poison that will slowly rot your asshole from the inside out, but only after it stuffs you full of fats, salt, and concentrated sugars that, in the rather weird calculus of the American Libtard, are infinitely more dangerous than gay sex or intravenous drug use. No wonder they don't mind if Iran has nukes; Devil Dogs and Wing Dings constitute a greater threat to Civil Society.
Quite frankly, if someone dies of an overdose, that's his problem. Ask me if I give a shit. Same for the Anally-Injected-Death-Sentence; you put your pecker someplace it wasn't meant to go, and you take your chances, andpretty much deserve what you get. Somehow, the consequences incurred by the Stupid and Irresponsible became Everyone Else's -- and by that we mean The Taxpayer's -- Problem.
And now it's Everyone' Else's Problem because some poor shithead (read: "Minority") who can't stop at just one Krispy Kreme, and who practically lives on a diet that consists of KFC, pork rinds, Malt Liquor, and the Four Basic Food Groups of MSG, Salt, Sugar and Caffeine, might fucking drop dead as his swollen heart bursts from the strain of moving his 450-pound ass through the streets of San Francisco. Oh, they say it's to keep the streets clean, but no; the tax is really intended to make Pizza Hut too expensive for the average Welfare Recipient to afford to eat three meals a day.
What a fucking racket: they get paid to stay poor, stupid and exploitable, and then the very people who exploit them make sure they can't even eat what they please with their stolen taxpayer money. And yet, the Exploited just can't wait to vote for more of the same. The New Plantation is alive and well.
It's time for a little Social Darwinism to take hold in America before more self-appointed hall monitors, like the San Fran City Council, suddenly decide they have a vested interest (and can make a buck) in limiting your number of bathroom trips, dictating how many hours a day you can sleep, how much water you will get on a daily basis, or how many times you're allowed to yawn before all that excess carbon dioxide you're expelling makes you a weapon of mass destruction.
I want people to die as a consequence of their own stupidity; that's how Nature is supposed to work! Those that make the right choices thrive and prosper, and those who don't are dropped from the herd. If we actually had a society where consequences were geared to actions, and which was free of government interference on every subject, we'd all be a lot healthier, freer, and richer. The world would be a whole lot better if cans of pesticides didn't have little red labels warning"Do Not Spray In Mouth", or if oscillating fans didn't have safety cages on them, because the truly lazy and retarded amongst us would be pushing up the daisies -- and the government that preys on their stupidity, to the detriment of the rest of us, would be gone.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Another Tree Hugging Dickwad Dumps Wife, Film at 11...
This time it's a Kennedy, and there's a lot of alcohol involved, as usual.
What the story doesn't make clear is why Mary Kennedy drinks (probably because that would be too obvious a question to ask: what is it with Kennedy women and booze?), and of ocurse, they leave the best part for the very last sentence:
"Bobby and Mary married on a ship on the Hudson River in April 1994, just a few weeks after he divorced first wife, Emily Black."
I'm surprised that it lasted this long, and amazed that she didn't try to continue a long-standing Kennedy family tradition, and make arrangements for her sanctimonious douchebag of a husband's head to be ventilated. How hard could it be? Kennedy men practically attract bullets, when they're not Alpha-maling themselves into trees at high speed, or into the drink.
If this story follows the predictable track, we'll be hearing about the mistress or the alleged sexual assault within a fortnight.
What the story doesn't make clear is why Mary Kennedy drinks (probably because that would be too obvious a question to ask: what is it with Kennedy women and booze?), and of ocurse, they leave the best part for the very last sentence:
"Bobby and Mary married on a ship on the Hudson River in April 1994, just a few weeks after he divorced first wife, Emily Black."
I'm surprised that it lasted this long, and amazed that she didn't try to continue a long-standing Kennedy family tradition, and make arrangements for her sanctimonious douchebag of a husband's head to be ventilated. How hard could it be? Kennedy men practically attract bullets, when they're not Alpha-maling themselves into trees at high speed, or into the drink.
If this story follows the predictable track, we'll be hearing about the mistress or the alleged sexual assault within a fortnight.
This Is Your Brain on Drugs...
a. If you smoked pot, you probably think Al Gore is still a potential candidate...for something...and is anything BUT a figure of Public Ridicule.
Here is the origin of the "Pining for the fjords"reference for those who don't know what it means. If you aren't a Monty Python fan, you are a dimwit, probably a democrat, and can't understand the English language, and most likely all three.
b. Drug addicts can be counted upon to do really stupid shit -- like injecting someone else's blood into their veins just to stretch the ol' drug budget out. How's that for an austerity plan? I guess all that money GWB sent to Africa to help cure AIDS might as well have been flushed down the fucking toilet. If Bono comes anywhere near me, I'm gonna fuck him up, and the next time someone asks me for money for African AIDS relief I shall tell them to Suck My Nuts; I'm inclined to let African AIDS victims die, after reading this.
c. Depending on how much coke you snort on any given day, you might actually believe that this is the best means of fighting terrorism. Yeah, it's a really good idea to give computer literacy classes to an asshole you've declared to be a permanent threat to National Security, so dangerous that he can never be released from prison. And we wonder why there's a $1 trillion deficit, and why a bunch of Mud-Age goatherds are able to hold off the U.S. Military in a country that wouldn't even make a decent sewer by third-world standards?
