Some Thoughts on the Olympics…

I was forced to watch the opening ceremonies of the 2012 London Olympics last night.

Tess was all excited by the thought of the spectacle, and got into one of those passive-aggressive moods of hers, in which failure to comply with her wishes – in this case, that we “enjoy” something that I find about as interesting as dry toast, and about as exciting as a case of toenail fungus – as “a couple”.

This is, after all, she tells me, what “couples do”.

She gets into these moods, with this sort of strange ideal surrounding it, every so often, and rather than have to deal with the complete bullshit (the expression of which ranges from the emanation of a simple “attitude” all the way up to “full Menstrual Fury”), it’s easier to give in, keep my mouth shut, and make her happy, just to spare myself the additional pain of all the “if you loved me, you’d make an effort…” nonsense.

Women…can’t live with ‘em, and you can’t kill ‘em…

Cure for the Jihad? More Sex...

A Good Wife is a Sex Worker To Her Husband.

So sayeth some Muslim Women's group or other. There's two ways to intepret this story:

a. Women are the cause of all the evils of this world. Best they should just shut up and become somebody's willing slambag.

b. If these women actually succeed, you might just see the Jihad disappear overnight.

Because one of the primary, motivating factors in the Global Jihad (apart from Muzzies being uncivilized little ignoramuses) is sex. The Islamonazi just can't get enough, and he lives in a sewer of a culture which denies him outlets outside of marriage...unless we're talking livestock.

Or the other boys in the cave.

What the woman in this article seems to be describing is what we in the West would refer to as the Madonna/Whore Complex. The crux of this complex is that a woman must fulfill two, often contradictory, roles, simultaneously: she is to be the very model of the 'Good' Wife and Mother. Obedient, pious, meticulous in her care of children and household, publicly respectable, in all ways an extension of her husband, who should never be embarassed in public.

But behind closed tent flaps, she'd better have all the sexual skills, adventurism, and morals, of the A-list porn star.

I know several women south of the Mason-Dixon who would fall into this category; the church-going, well-known pillar of the community kind, maybe of a prominent family, who become a completely different chick as soon as someone's naked and the lights go out. Northern women don't even wait for the lights.

You know, these Muzzie chicks just might be onto something. If Abdul is too busy watching his wives perform oral sex upon one another while the third one performs a nasty upon him, he might stay home more often. Men up to their armpits in pussy tend to be too busy to build roadside bombs, plot terrorist attacks, or snipe at American troops.

Think of it this way: while Hassan is busy porking (doh!) his Good Lady Wives, we could...ahem...pull out...of Afghanistan and Iraq, and nobody would notice.

It's a good sign that in at least one backwards place on Planet Earth, some women are actually suggesting something positive in the efforts to stem the worldwide Jihad. This suggestion is a far cry more useful and doable than anything that has come from the mouths of Western Feminists, who incidentally, don't really give a shit about their oppressed Muslim sisters unless they can attack a Republican by feigning concern and outrage.

If the terrorists are too busy busting a nut, they ain't hijacking anything. And getting your rocks off in this life sort of takes the 'can't wait' factor out of thepromised 72 virgins in the afterlife. Besides, don't you want some chick who knows what she's doing? There's nothing worse than a woman who can't cover her teeth...unless she's chipped one, then that's far worse.

It's also for damned sure a much simpler view of male/female relationships than the one we've evolved here in the West, which has gotten so complicated, so full of extraneous bullshit, and which simply drips with the greatest stupidity and aggravation that the female mind can contrive. Dating is damned difficult nowadays, Ladies, and you made it that way. Don't think so? Then read this:

18 Things All Men Need to Know That Women Won't Tell Them.

My, how helpful you are. We need information, but you won't give it to us. So much for the vaunted 'communication skills' of women. But then I read the article, and no wonder they can't tell us these things!

The article (despite it's glaring grammatical and spelling errors -- someone actually got paid to write this?) is basically devoted to s single premise: women want a Metrosexual. Be the best damned  Metrosexual you can be, young man, and you'll soon be swimming in snatch, yesssiiirrreee!

I think this was once covered in an episode of South Park, truthfully.

At least one third of the article is devoted to hair care and hairstyles, fashion, and...hand lotion. I especially loved this line:

"You need to have the right amount of sex, money and career in [your] hairstyle."

Really?

Just what the fuck does that mean? No wonder you haven't told us, girls! You'd probably be ashamed to utter that in public, wouldn't you?

And people wonder why divorce rates are so high, why consumption of porn is at an all-time high, and why the Japanese are busy devising the sex robot: how the fuck -- as a Man -- do you relate to a shallow dingbat who demands the 'right amount' of 'sex, money and career' in your fucking haircut? By what standard are such things measured? Gentlemen, doesn't shit like this just drive you insane?

It's no wonder I find this fake woman to be the sexiest in all the world!

Restoring American Machismo...

Metrosexuals suck.

(H/T Five Feet of Fury)

Some Thoughts on A Near-Death Experience...

I was almost killed yesterday.

It's a common occurrence here on the Isle of Thoughtless Douchebags. I'm surprised that it doesn't happen more often, honestly. But first, a little background.

The weather in these parts has been frightfully bad in recent weeks: two major snowstorms have been followed by an unrelenting rain, itself followed by some of the coldest winds of the season. I blame Al Gore. I was promised an unbearably hot and dry climate because of the internal combustion engine, but instead one must struggle through streets clogged with the remnants of a blizzard and a white Nor'easter, turned to ice, slush and frozen lakes by a 40-degree rainy day, followed by the near-zero blast of the Siberian Express.

This is absolutely awful if you're a pedestrian. The remaining snow (I promise you, it will still be here here in early May, but it will all have been turned black by then so that the little hillocks made by people who dug their cars and walkways out will resemble slag heaps) is made soft by the warmth and the rain. This causes a) flooding and b) the formation of deep -- often ankle deep -- layers of slush, where snow, warm water and the filth of the streets create a Slurpee-like semi-fluid mess that coats the sidewalks, and collects in pools at every crosswalk. No sooner does someone walk over it, then it refreezes, waiting for the next person to walk over it. The repeated cracking of the ice layer, welling up of the water beneath, and refreezing ensures that slush is even harder to get rid of, and avoid, than snow.

It also gets trapped in the potholes in the streets, and freezes over again, creating big patches of ice on the roads.

Conditions yesterday were such that movement by vehicle was an iffy proposition. I must have seen at least half-a-dozen vehicles, that having parked at slushy curbs, were then trapped by ice when their owners returned. For some reason, these folks find it necessary to continue to spin their wheels when trapped in the ice, which makes one of the most annoying sounds known to mankind; that of rapidly rotating rubber sliding on ice. Here's a hint -- it doesn't matter how much "gas' you give it -- you're stuck. All you're doing is digging the ruts deeper, ruining your tires and creating a noxious cloud of exhaust. That's why you always keep a good, metal snow shovel and a bag of sand or Halite in your trunk, Doofus.

Anyways, the conditions on the road were such that no one with half a brain should have been on them.

This is Staten Island, however, and the half-brained are all at work at their overpayed "City" jobs, leaving their quarter-brained offspring behind to ensure that background levels of stupidity do not fall below their natural intensity. The roads are busy, even in this frozen, sodden mess.

No one here ever takes the opportunity to stay at home when they really, really should. It's raining, and even colder weather is promised by the Asshole on Television; one must rush to the Supermarket for "essentials" because there will never, ever be any milk or bread again, should we survive the Ice Age that has descended upon us. Some of these folks might be excused; they're actually out there trying to do something -- like ensure their survival -- it's the other 90% of the drivers that should be pulled over and beaten within an inch of their lives that are the problem.

Because Heaven forbid someone should have to wait 10-15 seconds to make a left turn into a three-way intersection because there's a pedestrian in the crosswalk, and they're running late for something ridiculously unimportant.

