In a development that's almost certain to send a segment of libtards into unbridled, full-on-menstrual, apoplexic rage (which is mostly their usual state to begin with), it would appear that some people, at least, are welcoming the 'deadly threat' of Global Warming with unabashed enthusiasm.
Global Warming quite popular in Greenland.
But, I guess this means Greenlanders will have to be denied fresh vegetables by U.N. diktat. This so that Jeffrey Immelt can gather another few billion in Obama-administration taxpayer-funded Green Energy subsidies to produce windmills so expensive that those few Americans who actually DO want them buy the Chinese variety, and so that the International Socialist conspiracy that is Global Warming Alarmism can continue their work of enslaving us all free from dissenting opinion.
Don't be surprised if Obama decides he needs to invade another country in order to 'save' people we don't really give a shit about.
I wonder how The Won might square that circle of contradictory Oblah-blah Administration policies, if it ever came to it: the planet needs to be 'saved' from Global Warming, but Greenlanders will necesarily be deprived of Healthier Eating options in the process.
Showing posts with label Polar Bears. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Polar Bears. Show all posts
Monday, May 16, 2011
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
Biology For Dummies...
Lots of tree-hugging hippies out there like to write nasty -- and they'd like to think anonymous, but not really George P. in Terre Haute, or Alyssa V. in Schenectedy -- e-mails, and a few with more braincells than usual like trying -- and failing -- to hack other people's computers and e-mail accounts, too. You know who you are, and if you don't knock it off, I'm going to make a special effort to pay you a visit and MAKE YOU STOP...permanently. I can promise you that ObamaCare won't support you in a vegetative state for very long, so please, don't make me have to beat you.
I can handle nasty. Doesn't bother me at all. I just can't handle STUPID. Drives me insane.
This post brought some blowback (and really, people, can't you just use the reply function to make your stupid case? Oh, right; that has a 4,000 character limit, and unfortunately, you can't spout crap in under 5,000), most of it about the destructive effect of all that extra carbon dioxide that will kill us all.
Apparently, you don't need to know the basics of biology in order to be an environMENTAList. Nor do you need critical thinking skills. All that is required of you is that you simply believe, in much the same way the Muslim or the Catholic establishment doesn't really give a shit about what you think; they only care that you believe, and obey...and send money. This willing suspension of disbelief, to disregard evidence, logic, objective truth, or counter-argument is called "Faith". There's no thinking required. It's the major reason why so many sad-sacks join storefront churches, or strap explosives to themselves in the name of God; Faith is far easier than Truth or Reason, and certainly cheaper than a psychiatrist.
If you're a committed environut, you have to only believe four things (mostly because you're incapable of remembering more than four things) , not taking into consideration evidence to the contrary, nor accepting any argument or evidence whatsoever that would seem to knock the intellectual underpinnings out from beneath your beliefs. These four things are:
1. Carbon dioxide is a deadly poison.
2. Carbon dioxide levels are too high, and that Man has the ability to to do all of the following;
a. Calculate precisely how much CO2 there is in the atmosphere,
b. Calculate precisely how much CO2 is "just right" for the continuation of Life as We Know it, at optimum efficiency,
c. determine that if CO2 levels are too high, that it MUST be the result of Mankind doing things (i.e. going through the processes of what we like to call "living").
d. Discern just how elevated CO2 levels will affect the climate of the planet (as if there were only one world-wide climate!), with disastrous results, especially for people who are, in the best of times, slowly starving to death because they can't grow food, fucking themselves into starvation, killing each other in the name of religion, killing each other because they have nothing better to do, or dying of diseases that could be easily prevented if only they'd use soap, or stop fucking their livestock.
3. That Science is providing all the answers to the mysteries of a number of complex systems that we barely understand, and have barely begun to study in earnest.
4. That sans evidence that Man is actually doing catastrophic harm, it is your duty to insist that He is, and to make every effort to arrest progress that it's in your power to do. Usually, this means whine, bitch and moan until you get your way, like a four-year old.
Or write nasty, you-think-you're-anonymous e-mails. So, boys and girls, let me tell you about the Great Chain of Life, in eight (8) Easy Steps. Pay attention, because you just might learn something that might cause you to give up that lifestyle of pretentious affectation you're engaged in now.
1. There are untold trillions of a certain kind of organism on this planet which we call "Plants" and "Plant-like Organisms".
2. These Plant and Plant-like Organisms like to eat, and in fact, must do so to survive, just like you do, only without Che Guevara T-shits, American Idol, patchouli oil, marijuana, and bottled water.
3. Because they don't have access to Tofu, Doritos and Starbucks, these Plants and Plant-like Organisms have developed a wonderful system of making their own food, which we call Photosynthesis, in which they combine CARBON DIOXIDE with water, sunlight, and trace elements to produce complex carbohydrates (you know, like you get in your tastes-like-shit-but-is-supposedly-healthy-as-all-hell PowerBar?) and sugars. The Plants and Plant-like Creatures eat these sugars, and therefore, grow and thrive.
4. As a result of Photosynthesis, these Plants and Plant-like Organisms basically "shit" OXYGEN, a gas which is a requirement for life for water buffalo, mountain gorillas, polar bears, spotted owls, parrot fish, and dumbass Watermelons (Green on the outside, Red on the inside) who write stupid e-mails telling me I should die because I happen to disagree with them...an' stuff.
5. It is a known fact that when Plants and Plant-like Organisms have access to more CO2, they tend to grow faster and bigger, much like your average person if fed a steady diet of Chips Ahoy's, Ruffles, Pork chops, whipped-cream-out-of-the-can, ice cream and Pepsi would. More plants means more oxygen, and more food for cute little grazing animals like Bambi and Dumbo.