(H/T Instapundit, FFF, JWF)
Here is the origin of the "Pining for the fjords"reference for those who don't know what it means. If you aren't a Monty Python fan, you are a dimwit, probably a democrat, and can't understand the English language, and most likely all three.
b. Drug addicts can be counted upon to do really stupid shit -- like injecting someone else's blood into their veins just to stretch the ol' drug budget out. How's that for an austerity plan? I guess all that money GWB sent to Africa to help cure AIDS might as well have been flushed down the fucking toilet. If Bono comes anywhere near me, I'm gonna fuck him up, and the next time someone asks me for money for African AIDS relief I shall tell them to Suck My Nuts; I'm inclined to let African AIDS victims die, after reading this.
c. Depending on how much coke you snort on any given day, you might actually believe that this is the best means of fighting terrorism. Yeah, it's a really good idea to give computer literacy classes to an asshole you've declared to be a permanent threat to National Security, so dangerous that he can never be released from prison. And we wonder why there's a $1 trillion deficit, and why a bunch of Mud-Age goatherds are able to hold off the U.S. Military in a country that wouldn't even make a decent sewer by third-world standards?
(H/T Instapundit, FFF, JWF)
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Fell Off the Wagon This Weekend...
You know, I once had a serious problem with booze. We're not talking about the kind of drinking one might call "social", but with the kind one typically associates with "Jesus Christ, this guy has a Death Wish" drinking. I pretty much spent my 20's in an alcoholic swirl, and looking back on it all, I'm surprised I even lived through it. Back in those days, it was nothing to put away a fifth of Canadian Club, or spend a day with my Best Friends -- Jack, Jim, and Old Grandad. Once I had discovered the Joys of the Margarita (the straight-up kind, with a salted glass, and not that girly, frozen shit), I can promise you that I had nights where how I managed to get home safely was a complete mystery -- it's almost as if I just pointed the car in the right direction and it found it's own way home. I once actually set a Tavern record and downed 18 whiskey highballs in one sitting...and still drove home that night.
Yes, there was plenty of drunk driving in those days, too (no accidents, though). In fact, I can tell you that I was given Field Sobriety Tests on at least four occasions -- and passed every one of them with flying colors, garnering little more than a warning to be careful, and I can't tell you how in the world I managed that. Every time I was under the impression that THIS time was the one where they finally would nail me, because even I had to admit I was fucking soused. A night on the town routinely came with a minimum $300 bar tab, and I was on a first-name basis with about 50% of the bartenders in New York City. Drinking all night and then pulling a 12-hour workday tomorrow, with little more than 20 minutes of sleep and a shower, was not uncommon.
Of course, back then I didn't know about depression and obsessive compulsive disorders and their connection to/with alcoholism, and whatnot. I just felt jollier and more confident when I was plastered -- not to mention that I had suddenly became incredibly charming to the ladies -- and I was able to pull it all off. They call that being a "functioning alcoholic", and my level of "function" must have been off the charts. Until that one evening when I was about 27. That night is still a blur. All I remember is that I awoke, in the driver's seat, in my driveway, with the engine running, my foot on the brake, and the car in gear. I have no idea how long I had been sleeping in that precarious position. That and the intense pain in the middle of my forehead, like someone had driven a nail between my eyes, was enough to convince me that this was probably a good time to stop drinking.
And I did. Mostly. I never got totally smashed again, and I (almost) never went past four drinks a night ever again...except that week where I managed to keep an English country inn in business practically all by myself. But there was a wedding involved in that one, so...I pretty much kept booze, except for the occasional beer, or (more rarely) two or three drinks here-and-there, out of my life. That was before 9/11, of course, when the boozing started all over again, but was quickly reigned in once more because Vodka and Tonics don't play nicely with Xanax.
I hadn't had a serious bout of drinking for perhaps six, maybe seven years...until Saturday.
I was invited to backyard barbecue by one of my sister's neighbors. It turns out that I had been invited because I make the best fucking sangria you've ever tasted in your entire life. And it's true: I can make a sangria that would make a Spaniard cry and curse his Mother. The ladies at this party had a taste for Sangria, and one of my sister's friends remarked that "no one does it like Matt...call him!", and off I went to mix up five gallons of the stuff for them.
That's where it started. One of the problems with making a really good Sangria is all the tasting you invariably need to do to get it just right. Particularly when you use my recipe, which calls for a generous dose of brandy. Anyways, as soon as I showed up, I was handed a beer, which somehow became six or seven. Then it was Sangria, again, another six or seven large cups. I should have stopped right there, but they broke out the schnapps and assorted liqueurs, and I was pretty much wasted and not even thinking about it. I must have done another four or five shots of Who-The-Fuck-Knows after that. The walk --more like a zig-zag stagger home -- thankfully short, must have looked like an old-time game of Frogger to an outside observer.