This is a common problem in these parts, and I'm not certain what the root cause is. Perhaps people are just selfish. Maybe we've bred successive generations of morons. Perhaps they're not teaching people in driving school beyond the most basic "Red: Stop, Green: Go, Yellow: Haul Ass!" curriculum. People who drive around here regard a brake pedal like an enema: it's something slightly disgusting, and you should avoid it as often as possible. The concept of "Right of Way" has devolved into "I'll race you there". Traffic here is so bad that, often, if you miss your opportunity to make a turn when you "have the light", you might be stuck for as much as another 60 seconds waiting for your next opportunity. That's 60 seconds that your typical Staten Island Douchebag could be using to do really important things, like breathing, getting your mascara on right, or answering a text message.

Occasionally, you get someone with manners and courtesy, and they'll let you pass before they make their turn. Usually, what happens is the driver making the turn will either speed up and try to cut the turn fine so as to get through the intersection before you arrive, or, they make a wider turn to allow you to pass, but then gun the engine just as soon as they have sensed, let alone seen, an inch of daylight behind you. Either way, if you're a pedestrian on this island, you are likely to come within 12 inches or less of a rapidly moving vehicle to your front or rear at least three times a day. That means that at least three times a day, you're in danger of getting struck by a vehicle operated by a selfish twit in a rush to get to the next red light.

Crossing the street around here is much like being in one of those massive caribou migrations; you try to cross a raging river with tree trunks being swept downstream by floodwaters, like in one of those nature documentaries.

So, here I am, travelling across the dangerous landscape of a two-lane street at a three-way intersection. The street lights say I can cross; the little white man that's the universal symbol for "Walk" is lit up. I'm perhaps three steps into my treacherous journey when a blur of red passes before me.

Someone has decided to race me to the intersection. But the best laid plans of mice and men ofttimes go astray.

This driver of this little red Honda, not so much an automobile as it is a pregnant roller skate, misjudges the distance and timing, and instead of passing between me and the car stopped at the light, hits this stationary vehicle about 8 feet in front of me, and bounces backwards, whereupon it finds one of those icy patches on the road and does two full revolutions before coming to a stop against the well-used and twisted guardrail on the opposite side of the road. The silver SUV riding the red Honda's bumper decides this is an excellent opportunity to complete it's own turn, and so that driver guns his engine and dashes through the intersection, missing me, still in the crossswalk and now frozen by confusion, by perhaps two feet.

There is now a two car accident where there should have been none. The little Honda is facing the opposite lane of oncoming traffic at something like a 45-degree angle. There is steam rising from a ruptured radiator. Broken glass is now scattered on the slushy street. Somehow, I'm unscathed...and pissed off. The driver of the stationary vehicle now emerges from his car, and asks if I'm alright. Together, we rush across the intersection to check on the status of the moron who caused this accident in the first place.

We can't see the person at first; the car's airbag has deployed, and all you can see is a pair of arms flailing behind it. Eventually, the driver's door opens, and there SHE was.

I don't know why having the airbag in her face put her in a such a panic; She looks the type that should be well-accustomed to having her face buried in the pillows, if you catch my drift. She's a common type around here, almost the National Bird of Staten Island, that kind of neatly-manicured and perfectly cosmetic-ed, gum-snapping bimbo in designer everything, who probably awakes each morning to find a condom lodged in her vagina with no clue as to how it got there. Around here, she's known as Anna Putana (Putana = Italian for "Whore"), the 20-something, shallow, dumb-as-dogshit, Snooki-wannabe who's life revolves around nightclubs, Prada, and endless junior-high drama in which the main character is almost certain to be a knuckle-dragging Soprano's caricature named "Joey".

She is not to be mistaken for Staten Island's National Flower, The Morning After Spermburper, although the two are very often confused by the uninitiated.

So, Anna Putana gets out of her vehicle...and she's already on the cell phone. In fact, she was on the cell phone when she attempted the high-speed turn on slick streets with pedestrians in the crosswalk. The other driver and I ask if she's okay; she holds up her hand to silence us. You have got to be kidding. The Phone Call must continue:

Danielle, you won't believe what just fuckin' happened! Motherfucker! I'm gonna be late for my appointment.

It turns out this "appointment" is for...all together now...a mani-pedi. She was in a rush to have her nails done. Heaven forbid Anna should be forced to put her precious hooves into her Uggs without having them stripped of dead skin first, with her cuticles left untrimmed.

This ... I hesitate to call it a woman ... has just been in an automobile accident. One that she's caused. Her car is seriously damaged. She's almost killed one person, and wrecked someone else's car, and she can't put the fucking phone down. The Other Driver and I look at each other, dumbfounded. He shrugs, and whips out his own cell phone out and says he's going to call the cops.

This, naturally, Anna hears. It forces her to cut her own phone call short.

Danielle...I gotta call you back, this fuckin' asshole's callin' the cops!

Now begins the song-and-dance as this young scifuza (Ski-FOO-zah = also Italian for "Whore") tries to get the Other Driver to NOT call the Police. This is, it seems, the worst of all possibilities to her. She begs the guy not to call the cops, but he won't relent. She would have offered him oral sex, I'm certain, had there not been a third person (Me) within earshot. Then again, she looks like she's had two penises simultaneously at least once in her life. She tries to hop back into her car, presumably to make a getaway...only it won't move; the front end is flattened. So, she gets back on the cell phone:

Joey? Yeah, you have to come to (the scene of the accident), some guy is calling the cops on me.

Told you there was a Joey in there, somewhere.

I'm sticking around because a) I'm a witness, and b) I want that bitch in handcuffs. Besides, this is about to get good -- Joey has been called -- I know he'll arrive with the usual assortment of bozos.

They always do.

Now the argument starts. She's not at fault -- the other driver was sticking out into the intersection, she claims. Pure bullshit, of course. She tried to make a turn before I, the pedestrian, made her wait an extra 10-15 seconds, and cut it too fine. I saw it. She's offering to have the guy's car fixed, her boyfriend (Joey, naturally) does bodywork, and do we have to get a police report and get the insurance companies involved? The ambulance arrives first. No one has been hurt, but Anna suddenly feels light-headed and her neck hurts at the sight of an ambulance. I know her type: her neck is probably the strongest part of her body, after her mouth, so it's a transparent ploy for sympathy.

The Police arrive and take statements from Anna, The Other Driver and Myself, and begin to direct traffic around the accident. Suddenly, when there's an actual cop on the scene, every driver on this fucking rock remembers the rules of the road, and behaves themselves. A tow truck pulls up, and starts removing Anna's car, now looking like a beer can crushed against a frat boy's forehead. How the hell she managed to walk away from that is a fucking mystery to me; I had not realized the damage was that extensive, at first. Reminder to myself: never buy a fucking Honda.

Having had the ambulance folks check her out, and finding no sign of obvious injury, Anna is back on the cell phone. She's crying to someone, probably her father (it's a rule in the Gumsnapping Bimbo's Handbook : when in trouble, you call Joey first, your Father second) , that she is being arrested. The charges: reckless driving, driving without a license, driving without insurance, attempting to flee the scene of an accident, and using a cell phone while operating a motor vehicle. They should have added insult to injury and given her a ticket for being an asshole, too. The Police are going to escort Anna to the hospital for a more thorough physical examination before they send her to the hoosegow. She is being loaded into the ambulance when "Joey" finally arrives.

I know Joey. I've seen him in the museum in those "Family of Man" displays. He's usually somewhere between Homo Habillius and Neanderthal Man, or would be if either of those human ancestors wore Guinea Tees and reeked of Axe Body Spray. Joey must argue with the cops. Strictly speaking, he doesn't actually need to, but there's a rule in the Ultimate Guide to Goombahs that compels him to do so, or maybe it's a genetic defect, or the limited intellect contained within a tiny braincase. No matter. The Argument and attendant chest-beating is a biological compulsion. He has to argue over why his girlfriend is being arrested. He's not satisfied with the answer (i.e. she committed a crime and caused an accident). Out comes HIS cell phone. Naturally, he's talking to someone named "Vinny". Somehow, you knew there had to be a Vinny in there, somewhere. Whatever he's saying, I can't tell you. All I hear is "fuck, fuck, fuckin', fuck, this shit, fuck, fuckin', fuck, fuck".

That's almost poetry in this parish.

Anyways, I'm given information by the police officers about my role as a witness, and I'm asked if I have any charges to press. I figure Anna already has enough problems; she's a whore, she's shackled to Joey, and she can't drive for shit. Why pile on? Besides, the cops now have another problem on their hands; because another car arrives, and three more Ginzos hop out. None of them seems to have gotten the message that hair gel went out of fashion some time ago. They have parked their SUV in such a way as to restrict traffic from making right turns from the very place where Anna launched her tragic left. This is not surprising because they haven't come to see if anyone is hurt, they aren't there as concerned citizens to lend a hand to someone in need; they're there to help Joey beat the snot out of The Other Driver, obviously because Joey can't do it himself without messing up his own mani-pedi.

Joey, you see, talks a good game, but in reality he's a pussy. The ones who do the Tough Guy Routine usually are.

These guys came specifically to cause even more trouble. Don't ask me why they do this, because I can't really explain it. If I had to guess, it's so that they can add the distinction of a criminal record to their "reputation" without actually having committed a serious crime, or done real time. In the repeated, oft-embellished, retelling of the tale the arrestee will have beaten seven or eight cops to a bloody pulp before finally being tazered -- twice -- and taken into custody. In actuality, he will have been wrestled to the ground by a female cop, and meekly submitted to the subsequent handcuffing. He will have the satisfaction of hearing people who don't know the truth whisper to one another in the crowded beer-and-ecstasy mills-with-urine-all-over-the-floor that they congregate in, "don't fuck with that guy...he's done time".

Intelligence is not exactly at a premium in the cirlces these cretins move in.

Now the cops have their hands full. What was a routine traffic accident has now become a mini-riot because three dumbasses with more hormones than brains have decided that the only thing that can make this situation better is to attack an innocent guy. Of course, there is not going to be an actual beating; there are five or six cops on the scene. No, they have come to help Joey put on a mountain-gorilla display of empty machismo. There's something seriously wrong with this New Generation of Italian-American; they look like metrosexuals and have adopted the Urban Patois of African-Americans, right down to the exaggerated mannerisms, threats to violence, and gun-related innuendo. I can't tell you how many sideways-pointed gun gestures were made at The Other Driver each delivered with a chorus of "fuck you, Motherfuckah! I'll cap yo' ass, Bitch!"

I thought I was in a hip-hop video for a minute.

Of course, that's always shouted from behind the safety of a wall of cops. If they were real men, they'd just do it, and not just talk about it. If it were up to me, this sort of mental defective would be gassed, en masse.

Eventually, because this is also part of the process, someone else has to get arrested. It's unavoidable, like death, taxes, and Nancy Pelosi causing a severe Botox shortage on the day of a television appearance. Lou Ragu just can't put his testicles in neutral despite repeated warnings from a cop to knock it off, and he finds himself wearing stainless steel bracelets. He can't help himself, because he's somehow not "authentically Italian" in his circles if he doesn't (over-)act like a complete douche, create a problem where none exists, and piss a cop off in the process. As soon as someone gets arrested, the small riot magically disperses. The display has had it's intended effect: to convince anyone who's witnessed it that there's a strange genetic mutation running through the Italian community of Staten Island, New York.

It's fucking embarrassing.

Anyhow, sometime soon I expect a summons to court in the case of The People of New York State v. Roseanne Rosannadanna, Joey Baggadonuts, Salvatore Badabing, Nicky Potatosalad, et. al.

You Mean Those Bike Lanes that No One Uses?

The City of New York can find more ways to waste money than just about any government entity on the planet.

Several years ago, these bike lanes were painted on the streets -- very expensively, and in the face of much public opposition -- and touted as the greatest thing since Luke Skywalker was told the amazing secret of his dark and sinister lineage. Mayor Mind-Everyone's-Business, said so. Alas, they have gone mostly unused.

There's several reasons for this:

1. The City put some of them in the stupidest places. Three blocks from my home you can ride the bike path all along North and South Railroad Avenues...right up until the time both streets come to an abrupt end within about a mile, or so. And those two don't even connect to another bike path; you have to travel across other streets, in normal traffic, just to get to another bicycle path to continue your Journey to Nowhere.

2. The City insisted on painting these bike lanes on some of the narrowest major thoroughfares on Staten Island, so that bicyclists just might as well be riding in traffic, anyways. Many of our streets still follow the haphazard routes they did in Colonial Times, and few of them have been widened 230+ years later. Considering how many bus stops and stores there are along some of these roads, the bikers have to weave in-and-out of the lane and into traffic to avoid the buses and the delivery trucks. Most of these bikers don't have the same brainpower you'd expect to find in a garden slug, and consequently, they don't signal. Many are under the mistaken impression that someone doing 55-in-a-40-zone, with three screaming brats in the back, putting on her makeup in the rearview, and dialing a cell phone while driving a 3-ton SUV, are possessed of a gymnast's reflexes, and will most certainly stop to avoid hitting them. Heaven forbid a biker should have to stop to let the flow of traffic pass them by.

3. I can't tell you how many bicyclists haven't figured out how to navigate intersections. There's two kinds of biker in this category; a) the effete, metrosexual douchebag who believes that where the bike lane is broken by an intersection, he still has the right of way, no matter what, insisting that the lane must be assumed to be infinite where it isn't -- and besides, he's superior to you car-driving slugs, and b) people who will wear bright yellow or reflective orange spandex in public without a clue, fear of embarrassment, and despite open questions about their lineage and/or sexual preferences.

4. There is a brand of biker in this City that is so in-your-face about the superiority of the Watermelon EnviroMENTAList biker code, that they deliberately weave in-and-out of the lanes to obstruct traffic, curse and threaten those making legal turns across the bike lanes, and take every opportunity they can to delay traffic and antagonize motorists as a sport. Consequently, this being New York, many of those obnoxious bikers find themselves involved in "accidents" that range from the unintended open car door, the "unintentional" nudge of SUV or Full-Size sedan that occurs after the biker flips someone the bird (commonplace!), to the City Bus Driver who "just didn't see him (The Spandex-wearing buttsniffer) in my blind spot". Consequently, these bike lanes get less use by the day, because the more aggressive bike riders are recovering from the consequences of their own stupidity...and more often, their just desserts.

5. The only people dumber than Staten Island bicyclists are those tens of thousands of assholes who congregate here every year for the New York City Marathon. Fort Wadsworth on Staten Island is the starting point for the Marathon, and the runners begin their first leg by crossing the Verrazano-Narrows bridge...which must be closed for the event. Just so a few thousand doofuses can have the "experience" of trying to run 26-miles while keeping control of bowel and bladder...only to fail, dropping dead from heart attacks along the way.

This is rich:

"It’s a major step backwards. It’s sad, and to do it without input from the community is, in a word, arrogant."

Umm, no; the lanes were originally PUT IN without input from the community (Mayor Bloomberg insisted upon them, and he presumes to know better about everything than we do, the asshole), and the person who gave this quote should remember the old saw about people in Glass Houses; The Bike Riders of this Island are a bunch of arrogant cocksuckers who believe a bicycle should be allowed to go wherever they can get it to, and worse, they're aggressive in this arrogance; just ask anyone who has had to dodge bicycles and their metrosexual owners who insist on riding upon the Boardwalk, through the train stations and trains themselves, and the Ferry.

Mr. "This-is-in-a-word-Arrogant" Douchebag, you're lucky you're still alive; I know a ton of drivers who would just love to run a dope like you over, if they could get away with it.

I want to know how the City justifies the money they spent in painting these monstrosities on the street in the first place, only to cover or remove them five years later? I have a better chance of winning the lottery than getting the answer to that question.

The Stupidity of "Mantracker"...

Not that this is really important, but it just irritates the hell out of me.