And for the first time in perhaps 20 years -- I was sicker than hell. Puking like a dog. Heaving so heavily that my abs still hurt two days later. Totally useless the next day, too, and unable to even look at food. I spent my 4th of July on my living room couch, gulping water and thinking "right now would be a good time for the Douchebag Police to come and shoot you, and put you out of your misery, Dumbass." I was ashamed of myself, and mightily pissed...I should know better. My nephews saw the whole thing, and they thought their drunken Uncle was something funny. Some example I set, huh? The oldest decided to be a wiseass and ask me how my old behind handled my hangover. That made me even more embarrassed and pissed off. They look up to me, and I love the shit out of them; they should not have seen any of that. I let them down.
The next time someone asks me to make them some Sangria, I'm telling them to take a long walk on a short pier (I'll just give them the fucking recipe and wish them luck). I was offered a beer today -- temps hit high 90's, and, boy, would that have been good! -- and politely refused. I'm thinking I'm going to need a month to recover from Saturday, and I'm not taking anything harder than a Coke, if I can help it, from now on.
I'm getting too old for this shit.
Yes, there was plenty of drunk driving in those days, too (no accidents, though). In fact, I can tell you that I was given Field Sobriety Tests on at least four occasions -- and passed every one of them with flying colors, garnering little more than a warning to be careful, and I can't tell you how in the world I managed that. Every time I was under the impression that THIS time was the one where they finally would nail me, because even I had to admit I was fucking soused. A night on the town routinely came with a minimum $300 bar tab, and I was on a first-name basis with about 50% of the bartenders in New York City. Drinking all night and then pulling a 12-hour workday tomorrow, with little more than 20 minutes of sleep and a shower, was not uncommon.
Of course, back then I didn't know about depression and obsessive compulsive disorders and their connection to/with alcoholism, and whatnot. I just felt jollier and more confident when I was plastered -- not to mention that I had suddenly became incredibly charming to the ladies -- and I was able to pull it all off. They call that being a "functioning alcoholic", and my level of "function" must have been off the charts. Until that one evening when I was about 27. That night is still a blur. All I remember is that I awoke, in the driver's seat, in my driveway, with the engine running, my foot on the brake, and the car in gear. I have no idea how long I had been sleeping in that precarious position. That and the intense pain in the middle of my forehead, like someone had driven a nail between my eyes, was enough to convince me that this was probably a good time to stop drinking.
And I did. Mostly. I never got totally smashed again, and I (almost) never went past four drinks a night ever again...except that week where I managed to keep an English country inn in business practically all by myself. But there was a wedding involved in that one, so...I pretty much kept booze, except for the occasional beer, or (more rarely) two or three drinks here-and-there, out of my life. That was before 9/11, of course, when the boozing started all over again, but was quickly reigned in once more because Vodka and Tonics don't play nicely with Xanax.
I hadn't had a serious bout of drinking for perhaps six, maybe seven years...until Saturday.
I was invited to backyard barbecue by one of my sister's neighbors. It turns out that I had been invited because I make the best fucking sangria you've ever tasted in your entire life. And it's true: I can make a sangria that would make a Spaniard cry and curse his Mother. The ladies at this party had a taste for Sangria, and one of my sister's friends remarked that "no one does it like Matt...call him!", and off I went to mix up five gallons of the stuff for them.
That's where it started. One of the problems with making a really good Sangria is all the tasting you invariably need to do to get it just right. Particularly when you use my recipe, which calls for a generous dose of brandy. Anyways, as soon as I showed up, I was handed a beer, which somehow became six or seven. Then it was Sangria, again, another six or seven large cups. I should have stopped right there, but they broke out the schnapps and assorted liqueurs, and I was pretty much wasted and not even thinking about it. I must have done another four or five shots of Who-The-Fuck-Knows after that. The walk --more like a zig-zag stagger home -- thankfully short, must have looked like an old-time game of Frogger to an outside observer.
And for the first time in perhaps 20 years -- I was sicker than hell. Puking like a dog. Heaving so heavily that my abs still hurt two days later. Totally useless the next day, too, and unable to even look at food. I spent my 4th of July on my living room couch, gulping water and thinking "right now would be a good time for the Douchebag Police to come and shoot you, and put you out of your misery, Dumbass." I was ashamed of myself, and mightily pissed...I should know better. My nephews saw the whole thing, and they thought their drunken Uncle was something funny. Some example I set, huh? The oldest decided to be a wiseass and ask me how my old behind handled my hangover. That made me even more embarrassed and pissed off. They look up to me, and I love the shit out of them; they should not have seen any of that. I let them down.
The next time someone asks me to make them some Sangria, I'm telling them to take a long walk on a short pier (I'll just give them the fucking recipe and wish them luck). I was offered a beer today -- temps hit high 90's, and, boy, would that have been good! -- and politely refused. I'm thinking I'm going to need a month to recover from Saturday, and I'm not taking anything harder than a Coke, if I can help it, from now on.
I'm getting too old for this shit.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
T'was Only a Matter of Time....