There's a "reality" television show on the Discovery Channel called "Mantracker" in which a modern-day cowboy/backwoodsman/second-rate-Marlboro-Man-knockoff is called upon to basically hunt two complete morons who have volunteered to run around in the wilderness while being followed about by a television production crew. Somehow, this is supposed to be entertaining. It mostly isn't -- unless there's hot chicks being chased. There's a few things obviously wrong with this "game";

a) The "Prey" is starting from a known location and expected to win by beating Mantracker to another known location. Therefore, Mantracker begins the"game" with an advantage; he knows where the finish line is, and his "local guide" can be expected to be at least familiar enough with the terrain to know the best routes to that finish line.

b) The Prey is almost constantly being filmed or taped, as is Mantracker. If Mantracker can't find any sign of the Prey (assuming the Prey is half-way intelligent enough to cover it's tracks/hide it's progress), how do you know he isn't just following the freakin' camera crews tracks, or zeroing in on pre-ordained "waypoints" where the camera crew is already waiting for the Prey to arrive?

c) Very few folks actually beat Mantracker, and when they do, it's usually because Mantracker is about as smart as a doberman with a brain tumor -- which tells you something about the Prey, doesn't it? -- and makes a fundamental mistake (like not following the trail of the camera crew?), or they use a strategy of blazing a trail through terrain where Mantraker's horse can't follow easily. Which is like, duh!, the one strategy you should use all the time.

d) Mantracker and his guide ride horses, the Prey is on foot. It would be much more impressive if Mantracker didn't have the ability to cover far more ground per day than the moronic City-Slicker-Watermelon-Green-metrosexual-wanna-bes (i.e. "Outdoorsy Types") he's typically hunting.

Someone should get this crap off the air, as it has no redeeming value whatsoever and is incredibly tedious, predictable, and boring.

I'm beginning to think the days of the Reality TV show might be coming to an end if this poorly-thought-out premise actually made it to a TV screen. We're scraping the bottom of the barrel, here.

Thomas Friedman: Peckerhead...

The New York Times pays this douche a lot, for writing with the insight --and vocabulary --of a fourth grader, and for pretending to be smarter than you average Irish Setter...and not me?

Tea Parties Are More like "Tea Kettle" Parties.

Friedman makes two mistakes here; the first is that he's writing about something he so obviously knows nothing about. The second is to believe that anyone who isn't already a retard takes him seriously.

I'm sure the premise behind your "opinion piece" was received with a great deal of giggling from your panty-bunched-stick-up-their-asses-libtard-metrosexual-asshole-butt-buddies at the Times water cooler, Tom, but you shouldn't have taken that as a tacit encouragement to write something this incredibly vapid. You should know by now that when the nancy-boys at the Times snicker so, it isn't because they've found your little diatribe oh-so-clever; it's because they've just wet themselves. They like the feeling of wet shorts against their skin, and they also derive a sick pleasure from their own urine...

So do you -- don't deny it.

Unfortunately, one has to reach the very, very end of Mr. Friedman's Tour-de-Force of ignorance to reach the only sentence which makes sense, or which allows the reader to momentarily feel as if the effort required to get through Friedman's nonsense wasn't a total waste of time;

"Maureen Dowd is off Today".

I'm So Glad You've Wasted Your Parent's Money...

A new wave of hate mail came in this morning. A small army of college students (they must be college students, because the e-mail addresses all contained a .edu suffix) wrote to call me the usual laundry list of nasty names, and to look down their oh-so-superior noses at my shameless, out-dated, bourgeois attitudes about everything from Illegal Immigration to the Heartbreak of Psoriasis.

There's a general consensus amongst these Complete-Strangers-I've-Never-Met that I must be a fat, rich, Conservative, Christian hater, so lacking in basic human compassion and "awareness" (whatever the fuck that means), that I can spew forth the most vile and venomous hatred imaginable -- and that I'm probably getting fatter and richer while doing it. I know your "Professor" probably put you up to it, if only because your missives were all eerily similar; there's no way you came up with this utter bullshit on your own.

What can I say? You've caught me out! You're all so fucking clever! Boy, I wish I had gone to college and got me some of them kinna smarts! But, in my defense, please allow me to offer the following explanation for my disgusting misdeeds, so that you may better understand me and the great pain my privileged lifestyle causes. It is the burden of this incredible wealth that makes me such an asshole, you see.

You see, I awake every day at about 11:00 a.m. I do this because, well, I don't need to work, what with my enormous stake in all those child-labor-intensive tennis shoe factories in India. And the Chinese Recycled Puppy Organ factories (the ones my brokers got me into. That IPO just took off, dude!), which enables me to draw the most incredible dividends without having to lift a finger. Earning wealth? Why, I'm stealing so much wealth from the Deserving Poor, that I no longer need The-Job-I-Used-to-Get-Paid-Six-Figures-For-But-Which-Now-Belongs-To-Some-Douche-in-Hong-Kong-Who-Gets-Paid-15-cents-a-Week.

I make the Catholic Church, AIG, and Haliburton all seem like penny-ante operations!

Once I count up the overnight receipts, I get into my $3,000 Armani jogging suit (only fine South-African-Baby-Skin for me!), and take the gold-plated elevator down the 11 stories to the ground floor. I step gingerly out the front door, taking nary a step before I'm certain my Filipino Umbrella Boy is there to protect me from the deadly rays of the Sun. I walk down the flight of stairs at my front door (Whew! Four steps! I simply MUST put in an escalator), and gingerly step over the bodies of the thirty-or-forty people who died there overnight for lack of health insurance, ready to step into my sparkling, fossil-fuel-gulping stretch SUV.

I'm told it gets something like 4-feet to the gallon, highway

My transgendered-half-Haitian-half-Nicaraguan-three-quarters-Tibetan chauffeur, whom I beat three times a week, and pay 17-cents a month, opens the door for me before taking me for my morning constitutional to the local Starbucks -- four blocks away. However, because I fervently wish to destroy the planet with Carbon Dioxide, I instruct the driver to take me on a quick jaunt through Philadelphia. There, I make certain that I stick my middle finger out of the back window and laugh at "the working poor", who's only job seems to be collecting aluminum cans out of other people's trash cans, or fashioning crackpipes out of common household materials.

Still, it's an honest day's work, I'm sure.

I send Driver into the Starbucks, and he returns a short time later with my Double-Latte-Triple- Caramel-Mochiatta-with-extra-whipped-cream, only to have him make me box his ears because he's forgotten the 4 pounds of Madeleines that I will stuff down my gullet this afternoon while I lay in my hammock, and the Two One-Quarter-Liberian-Three-Fifths-Azerbaijani-One-Seventh Thai girls I keep on staff fan me with oversized-ostrich feathers, and feed me peeled grapes and Beluga. Naturally, when I've had enough of that, I will of course rape them and dispose of the bodies, knowing that if the police come looking for me, I can simply buy my way out at trial.

Done it at least a dozen times, you know.

When we arrive home, I find 10 more dead bodies on the croquet lawn -- probably illegal aliens seeking landscaping jobs -- three having apparently kicked the bucket giving birth to crack babies. No matter; when Manuel, the humpbacked four-sixths-Cree-Indian-two-one-hundredths-Mexican-eleven-twelfths-Pacific-Islander-groundskeeper-that-I-pay-no-Social-Security-taxes-on is released from his damp-and-darkened basement lodgings, he will simply clean them up with the rest, or I will sell his children into slavery.

I then spend the late afternoon at the pool, where my yacht "Mother Gaia's Twat" is tied up. Wait, did I say "pool"? Sorry, I meant my private inland sea that I created by the simple expedient of digging a large hole in front of my palatial, beach-front estate, and then sending Mamaluccaboboday, the one-fifth-Kalahari-Bushman-two-fifths-Iranian-seventeen-forty-seconds Cambodian, who makes $5 a year, in my private jet to the North Pole to kill polar bears with an RPG launcher and a dull butter knife so that the ocean levels rise just enough to fill it.

For shits and giggles, I instruct the crew (32 of them, all of Yemeni-Maori-Eskimo descent) to put the pedal-to-the-metal, sending all six of the 13,000 horsepower engines into overdrive to send my 132' dinghy crashing over the salty waves at a brisk 7 knots-at-32-gallons-of-diesel-fuel-a-second, while I sip Muay Thais out of Blood-Diamond-encrusted goblets -- a personal gift from Ken Lay before he passed on. If we're lucky, we run over an Atlantic fur seal or twelve during our circuit, and I have the pelts fashioned into pocket handkerchiefs with which to blow my nose. Once.

Alas, evening falls, and I must retire to the main dining room -- which has more incandescent light bulbs than the Las Vegas strip -- to dine upon a succulent feast of Dolphin, Spotted Owls, and Siberian Tiger, prepared for me by my three-quarters-Korean-one-half-Hungarian-five-ninths-Cuban chef, who spoon-feeds me every last morsel, and then lets me shit in his hands and thanks me for the privilege. I check the stock quotes (made another 5-mil off the Laotian Embryonic-Stem-Cells-for-food Program, today -- thanks for the tip, Bill Clinton!), and then watch the O'Reilly Factor during my evening Shiatsu. I am now ready to retire to my luxurious Super-King-Sized-stuffed-kitten-fur bed -- complete with a canopy with pictures of Glenn Beck, Sarah Palin, Bernie Madoff and Adolf Hitler, all of them my childhood heroes, emblazoned upon it -- visions of dollar signs and starving Sub-Saharan waifs dancing behind my eyelids, a smile upon my lips.

And so ends another productive day of Raping the Earth for Personal Profit.

However, the drudgery only begins anew the following morning. Oh, the horror of this dull routine! And look at this financial news: Kazakh Sex Slaves down another 4 points this morning! However do they expect me to pay for ObamaCare and still have fresh ostrich eggs for breakfast every morning at this rate?

It's no wonder I'm such a miserable bastard...

Well kids, there you have it. I know Professor Dickhead, who found this site quite by accident, and only turned you on to it as a valuable lesson in the fine art of Hurling-Invective-At-Strangers-Safe-Behind-The-Anonymity-of-the-Net-as-Political-Discourse-Project for your Toilet Training 201 course, but really, is this how you think? Or rather, is it how you're told to think by an aging hippie who didn't have the talent for a real job?

The End of Civilization...

...arrives not with a bang, but with a menopausal whine. For we are now officially living in the Age of Cougarlife. It was advertised on television today, and I nearly choked when I saw it (and not only because it was somewhat funny).

What is Cougarlife? It's a dating website for Cougars. What's a Cougar? Urban Dictionary has six definitions, which I will combine into one, easy-to-comprehend super-definition:

An older woman (35+ years old), often divorced and surgically-enhanced/preserved, but still attractive (if she's unattractive, she known as a mountain lion) found in all the usual haunts (bars, nightclubs, the beach, etc.), in search of younger, energetic, sexually-adventurous men.

The Cougar has an upside for the younger man; unlike many younger women, the Cougar is not likely to play games, or to be coy or confused about what she wants. She is seeking sex, usually consequence-free. There is a special sub-category of Cougar, known as the Bobcat, whose ultimate goal is to simply experience some form of intimacy -- any sort of intimacy -- without actually going all the way. Then there's the Cheetah, who is, I'm told, simply a Cougar-in-training (not quite old enough to qualify for full Cougar-hood, just yet).

This phenomena has spawned a new generation of opportunistic cad, known as the Cougar Hawk: young men on the prowl specifically for Cougars.

Damn, I gotta get out more, because I had not realized that human associations were being categorized in this manner. Then again, perhaps I'm better off staying home, because the more I read about this stuff, the sicker I get, as it seems yet one more sign of the ultimate degeneration of society as we know it.

In another day-and-age, the Cougar would be called various other names, beginning with "Skank", perhaps progressing to "Barfly", but finally arriving at the old formulation of "whore".

There are much cruder terms that I remember from my youth, which are far more descriptive and accurate, but which I will refrain from using. There was a time when women like this would be expected to feel some sense of shame, unless they were completely clueless. Now, apparently, promiscuity is a badge of courage.

Don't get me wrong, Men have been dogs since the model first slithered out of the Primordial Slime, and I do realize that times, fashions and mores change with "progress", but damn...Some of us can still respect a woman just because we're supposed to, you know.

I wonder how many of the padded-bra-and-girdle set who will undoubtedly sign up with Cougarlife (because once it's online, it somehow becomes hip) were probably the same women who spent most of their lives demanding respect from the Patriarchy, putting up with ex-husbands who only regarded them as good for one thing, and complained constantly about what absolute shitheels men, in general, are. They are now more-or-less advertising that they're willing to forego respect, and actively seek out shitheels, because...well, they're only good for one thing, and only to someone who probably won't appreciate them for it afterwards.

I'm not judging any woman who actually joins this site -- I know it sounds as if I am -- but I will tell say this about you;

If you thought you were treated like a piece of meat by every swinging dick on planet Earth before, just wait until the Internet makes this a 24-7-365 proposition. Despite the"Cougar" lifestyle and rules -- in which you're supposed to not form emotional attachments, and not expect him to call you the next day -- you know you ultimately will form bonds, and expect an acknowledgement of your existence because, well...you're female... and just that's how you're wired. This may seem like the greatest idea on Earth right now, but I can promise you that it'll eventually leave you feeling emptier than when you started.

Because, in the end, this isn't about you "empowering" yourself; it's all about Men once again finding yet another way (this time by using the power of Social Networking and Marketing!) to manipulate you into consequence-free sex, and making it seem like it was all your idea.

It's Time To Start Punching Some People in the Mouth...

This just happened on FoxNews (video to follow later);

One of those panty-bunched, bedwetting, liberal, God-I-Want-To-Kick-Him-In-The-Balls-If-Only-He-Had-Any, disgustingly-metrosexual retards from California (he was identified as Ken Yeager, County Supervisor for the City of Santa Clara) was just on talking about his newest ploy to Save the World from Itself.

He has introduced a law that will ban toys from Happy Meals.

This jerkoff believes that the toys are designed to bring children into contact with fatty, high-sodium, high-sugar foods, which will eventually kill them all in the most grotesque and horrible fashion imaginable, and that parents are so overwhelmed that they might not be able to make good decisions about their children's health and food choices. So the State must help them. How the State will "help them make better decisions" is by removing the temptation to the children -- i.e. it will ban something.

I've told you a hundred times: once you give the State the responsibility for providing you Health Care, it now demands that it get to regulate your behavior in return. Some people still haven't gotten the message, I guess.

I'm not advocating anything -- well, really, I am. But since what I'm advocating only applies to people who have already decided they have the right to deny me my rights, or who consider me nothing less than a knuckle-dragging nosepicker who needs their enlightened ideas to keep me from sticking my privates into a wall outlet. I detest people like you. I hate you. If I could offer you all to Usama bin Laden and his band of cutthroat goat-fuckers, I would. In a heartbeat. I wouldn't even take any money for it. I'd consider it a public service.

There. Now,about these people...

Firstly, they're assholes. Worse, they're busybody assholes. They are incapable of minding their own business. This is either because of very poor potty training, or because they believe they have the right to dictate behavior to others. No one conferred that distinction upon them, except themselves and the other pompous fartsniffers they pal around with. These people need a beating. A severe one. And this time, it's not a metaphorical beating that I'm talking about, it's a real, honest-to-Gosh, physical ass-whipping. They are pretentious little snotbags who can't take a polite "Thank you, but I'd like to live my own life for a bit, if you don't mind" for a hint. If they reserve the right to examine and explore and comment upon every aspect of my life, unbidden and without permission, I reserve the right to smash their faces.

Secondly, all you're really doing is punishing the kids. Getting the toy, whether at McDonald's or in a box of Cracker Jacks, is usually a joyous occasion. It's an experience; it's a happy time, it's fun. . The toy is not the problem. The food isn't even the problem (not that it's the best for you, I know). The problem is that the kids are spending all of their time sitting in front of beeping little boxes playing mind-warping games (I know they warp minds; they've warped mine!), instead of being outside running around, jumping, playing and skating and otherwise being physically active. They don't get any physical education in school. Mostly because the money that would have gone to Phys Ed. instead went to teach them how to use condoms and taught them the finer points of anal sex. The Safety Nazis then outlawed monkey bars (that's when the Racial Hustlers didn't object to the term "Monkey Bars" and had them dismantled before the Safety Nazis did), and that was way before Dodgeball suddenly had life-altering, incurable psychological effects that used to be attributed either to rape victims or war survivors.