...before the porn-star Baby Mamas started coming out of the woodwork. Warning: some of this might not be safe for work. As if the man didn't have enough problems in his life, the Daily News goes and publishes 92 selected photos of his boot-knockin' partners in sexy poses.
If I were Tiger Woods, I'd be running back to the Fortress of Solitude that is rehab.
And if that wasn't bad enough, it only begins to get infinitely worse: there's more than one porn "actress" involved. and allegations are flying that some of these...ahem...choice conquests ...were given hush money, probably to keep quiet about the fact that -- off the golf course at least -- Tiger might swing both ways. Allegedly.
Now, I have no sympathy for Tiger Woods because his pain is mostly self-inflicted, and his oh-so-carefully-selected menagerie of paramours makes it crystal clear that he has (or had) a serious drug problem (people who aren't under the influence or insane do not make these sorts of choices, or attract this particular class of women). At some point, though, this could all end if the man would just disappear-- he has the money to do so -- but he just won't go away. The cost of that kind of ego is that his peccadilloes will be made public -- drip-drip-drip -- like a Chinese water torture.
You would expect that at some point common sense (and a sense of shame!) would kick in and Tiger would fade away, because the longer he stays in the spotlight -- or struggles to get back into it -- the more we'll be seeing this endless parade of pathetic gold-digging sluts, many with a reputation for deviant sexual practices involving unnatural violations perpetrated by multiple partners, which brings us all one step closer to the Apocalypse.
I'm a guy and even my "fuck-anything-that-moves-male-sexual-reflex" is repulsed by just the thought of some of the...festivities...these women have done to in order to "earn a living" in the porn "Industry"(yeah, like none of you has ever seen a porn video, right?)
You wonder who will win this race; will Tiger's perseverance, stubbornness and sense of entitlement, his steadfast belief that his "image" (and therefore, his fame and fortune) can be rehabilitated eventually be overtaken by the flood of embarrassing activities -- and personages -- that got him into this mess in the first place? Or are we watching the slow death-spiral of The Man Who Had it All But Threw It Away?
Who gives a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut? I have my own problems to deal with, thank you.
This is still funny as hell, though.
UPDATE: Link to Tiger's Rogues Gallery of Tawdry Encounters fixed.
If I were Tiger Woods, I'd be running back to the Fortress of Solitude that is rehab.
And if that wasn't bad enough, it only begins to get infinitely worse: there's more than one porn "actress" involved. and allegations are flying that some of these...ahem...choice conquests ...were given hush money, probably to keep quiet about the fact that -- off the golf course at least -- Tiger might swing both ways. Allegedly.
Now, I have no sympathy for Tiger Woods because his pain is mostly self-inflicted, and his oh-so-carefully-selected menagerie of paramours makes it crystal clear that he has (or had) a serious drug problem (people who aren't under the influence or insane do not make these sorts of choices, or attract this particular class of women). At some point, though, this could all end if the man would just disappear-- he has the money to do so -- but he just won't go away. The cost of that kind of ego is that his peccadilloes will be made public -- drip-drip-drip -- like a Chinese water torture.
You would expect that at some point common sense (and a sense of shame!) would kick in and Tiger would fade away, because the longer he stays in the spotlight -- or struggles to get back into it -- the more we'll be seeing this endless parade of pathetic gold-digging sluts, many with a reputation for deviant sexual practices involving unnatural violations perpetrated by multiple partners, which brings us all one step closer to the Apocalypse.
I'm a guy and even my "fuck-anything-that-moves-male-sexual-reflex" is repulsed by just the thought of some of the...festivities...these women have done to in order to "earn a living" in the porn "Industry"(yeah, like none of you has ever seen a porn video, right?)
You wonder who will win this race; will Tiger's perseverance, stubbornness and sense of entitlement, his steadfast belief that his "image" (and therefore, his fame and fortune) can be rehabilitated eventually be overtaken by the flood of embarrassing activities -- and personages -- that got him into this mess in the first place? Or are we watching the slow death-spiral of The Man Who Had it All But Threw It Away?
Who gives a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut? I have my own problems to deal with, thank you.
This is still funny as hell, though.
UPDATE: Link to Tiger's Rogues Gallery of Tawdry Encounters fixed.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Trouble with Group Therapy...
...is that it's chock-full of whining pansies you'd like to whack with a crowbar.
Recently, I've been attending a "workshop" for people with Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorders. It's run, in part, by a local church (I shan't identify it), and I'm not attending it for the weekly dollop of saccharine-coated inanity called "religion". To be perfectly honest, it's only redeeming virtue is that it happens to be free, insofar as it's only cost to me is having to suffer through repeated references to an Invisible Man in the Sky with a Mysterious Plan that No One can Adequately Explain.
Going through the motions of dropping one's head in prayer, or pretending not to be offended when someone tells me that the Solution To All of Life's Little Problems is complete and utter surrender to a Deity that seems utterly capricious and uncaring, is simply the thorn that comes with the rose.
I already know how I got here, and I know why I behave the way I do. That is no longer much of a mystery to me. I can pretty much predict that no amount of prayer or hymn-singing is going to change those things. I'm not there to be washed in the blood of the lamb, I'm there to learn from the experiences of others. What I'm angling to learn is how to "break the cycle", as they say.