Thirdly, if one of these peckerheads isn't scooping up his missing teeth after he makes one of his typically-tightass "suggestions" that requires the force of law, heavy fines, and new revenue stream for the State, he'll continue to do it again and again. He'll invent new "problems" that he can put his superior and socially-conscious brain to work on, and the next thing you'll know, you won't be able to use soap (it winds up in the rivers, lakes and oceans, you know). Tieing your own shoes will become the province of the Government and local school board (children who can't tie their shoes by age 12 suffer horrible self-esteem issues which will have to remedied with Velcro-lock shoes, which will later be banned because Velcro doesn't decompose in a landfill). You'll be banned from saying "God Bless You!" to someone -- a courtesy and measure of politeness -- because of the implied religious bias inherent in the phrase.

Finally, there was never a problem on Planet Earth that couldn't be solved by a good, old-fashioned knuckledusting. Ever. I have spent half my life in bars (sadly) and I can tell you this; I have seen even the worst of enemies suddenly become friends after they've gotten drunk and kicked each other's asses up and down the street. There's a transformation that takes place after the fight is over; people begin to respect one another after they've been in a tussle. Boundaries get established, and very often, friendships bloom and a deeper understanding is achieved. You don't think so? Ask every man in your life if this isn't true; Men who hate each other can often become friends-for-life after they've tried to beat the shit out of one another. It's a rule in barrooms, you know.

I'd like to be very friendly with people like Mr. Yeager, and make a much greater effort to understand them. How about you?

Detroit, New York, What's the Diff?

J. Robert Smith at Pajamas Media muses upon the Post Office and a Green Detroit, and it's a cautionary tale for the rest of us.

Mr. Smith shouldn't fool himself into thinking it's only democrats that think this way. Our so-called republican (probably because it was the cheapest label to buy) Mayor of Noo Yawk, Michael Bloomberg -- Patron Saint of Virgin Spinsters and the Perpetually-Pantybunched -- was so convinced that only his divine beneficence could "save" this city from it's looming Wall-Street-induced fiscal crisis that he went out and had the goddamned election laws changed so that he could serve a third term.

And once he'd accomplished re-election -- spending $100 million bucks of his own hard earned coin. At least he had that much decency -- and then winning by a mere 4% over a democratic candidate that ran such a lackluster, torturous, tedious campaign of inanity, inertia and hot air that you would have thought he was the National Spokesperson for Constipation, did Saint Bloomberg turn his considerable talents towards helping New York navigate the current financial crisis?

No.

Did he, perhaps, set about enacting the vital reforms that are needed in this city, which is slowly having it's lifeblood sucked out of it by voracious public unions, a rising crime rate, fleeing businesses, rising unemployment rates, shrinking tax base, unchecked illegal immigration and higher levels of government spending?

Of course not.

Then what, exactly, is he doing?

Trying to pass a law restricting how much salt finds it's way into my food...

That's after, of course, he's already passed laws outlawing transfats, making certain I have all the nutritional information available on my Whopper with Cheese posted at the cash register, and eliminated the serving of sugary drinks in public schools (where they still somehow manage to serve corndogs, pizza and processed chicken nuggets, according to my nephews).

This is the Mayor who's also cordoned off sections of the city that used to be open to vehicular traffic so that now you can walk all the way up Broadway, from Times Square to Central Park on the weekends, assuming you'd want to considering there's a subway available to save you the trouble and shoe leather. It's not as if there's much scenery to enjoy between 42nd and Columbus Circle -- unless you like office towers.

It's the same Mayor who once suggested "congestion pricing" plans by which tolls charged on river crossings to enter the city from the Outer Boroughs would be adjusted by time of day and general level of traffic. The idea was a) to restrict vehicle traffic into the City and thus, clean the air and make traffic flow more smoothly, and b) raise a shitload of money while simultaneously denying the benefits and niceties of the City to those who live in the Outer Boroughs for the benefit of the transplanted Upper East Side libtards.

It's both class and economic warfare, veiled by the pledge of "it's all for the Common Good..".

The City of New York is always on the lookout for a buck; so much so that it inspects your garbage, which had better be thrown in out in clear, see-through plastic bags, and placed in the proper trash receptacle if you wish to avoid a fine greater than that given to speeders, drunk drivers or public urinators (don't ask me how I know that!).

You can no longer smoke in public, assuming you can afford cigarettes; which now average nearly $10 a pack. Michael Bloomberg has succeeded in making crack a cheaper and more attractive alternative to tobacco. In the meantime, the city's poor continue to get fatter and sicker (a steady diet of welfare-funded Twinkies and Fatback will do that to you), and the hospitals ever-more crowded with pregnant illegals with tuberculosis and AIDS, and the Union workers who run them get richer and do less work, and this is why the taxes on cigarettes had to be raised in the first place; to save the hospitals.

At least that's what they said...

The rot started under democrats (I remember the days of Abe Beam, Hugh Carey, Ed Koch and David Dinkins with something less than nostalgia, more like nausea), but then something mysterious happened: some republicans came along -- like Rudy Giuliani and Mike Bloomberg -- and they not only did their republican schtick and cut crime and spending (although Bloomberg loves raising taxes), they also carried on some of the stupidity and freedom-choking policies of their predecessors. For Rudy it was mostly about guns, but for St. Mikey it's all about his Upper East Sider friends and their "enlightened" sensibilities.

Blooomberg's fiercely-mextrosexual, self-appointed-Manhattan-elite are the new Lords of the Manor, and we're the serfs.

Now Micheal Bloomberg spends all his time, and his vast fortune, to ensure you're eating arugula and lemon grass and his friends get to walk their fancy, teacup lapdogs in Central Park, or to enjoy the boisterous Open-Air flea markets selling counterfeit goods and authentic West African food poisoning that now dominate Midtown on the weekends, all without having to encounter a taxi, an SUV, or a tourist (unless they have really neat European accents), or worse -- one of the proles from Queens or Staten Island -- while every potential employer flees the city because of crushing tax burdens, regulatory expenses and overpaid Union labor, and the State floats upon a sea of red ink.

The only thing missing from Micheal Bloomberg's New York City is a Bastille for us scum to storm.

And people wonder why nearly a decade after 9/11 there's still a great, big, gaping 19-acre hole in the ground?

In many respects, New York and Detroit are already sister cities.

Why Did It Take a Canadian to Write This?

David Warren in the Ottawa Citizen takes a swipe at feminism, terrorism, airport (in-)security, Islamonazis, political correctness and the devaluation of the manly virtues...in one fell swoop.

And it's got hockey, too? I think I just had an orgasm....

This is required reading! Pass it on to everyone you know.

(H/T FiveFeetofFury)

We Need More Teachers Like This...

Mike Adams explains why all men are created equal...-ly annoying.

I Think The Wrong People Won the Civil War...

I was saddened today to learn that the State of North Carolina has finally succumbed to it's self-inflicted infection of imported Yankees and instituted a state-wide smoking ban in restaurants, bars and public areas.

This is what happens when you allow several million whining north-easterners into your state; they gradually begin to remake the place according to their own whims. If they can't do it with money, they eventually get it done with votes, and if that fails, they whine...incessantly...until you give them what they want. The influx of Northerners into Raleigh and Charlotte following the technology and banking jobs, have brought you to this sorry state of affairs. You can't smoke in the state that lives and dies on tobacco?

Mark my words, North Carolina; the ban will gradually be extended. Soon, you'll not be able to smoke in front of a public building, never mind that you're outside. Not long after that, there will be great debates about whether people who own condominiums in high-rise buildings are allowed to smoke in their own home because of the proximity of their neighbors.

All the while Cigarette taxes will continue to climb, as Yankees gradually spread the misinformation that smokers burden the Health Care System, (wrong; uninsured illegal aliens and AIDS victims burden the Health Care System) which is 'underfunded'. Mostly because the same Yankees screamed that their pet disease du jour -- Juvenile Ingrown Toenails, Athlete's Tongue, Homoerotic Scrofula -- be funded to such an extent that money was diverted from basic care just to shut them up, and to show that the politicians care.

Soon, you too can live in New York; a place where you can't smoke except in a closet equipped with it's own separate air-circulation system, where cigarettes cost $10 a pack, mostly because of taxes to pay for hospitals that are full of drug addicts, AIDS patients, illegal aliens, and people who have lived far longer than they ever had any right or expectation to without insurance or savings. But it's your fault, Smokers; Even if you will eventually have that massive stroke or heart attack in your 60's that will kill you instantly, and thus save the community the burden of having you linger on for months and years, taking up valuable resources.

Things like this are ultimately driven by other motives; the first is the nerve of pushy people to believe they know better, that they can dictate the conditions of other people's lives. And then they have the nerve to say that they do it for the common good. Kathy Shaidle at FiveFeetOfFury likes to tell this sort of pretentious, presumptuous, obnoxious Soccer-Mom/Metrosexual type "You're not smart enough to tell me how to live."

The second motive is to use the process of Incrementalism to slowly erode your personal rights while simultaneously picking your pocket. Politicians cannot help but spend money -- other people's money. It's their disease (how long before that becomes 'underfunded'?). And eventually, they spend so much that the traditional sources ("revenue streams" as they say on Wall Street) dry up, and they have to find more ways to steal from the public. When they can present this theft as a positive boon for society, they're even more dangerous and dishonest. This is all about raising taxes at some point -- and then wasting the money.

And don't think you've escaped if you chew. They'll get you people next with a SNU-tax, and justify that on the basis "of an increase in oral cancers", and to keep these "gateway tobacco products" out of the "hands of the children".

It's always about "the Children." with this crowd, isn't it?

No it isn't, but that's how they fool you. It's about persecuting people they don't like, and since they can no longer persecute Blacks, Jews, Hispanics, Italians, Irish, and whatnot in public anymore, they've had to find new targets for hate but in a way that doesn't get them punched in the face; so they started picking on Christians and Smokers. If I were still in Charlotte tonight, I'd start thinking about joining one of them Civil War re-enactment groups. And then I'd start thinking about how I could get them to join me in doing it for real.

This Just In: Lincoln Wasn't Gay...

Of course not! He was Italian -- everyone knows that! Eventually, every historical figure and icon gets co-opted for the purposes of identity politics, and sometimes it just goes to extremes that stretch the boundaries of credulity and good taste. Like this one. The guy who wrote the article even points out the progenitor of the rumor doesn't care whether it's true or not.

Yeah, we get it, -- you're gay -- okay? You only talk about it incessantly, and even if you didn't, most of us can tell. Really. After 20 years of working with homosexuals (of all stripes), I'm pretty sure I could identify about 95% of the gay folks in a room, despite their best efforts to hide it. In fact, most of you make no effort to hide it at all. So, could you please stop? It's getting embarrassing and annoying, which is why no one takes you seriously no matter how badly you misbehave, stretch the truth or try to shock our sensibilities. You're acting like petulant children. It's why we don't care.

I do, however, care that you think I should care. What's it me if you're gay? Has no bearing on my life, and I already have my own problems, thank you very much. I'm sorry it doesn't make you feel special to know that I actually don't think about you 24/7/364, and I know it'll really stings when you discover that I'm no longer paying attention. I don't need to be told that you're different, and I don't believe in the formulation that your 'difference' entitles you to a special place in the legal system, and society. I also don't believe that your difference entitles you to extra-constitutional rights either, which is what the whole Gay Rights thing really is all about.

Hey, it worked for the blacks, so why not, right?

It's about time identity politics ended in this country. It's really doing no one any good, and it gets ever more ridiculous with each passing day.

(H/T to JammieWearingFool)

Update: More on the attempt to elevate "Muslim" to the level of a race. (H/T FiveFeetofFury)

More: Now the Care Bears are gay. Go figure.

Why Leftists Are Typically Wrong...And Dangerous...

In an effort to explain the mental disorder that manifests itself in leftist politics, I postulate the following:

Lefties really are well-meaning people. At least the foot soldiers are. It is said that the the left is a collection of the well-intentioned, but ill-informed being led by the well-informed but ill-intentioned. There is some truth in this. Your typical Leftie is concerned about...things...They care about...stuff. Ask them to explain their feelings and beliefs, and you'll most often get a mishmash of gobbledeegook which they 'learned' in sociology class, but which makes no sense whatsoever. The Leftist front-liner is a retard (or a college student or aging hippie, which is pretty much the same thing) or a ward of the state. Thinking is not required to be a Leftist, and it isn't their real talent...whining is.

They don't very often don't know why they care, they very often can't explain what they're concerned about, they just know that they are concerned (or believe they should be). It's an emotional compulsion; they are drawn to issues that elicit emotional responses and act accordingly, because being drawn to issues that require thought is apparently too hard. Add the herd mentality (people tend to want to be involved in activities which seem popular within their peer group), and you get the basis for most Lefty-influenced 'movements'.

Once the emotional and pack-mentality aspects take over, Lefties usually get into a bizarre pissing match with one another over who cares more than whom, which leads them into internal conflict (typically of the passive-aggressive sort which involves whispers, rumors, and eventually full-blown public exposure and humiliation of their enemies), and ever-more ridiculous displays of public emotionalism which take the forms of 'symbolism', 'solidarity' and 'support', which lead us to the next problem with Lefties...

None of this is ever directed into an genuinely-meaningful, or even just useful action. Meaningful actions require purpose (which is hard to formulate when your inspiration is emotional and not rational), and useful ones require personal effort. Lefties hate personal efforts because it's much easier to say you care and then demand someone else do something. Someone else must do the work, someone else must make the sacrifice, someone else must pay for whatever they advocate because, dammit, they CARE already!. The Good Lefty, having expended emotion, having made the symbolic-but-empty gesture to show she (it's usually a she, or a metrosexual) cares, believes they've done their part. There are people on the Left who make a living at this; they continue to 'advocate' for their emotionally-inspired-issue-that-will-require-someone-else's-effort-and-money-to-correct. They manage to skim proceeds from it from their brain-dead fellow travelers, and because they can scream loud enough and are politically-connected, from the taxpayer, which brings us to the next problem with Lefties...

They don't understand money. Since many of them don't really work, or worse, work in 'industries' which bring little in the way of positive gain to society (like the arts, media, academia, government, NGO's and so forth) they don't understand economics. They don't earn their livings doing something that involves the marketplace, they are handed the excess that the more productive society creates. This leads them to make several basic mistakes when discussing economic issues. The first is that wealth (they euphemistically call it 'resources') are finite. All resources, money, oil, air, water, food, raw materials of a thousand sorts, are always finite. It's why they can shout about 'peak oil', and the 'population bomb' and it's been the driving force behind socialism, communism and now the environmental movement. The second is that 'government' has money of it's own, independent of the taxpayer.

Since all resources are finite, Lefties are free to believe in a mystical unit of wealth which they refer to as 'the fair share'. They cannot tell you how much a 'fair share' is, only that everyone is entitled to one and those who typically do the least and add the least, are somehow entitled to a bigger 'fair share' than the productive who actually make the shares in the first place. When this sort of lopsided economics (wealth exists in finite quantities, everyone gets a fair share, some pigs are more equal than others) is applied in real life, you get a welfare state of entitlement programs which bankrupts a nation, and which requires ever-more oppressive taxation to support (which only certain non-Leftie-approved castes will have to pay. They always exempt themselves because while they may be economically retarded, they ain't stupid). Of course, Lefties never apply this sort of economic lunacy to their own finances. Which leads us to the next problem with Lefties, which is...