What I've learned so far is that people suck. There are exceptions, of course, but by-and-large our fellow human beings are a selfish, self-interested, conceited, disgusting, clueless, and wholly-unsavory lot. I tend to regard most people as being diseased, metaphorical lepers of one sort or another, and few manage to fall outside of this category. It's probably why I have so few really close friends and relationships (I hate that term, incidentally; it has been used so much and is so heavily-impregnated by psychobabble that it no longer has much of a meaning).
Besides confirming and justifying my already-low opinion of most members of the Human Race, I've also learned that true change -- we can't speak of "cures" for most mental disorders, because they'll always be with you in a way that, say a tumor or a laceration, might not --requires a motivation. Motivation requires a degree of selfishness, something with which I have the greatest difficulty. I'm not, I'd like to believe, a selfish individual; I'm not one for charity or altruism, certainly, but if you're one of my peeps, I'd go to the gates of Hell for you, and back. Rather, I think that my problem with being selfish is the idea that it would transform Me into One of Them (the majority of the people that I hate) in the process.
I say that because I've come to a startling conclusion --in the sense that it has occurred to me before, but I had paid it no attention -- that the majority of my "issues" can be traced to a solitary source; somewhere along the line, I didn't get or accomplish something that was important to me (probably more than once). And naturally, because I really am one of those disgusting, impenetrably-stupid people that I hate so much, it never occurs to me that the reason is because of some series of bad decisions and choices that I had made along the way. Naturally, Human Nature being what it is -- and actually being one of those creatures that I despise so much -- it simply MUST be someone else's fault that I'm not fulfilled, and I must be a victim of their stupidity and selfishness. I believe that THEY failed me, you see, and therein lies the genesis of the "issue".
You can see the problem: I'm Human, but I hate Human Beings. If there's anything I hate worse than Human Beings, it's being reminded that I'm one of them and subject to all the same weaknesses that I usually attribute to Them Alone. So, the question becomes one of Motivations.
In order to "fix" my problems, I have to admit I'm Human, however, that admission is perhaps the worst horror that I can imagine. When you're surrounded once-a-week by such sterling examples of the Species; The ones who just can't figure out why it is they never find Ms. Right in a titty bar, or that the Boss is A Whip-Wielding-Nazi-Slavedriver who takes advantage of my work ethic -- but they don't have the guts to quit that job. The two most annoying examples are that most annoying wretch who wants to know why there never seems to be enough vodka to wash the bad memories away, and the ever-popular She-can't-figure-out-why-her-boyfriends-always-leave-her-pregnant-and-broke-and-then-never-support-their-children, and you can see why it's pretty difficult to find anything to recommend The Human Condition. That's what you have to work with in Group Therapy, unfortunately. And then, of course, some moron is making things worse by Sermonizing during the whole thing, which makes it even more intolerable.
The reason why these things happen to people is because they're all acting out a pattern, or series of patterns, of behavior, either learned or acquired through experience. Even when the behavior is ultimately destructive we're compelled to repeat it because it's an all-too-familiar and, therefore, strangely comforting, but ultimately self-destructive, coping strategy. In our personal little dramas The Players may Change, but the Show Always Remains the Same. If I've learned anything from nearly a decade of this bullshit it's that your typical "Mental Health Professional" has no real interest in teaching you how to cope with any of this because it's their bread-and-butter. If you want to get anything done, as they say, you have to do it yourself (and by the way, that attitude is one of the symptoms of OCPD! Go figure).
The trick, I think, is to learn to recognize the peculiar quirks of your condition, identify those times when the pattern is reasserting itself, and then quickly put the brakes on and change direction in a way that results in a positive change. I think that's why I'm in this group thingy -- I don't expect to be "cured", I'm only trying to recognize all of the signs and permutations by observing my fellow Lunatics, and hoping that one of them eventually drops a nugget of Useful Insight that I can take advantage of.
In the meantime, I'm struggling mightily to contain the urge to kick every one of them in the ass. Especially the idiot with the Bible and the penchant for repeating the phrase "God's Most Perfect and Healing Love". She's perhaps the worst of the lot.
Oh well, at least the coffee is good.
Recently, I've been attending a "workshop" for people with Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorders. It's run, in part, by a local church (I shan't identify it), and I'm not attending it for the weekly dollop of saccharine-coated inanity called "religion". To be perfectly honest, it's only redeeming virtue is that it happens to be free, insofar as it's only cost to me is having to suffer through repeated references to an Invisible Man in the Sky with a Mysterious Plan that No One can Adequately Explain.
Going through the motions of dropping one's head in prayer, or pretending not to be offended when someone tells me that the Solution To All of Life's Little Problems is complete and utter surrender to a Deity that seems utterly capricious and uncaring, is simply the thorn that comes with the rose.
I already know how I got here, and I know why I behave the way I do. That is no longer much of a mystery to me. I can pretty much predict that no amount of prayer or hymn-singing is going to change those things. I'm not there to be washed in the blood of the lamb, I'm there to learn from the experiences of others. What I'm angling to learn is how to "break the cycle", as they say.
What I've learned so far is that people suck. There are exceptions, of course, but by-and-large our fellow human beings are a selfish, self-interested, conceited, disgusting, clueless, and wholly-unsavory lot. I tend to regard most people as being diseased, metaphorical lepers of one sort or another, and few manage to fall outside of this category. It's probably why I have so few really close friends and relationships (I hate that term, incidentally; it has been used so much and is so heavily-impregnated by psychobabble that it no longer has much of a meaning).
Besides confirming and justifying my already-low opinion of most members of the Human Race, I've also learned that true change -- we can't speak of "cures" for most mental disorders, because they'll always be with you in a way that, say a tumor or a laceration, might not --requires a motivation. Motivation requires a degree of selfishness, something with which I have the greatest difficulty. I'm not, I'd like to believe, a selfish individual; I'm not one for charity or altruism, certainly, but if you're one of my peeps, I'd go to the gates of Hell for you, and back. Rather, I think that my problem with being selfish is the idea that it would transform Me into One of Them (the majority of the people that I hate) in the process.
I say that because I've come to a startling conclusion --in the sense that it has occurred to me before, but I had paid it no attention -- that the majority of my "issues" can be traced to a solitary source; somewhere along the line, I didn't get or accomplish something that was important to me (probably more than once). And naturally, because I really am one of those disgusting, impenetrably-stupid people that I hate so much, it never occurs to me that the reason is because of some series of bad decisions and choices that I had made along the way. Naturally, Human Nature being what it is -- and actually being one of those creatures that I despise so much -- it simply MUST be someone else's fault that I'm not fulfilled, and I must be a victim of their stupidity and selfishness. I believe that THEY failed me, you see, and therein lies the genesis of the "issue".
You can see the problem: I'm Human, but I hate Human Beings. If there's anything I hate worse than Human Beings, it's being reminded that I'm one of them and subject to all the same weaknesses that I usually attribute to Them Alone. So, the question becomes one of Motivations.
In order to "fix" my problems, I have to admit I'm Human, however, that admission is perhaps the worst horror that I can imagine. When you're surrounded once-a-week by such sterling examples of the Species; The ones who just can't figure out why it is they never find Ms. Right in a titty bar, or that the Boss is A Whip-Wielding-Nazi-Slavedriver who takes advantage of my work ethic -- but they don't have the guts to quit that job. The two most annoying examples are that most annoying wretch who wants to know why there never seems to be enough vodka to wash the bad memories away, and the ever-popular She-can't-figure-out-why-her-boyfriends-always-leave-her-pregnant-and-broke-and-then-never-support-their-children, and you can see why it's pretty difficult to find anything to recommend The Human Condition. That's what you have to work with in Group Therapy, unfortunately. And then, of course, some moron is making things worse by Sermonizing during the whole thing, which makes it even more intolerable.
The reason why these things happen to people is because they're all acting out a pattern, or series of patterns, of behavior, either learned or acquired through experience. Even when the behavior is ultimately destructive we're compelled to repeat it because it's an all-too-familiar and, therefore, strangely comforting, but ultimately self-destructive, coping strategy. In our personal little dramas The Players may Change, but the Show Always Remains the Same. If I've learned anything from nearly a decade of this bullshit it's that your typical "Mental Health Professional" has no real interest in teaching you how to cope with any of this because it's their bread-and-butter. If you want to get anything done, as they say, you have to do it yourself (and by the way, that attitude is one of the symptoms of OCPD! Go figure).
The trick, I think, is to learn to recognize the peculiar quirks of your condition, identify those times when the pattern is reasserting itself, and then quickly put the brakes on and change direction in a way that results in a positive change. I think that's why I'm in this group thingy -- I don't expect to be "cured", I'm only trying to recognize all of the signs and permutations by observing my fellow Lunatics, and hoping that one of them eventually drops a nugget of Useful Insight that I can take advantage of.
In the meantime, I'm struggling mightily to contain the urge to kick every one of them in the ass. Especially the idiot with the Bible and the penchant for repeating the phrase "God's Most Perfect and Healing Love". She's perhaps the worst of the lot.
Oh well, at least the coffee is good.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
All This for Only $4,000 A Night!
The five minute interviews are bad enough; attempting to avoid telling the truth about your addictions (and they ain't limited to "sex", are they?) by denying anyone the opportunity to ask those questions -- maybe because the truth would shatter whatever image and destroy whatever goodwill you might have left -- and to create some artificial "buzz" about your return to golf. It's torture watching this, not only because you know how this story eventually ends, but because there's someone under the impression that we give a shit about golf, and that scandal will make us care more.
I don't claim any special knowledge of Tiger's problems or personal life; I'm just sayin' I know a guy who has some secrets that he really, really, REALLY wants to keep hidden, when I see one. His secrets, however, are going to destroy him if he doesn't get his ass off TV. $4,000 a night porn star/hookers are the least of his issues.