Screaming hypocrisy about wealth. They claim to despise wealth, to despise the people who possess it as thieves and rapists who have stolen it from 'the people', rather than earned it through hard work and intelligence. But, the ranks of the left are full of some of the richest people on the planet; George Soros, Bill Gates, Al Gore, Bill and Hillary Clinton, The Kennedys, John Kerry, all stalwart defenders of the downtrodden, have bank accounts the average working stiff can only look upon with envy. In many cases, they came into possession of this wealth by less-than-honest means; the Kennedy's built their fortune on Prohibition, George Soros was a Nazi Collaborator, John Kerry simply marries wealthy widows, Al Gore takes advantage of the mentally-challenged. The ever-expanding list of the glitterati that often act as surrogates, advocates and role-models for the left, the actors and actresses in Hollywood, the musical artist who advocates this or that policy, the athlete who couldn't tie his own shoes without a government program, are also good examples of this; they earn their living from practices and activities which involve the extraction of wealth from those who earn or create it. They are prime examples of a movement made up of people who add little of lasting value to society while taking as much as they possibly can from it. The Leftie screams about the money given to Wall Street bankers, calling it unfair and wasteful, yet never bats an eyelash at a guy who gets $100 million from another rich guy to hit a baseball, or to make a movie. Usually because the first is a minority (there's that 'some pigs are more equal than others' thing), or an artist (which means jack shit to anyone with half a brain).

Those people can be forgiven their hypocrisy because they give the Lefties the attention they crave. That's the real problem with the Left; it's full of needy, clingy, annoying people who crave constant attention. These people give them hope that someone takes them seriously -- all the while stealing money and votes with the classic strategy of un-anchored emotionalism, empty symbolism and making all things 'someone else's' problem. Until now, that is.

Now the Lefties have gotten wise to the scam, and they're angry. They've finally seen that their Paragons were little more than charlatans and they demand that that they get what they've been wanting for the last 100 years. It's why they rioted in Copenhagen, it's why Howard Dean opened a can of Whoop-Ass on Harry Reid on Health Care; They've waited for Communism long enough.

Because at root, this is what all the Leftist nonsense of the last century has been about; World Communism. They've dressed themselves up as 'Progressives", they've insinuated themselves into the fights for Equality, Social Justice and Civil Rights, they are at the vanguard of the Environmental movement. They believe (still) that communism can work. They believe that Communism will (finally) bring 'peace' to the planet. They believe that Communism will 'save' mankind (from what, they can't exactly tell you). Which leads us to the biggest problem with Leftists...

Despite all the evidence that everything they espouse usually fails, spectacularly, they keep trying. They believe that communism has failed not because it is a flawed system which takes all incentive out of the individual, and thus, society, but because we just haven't found the right communists to run the World State yet. All Communism will do is make us all equally miserable; Lefties more than others because they are not especially well-known for enduring discomfort and suffering... especially when it's their own.

The Left looks at Barack Obama and the current American Congress, and they believe they have, finally, found the right communists. But this bunch haven't moved quickly enough for the Left's tastes, and thus, all the brouhaha and infighting. This is just the beginning of a shitstorm that will, we can hope, finally expose this bunch of hacks for what they really are in a way that it will be impossible to mistake.

Makes You Ashamed to Be Italian...

On the Jay Leno Show, the cast of "The Jersey Shore". The sad part is that I have known people like this my entire life, and they are, indeed, proof that stereotypes continue to exist because they are essentially true. That goes for everyone.

The two young men are what we refer to as "Guidos" or "Goombahs", the original metrosexuals made popular by Saturday Night Fever (see here), and the girl, Snooki (and what sort of Italian girl goes by a nickname like that, and you wonder exactly how she got it?) is what's known as a "Squaldrina" (harlot, trollop, strumpet or tart), but more commonly referred to as a "Scifooza" (Ski-foo-ZA); colloquial Italian for "whore".

It makes you sick to think that not only are these idiots the public face of Italians for the younger generation -- they're also the morons who will run the country in my old age.

(Note: I tried to upload the video, but it may be too big for Blogger. You can see it HERE).

We were once a proud race of people, possessed of an amazing cultural inheritance, but we've apparently given birth to an entire generation of mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging idiots who are too dumb or shameless to avoid putting their stupidity on public display.

They're Complaining?

Here's an article from the New York Observer, in which a bunch of whiny, metrosexual guys are complaining that they are being, wait for it....date raped.

Now, I don't know about you, but when I was a younger man on the New York Social Scene (such as it was in the days of rampant AIDS -- thanks Baby Boomers!), this was something we dreamed about. We'd have given a lung for it. If it ever happened to us, we'd take out full-page ads in the NY Times and brag about over and over and over until your ears bled...hell, we'd remember it for the rest of our lives. Ask any straight man my age (early 40's, and yes, it has happened to me, too) if he would turn down sex if it fell into his lap this way, and the answer you get would be something along the lines of:

a) No! and,

b) Hell No!

But, it seems today's pussy yuppie-wannabe Metrosexual lives in a state of constant fear of just this very phenomenon. Worse, they are creeped out by the thought of a sexually-aggressive woman who does what many men have done for centuries (taken advantage of a drunk) because ... ewww...she may have done the same thing with his friends. Yeah, like that ever really stopped a guy before?

The Cheetah, we're told, preys on a small circle of associates, treating her friends as sexual objects to be taken advantage of, and this causes great consternation and alarm to them (so much that the guys interviewed in the article -- when they aren't really bragging about being pursued by a woman who really, really wants lusty, consequence-free sex, remember to inject a smidgen of manufactured indignation into their tales). Poor bastards; they have chicks jumping their defenseless bones while they happen to be in an inebriated state. Why, I'm simply outraged (not!) at this abuse of an entire generation of young men!

Actually, I'm surprised to find out this many of them might be straight.

But of course, they (the metrosexual pansies) lie. Through their teeth. They love it. The purpose of the article was to not complain about a 'new' social phenomenon -- when I was younger, we had Cheetahs, too. Only we called them 'Sluts', 'Hosemonsters' or 'Slambags' (and far worse) and we didn't have to come up with a name full of groovy-super-clever-slickly-marketable cat connotations that make the allusion to the word 'pussy'. I'm certain that if we were to run unimpeded backwards through history, we'd find the Cheetah in Egypt, Ancient Rome and Angkor Wat, and she'd be pulling the train at Stonehenge, only she'd be called something else.

Usually, that would be...Desperate.

In my own time, my circle of male friends (on the rare occasion we're all assembled) can still make this particular boast; in any gathering, you are assured that at least 25% of the men in the room screwed 'Stephanie' at one time or another (name changed to protect the not-so-innocent). Stephanie was such a hyper-sexually-aggressive girl that the only otherwise-amazing thing about her is that she didn't do all those guys at once, just to save time. It was once said that Stephanie's highest ambition in life was to fuck her way through the telephone book. We'd laugh at that joke...and then secretly wonder what Stephanie was doing right now. You think this sort of thing hasn't happened before?

Far from being traumatized and embarrassed and put-upon by your Cheetah stalker, you guys know you love it, and the purpose of the article is really not to complain about a growing social problem, but to encourage other women to take up the Cheetah lifestyle. Because if there's one thing we know about women, it's this; they'll often believe and take to heart (almost) any shit they read. It's why Cosmopolitan has stayed in business for so long running articles entitled "What He Really Wants in Bed", always written by some chick you wouldn't screw with a stolen dick, and never once are the words "Corned Beef Sandwich and a Cold Beer" mentioned in the same sentence as Oral Sex. Some experts! But I digress...

I'm certain the 'feminists' will be out in force, defending their sisters from this gross portrayal of young 'womyn' as devious, potentially-dangerous, sexual predators...just pay no attention to the 40 years of 'feminist' nonsense that encouraged them to behave that way. In the end, this idea of women behaving rather badly will still be The Man's fault...somehow, someway. Always is. However, the idea that there are men being 'victimized' by these broads is laughable; the article simply yet another expression of a common male fantasy (and a much more common occurrence) which used to be a staple of Penthouse Letters.