We're witnessing the destruction of an individual in the media, minute-by-minute, and the worst part is that he's helping them. In fact, he can't help but help them. Tiger Woods is the media's creation, so I guess they have that "right" to tear him apart -- or more likely what's happening, they're helping him tear himself apart. That sometimes happens with people who have done bad things; they have to punish themselves in the worst and most public ways, and are often unaware of how they do it. The two, Media and Woods, are symbiotically-linked. Tiger can no more go without the media, even a media asking questions that he refuses to answer, than the media can go without setting fire to their own creations. He is, in effect, committing suicide in public with the very tool that made him a public figure.
It's how the game gets played.
I'm now feeling bad for Tiger Woods. I can't condone his adultery, nor the cowardly retreat to a "sex addiction" clinic -- which is complete and utter bullshit. There's no such thing as "sex addiction"; men would screw 24-7 if they had the opportunity and the means -- stopping only for Buffalo Wings, the Super Bowl and other urgent bodily functions. And even at that, if it wasn't considered bad form to pinch a loaf while you're making the Beast With Two Backs, many would probably not even stop for that. We're baboons, you know. We're biologically-wired to fuck everything that moves or makes itself available. So, the idea that there's "sex addicts" out there is a false one; every human being is a sex addict, in the strictest, biological sense. There'd be no human race, otherwise.
What many of the people who mental-health "professionals" call "Sex Addicts" are , are usually the victims of severe sexual abuse; they can't separate acceptance by others, or certain activities and events, from the sexual act because of some trauma related to that abuse.
Tiger Woods is no "Sex-Addict"-- he's just a super-rich guy who decided to take advantage of everything his vast fortune could buy him, which is NEVER a good thing. He's no victim. He's maybe also suffering with a few other, real addictions in the bargain (probably booze, and maybe even prescription drugs, but that's speculation on my part). Fame and money often combine to make people a) stupid, and b) weak enough to give into their worst impulses.
You know how I can figure this out? We go from $4,000 a night porn stars all the way down to the Night Shift Waitress at the Waffle House. We're not even talking consistency, here. There's no pattern, no logic, no reason. We're talking pure opportunism, and no means of restraining the impulse; a clear sign of drug and/or alcohol abuse. In the current climate of sports scandals, Tiger Woods the Drug Abuser is far worse than Tiger Woods the Adulterer. That's the story his "handlers" want you to focus on, because the other one utterly destroys their client.
Tiger, of course, maintains that we should just forgive him (not that I care, really. I only write about this because it's funny as hell and because I'm pathologically-wired to stand there and point) and let him go about his business. I think the man has every right to go about earning his living, but I don't think he has the right to do it without having to answer the questions he's been dodging so clumsily. He's made his cash on the back of an adoring public, and he has a responsibility to them.
Because Tiger Woods was sold to America as a paragon of virtue, a true family man, a shining example to the black comm-uuunnn-it-taaaaay. We were told that no black people ever played golf before Tiger did, EVER, and that he was he was a "true pioneer". A shining example of what skill, determination and character coming together can do to produce the consummate professional, and the very example of what those virtues could bring you, wealth and fame, a Beautiful wife and adorable children. That's when he wasn't portrayed as a steely assassin on the greens, a monomaniac with a driver, who's focus was "legendary", a deadly opponent in the rough-and-tumble world of competitive pastimes, and a man who was on his way to becoming the Greatest Golfer, Ever. Tiger the Athlete is all marketing. The Greatest Golfer Ever...what the hell does that mean?
Greatest Golfer Ever is a distinction on par (if you'll pardon the pun) with being the Greatest Croquette Player, or the Greatest Race Walker, or the Greatest Yachtsman of All Time. No one really gives a shit, except fat, rich white guys who believe that any form of mild physical exertion that they engage in should automatically be considered a "sport". It's not a sport if you wear slacks, ride in a motorized cart, and have another guy to carry your equipment for you. That's not athletic at all. The funniest part of this scam is that those rich white guys buy golf clubs like democrats buy votes, and Tiger was the Hank Aaron of Golf, --so he made a lot of people a lot of money, with a hefty cut for himself.
I guess Tiger might be desperate to strike while the iron is still somewhat-warm, to keep his cut if he can, before all of his bullshit is finally made public. To get that one last score before that public image is finally gone forever, and on some level, to convince himself that his former life can be reclaimed, whole or in part. It's sad, because the man needs help. I think he has more problems than we know about. You can see it in his face, and he's now in the "denial" stage where he believes that he really has a good grip on his issues and can just go about life. Except that he really doesn't and isn't aware of it. We should all just leave him alone and forget this ever happened and all move forward now, he says. Except he's moving forward too soon (they almost always do). The cameras, the media, the notoriety are just another aspect of his overall addiction -- he can't do without it, all the while protesting the "intrusions" into his personal life.
He doth protest too much; he wants it every bit as much as the heroin addict wants the spike.
Tiger, take a powder, Dude. Get help and get better, because this doesn't look likely to end very well.
I don't claim any special knowledge of Tiger's problems or personal life; I'm just sayin' I know a guy who has some secrets that he really, really, REALLY wants to keep hidden, when I see one. His secrets, however, are going to destroy him if he doesn't get his ass off TV. $4,000 a night porn star/hookers are the least of his issues.
We're witnessing the destruction of an individual in the media, minute-by-minute, and the worst part is that he's helping them. In fact, he can't help but help them. Tiger Woods is the media's creation, so I guess they have that "right" to tear him apart -- or more likely what's happening, they're helping him tear himself apart. That sometimes happens with people who have done bad things; they have to punish themselves in the worst and most public ways, and are often unaware of how they do it. The two, Media and Woods, are symbiotically-linked. Tiger can no more go without the media, even a media asking questions that he refuses to answer, than the media can go without setting fire to their own creations. He is, in effect, committing suicide in public with the very tool that made him a public figure.
It's how the game gets played.
I'm now feeling bad for Tiger Woods. I can't condone his adultery, nor the cowardly retreat to a "sex addiction" clinic -- which is complete and utter bullshit. There's no such thing as "sex addiction"; men would screw 24-7 if they had the opportunity and the means -- stopping only for Buffalo Wings, the Super Bowl and other urgent bodily functions. And even at that, if it wasn't considered bad form to pinch a loaf while you're making the Beast With Two Backs, many would probably not even stop for that. We're baboons, you know. We're biologically-wired to fuck everything that moves or makes itself available. So, the idea that there's "sex addicts" out there is a false one; every human being is a sex addict, in the strictest, biological sense. There'd be no human race, otherwise.
What many of the people who mental-health "professionals" call "Sex Addicts" are , are usually the victims of severe sexual abuse; they can't separate acceptance by others, or certain activities and events, from the sexual act because of some trauma related to that abuse.
Tiger Woods is no "Sex-Addict"-- he's just a super-rich guy who decided to take advantage of everything his vast fortune could buy him, which is NEVER a good thing. He's no victim. He's maybe also suffering with a few other, real addictions in the bargain (probably booze, and maybe even prescription drugs, but that's speculation on my part). Fame and money often combine to make people a) stupid, and b) weak enough to give into their worst impulses.
You know how I can figure this out? We go from $4,000 a night porn stars all the way down to the Night Shift Waitress at the Waffle House. We're not even talking consistency, here. There's no pattern, no logic, no reason. We're talking pure opportunism, and no means of restraining the impulse; a clear sign of drug and/or alcohol abuse. In the current climate of sports scandals, Tiger Woods the Drug Abuser is far worse than Tiger Woods the Adulterer. That's the story his "handlers" want you to focus on, because the other one utterly destroys their client.
Tiger, of course, maintains that we should just forgive him (not that I care, really. I only write about this because it's funny as hell and because I'm pathologically-wired to stand there and point) and let him go about his business. I think the man has every right to go about earning his living, but I don't think he has the right to do it without having to answer the questions he's been dodging so clumsily. He's made his cash on the back of an adoring public, and he has a responsibility to them.
Because Tiger Woods was sold to America as a paragon of virtue, a true family man, a shining example to the black comm-uuunnn-it-taaaaay. We were told that no black people ever played golf before Tiger did, EVER, and that he was he was a "true pioneer". A shining example of what skill, determination and character coming together can do to produce the consummate professional, and the very example of what those virtues could bring you, wealth and fame, a Beautiful wife and adorable children. That's when he wasn't portrayed as a steely assassin on the greens, a monomaniac with a driver, who's focus was "legendary", a deadly opponent in the rough-and-tumble world of competitive pastimes, and a man who was on his way to becoming the Greatest Golfer, Ever. Tiger the Athlete is all marketing. The Greatest Golfer Ever...what the hell does that mean?
Greatest Golfer Ever is a distinction on par (if you'll pardon the pun) with being the Greatest Croquette Player, or the Greatest Race Walker, or the Greatest Yachtsman of All Time. No one really gives a shit, except fat, rich white guys who believe that any form of mild physical exertion that they engage in should automatically be considered a "sport". It's not a sport if you wear slacks, ride in a motorized cart, and have another guy to carry your equipment for you. That's not athletic at all. The funniest part of this scam is that those rich white guys buy golf clubs like democrats buy votes, and Tiger was the Hank Aaron of Golf, --so he made a lot of people a lot of money, with a hefty cut for himself.
I guess Tiger might be desperate to strike while the iron is still somewhat-warm, to keep his cut if he can, before all of his bullshit is finally made public. To get that one last score before that public image is finally gone forever, and on some level, to convince himself that his former life can be reclaimed, whole or in part. It's sad, because the man needs help. I think he has more problems than we know about. You can see it in his face, and he's now in the "denial" stage where he believes that he really has a good grip on his issues and can just go about life. Except that he really doesn't and isn't aware of it. We should all just leave him alone and forget this ever happened and all move forward now, he says. Except he's moving forward too soon (they almost always do). The cameras, the media, the notoriety are just another aspect of his overall addiction -- he can't do without it, all the while protesting the "intrusions" into his personal life.
He doth protest too much; he wants it every bit as much as the heroin addict wants the spike.
Tiger, take a powder, Dude. Get help and get better, because this doesn't look likely to end very well.
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