6. If one takes CO2 out of the atmosphere, then one deprives the Plants and Plant-like Organisms of their main source of food, thus killing them. And Bambi and Dumbo, too.
7. If one kills the Plants and Plant-like Organisms, one reduces the amount of Oxygen in the air, it means that those of us with the ability to find our own asses with both hands and a flashlight will have to kill and eat nosepicking environMENTALists in order to survive in an Oxygen-and-food-depleted environment.
8. Once the herd has been culled of the dumbass envirowhackos, we survivors will go back to putting CO2 back into the atmosphere, so that the Plants and Plant-like Organisms can eat and grow again, so that we can breathe, and so that the chickens, cattle, pigs, and fish -- assuming any of them survived both the loss of plants (their fucking food), and Oxygen -- will return, so that we may eat them instead of environMENTALISTs who aren't so tasty, are far from being Brain Food, and have less nutritional value than CheezWhiz.
So, you see, CO2 is not so much a poison as it is a RESOURCE NECESSARY FOR THE CONTINUATION OF LIFE ON THIS PLANET, YOU DUMB-AS-DOGSHIT ASSHOLE!
Also, I get a kick out of people who:
1. Tell me I should save the world by killing myself, but who apparently won't follow their own advice. Avoiding the "looming environmental disaster headed our way" doesn't fill them with enough fear and despondency to take their own lives. No, no, no; it's all of us regular people who should sacrifice ourselves on the Greenie Meanies' behalf, the selfish cocksuckers. Ever notice how those of us who don't agree with them are "selfish" but those that who would demand your death for their own personal comfort and salvation mysteriously aren't?
2. Lecture me about the evils of industrialization, whilst using a computer made from petroleum products and mined metals, transmitting across the ether on cables made of the same, the whole endeavor powered by coal, oil or natural gas burning power plants, or nuclear plants which leave radioactive waste, the very same things these douchebags say is destroying the atmosphere, and without which, modern life would be impossible.
3. Can use the terms "Massive Global Warming Catastrophe" and "Unprecedented Global Ice Age" in the same sentence and not notice the inherent contradictions, massive stupidity, or delicious irony, contained within?
4. If Darwin (your other Icon) was right, then whatever survives the no-plants-no-oxygen conditions of a global catastrophe will evolve so that they can. It's called Adaptation. They just probably won't be going to college and majoring in Keg Party, Gender Studies and Repeating the Stupid Shit My Professor Says.
If you can process all of this, Children, then maybe you'll begin to discover why it's so difficult to take you seriously.
I can handle nasty. Doesn't bother me at all. I just can't handle STUPID. Drives me insane.
This post brought some blowback (and really, people, can't you just use the reply function to make your stupid case? Oh, right; that has a 4,000 character limit, and unfortunately, you can't spout crap in under 5,000), most of it about the destructive effect of all that extra carbon dioxide that will kill us all.
Apparently, you don't need to know the basics of biology in order to be an environMENTAList. Nor do you need critical thinking skills. All that is required of you is that you simply believe, in much the same way the Muslim or the Catholic establishment doesn't really give a shit about what you think; they only care that you believe, and obey...and send money. This willing suspension of disbelief, to disregard evidence, logic, objective truth, or counter-argument is called "Faith". There's no thinking required. It's the major reason why so many sad-sacks join storefront churches, or strap explosives to themselves in the name of God; Faith is far easier than Truth or Reason, and certainly cheaper than a psychiatrist.
If you're a committed environut, you have to only believe four things (mostly because you're incapable of remembering more than four things) , not taking into consideration evidence to the contrary, nor accepting any argument or evidence whatsoever that would seem to knock the intellectual underpinnings out from beneath your beliefs. These four things are:
1. Carbon dioxide is a deadly poison.
2. Carbon dioxide levels are too high, and that Man has the ability to to do all of the following;
a. Calculate precisely how much CO2 there is in the atmosphere,
b. Calculate precisely how much CO2 is "just right" for the continuation of Life as We Know it, at optimum efficiency,
c. determine that if CO2 levels are too high, that it MUST be the result of Mankind doing things (i.e. going through the processes of what we like to call "living").
d. Discern just how elevated CO2 levels will affect the climate of the planet (as if there were only one world-wide climate!), with disastrous results, especially for people who are, in the best of times, slowly starving to death because they can't grow food, fucking themselves into starvation, killing each other in the name of religion, killing each other because they have nothing better to do, or dying of diseases that could be easily prevented if only they'd use soap, or stop fucking their livestock.
3. That Science is providing all the answers to the mysteries of a number of complex systems that we barely understand, and have barely begun to study in earnest.
4. That sans evidence that Man is actually doing catastrophic harm, it is your duty to insist that He is, and to make every effort to arrest progress that it's in your power to do. Usually, this means whine, bitch and moan until you get your way, like a four-year old.
Or write nasty, you-think-you're-anonymous e-mails. So, boys and girls, let me tell you about the Great Chain of Life, in eight (8) Easy Steps. Pay attention, because you just might learn something that might cause you to give up that lifestyle of pretentious affectation you're engaged in now.
1. There are untold trillions of a certain kind of organism on this planet which we call "Plants" and "Plant-like Organisms".
2. These Plant and Plant-like Organisms like to eat, and in fact, must do so to survive, just like you do, only without Che Guevara T-shits, American Idol, patchouli oil, marijuana, and bottled water.
3. Because they don't have access to Tofu, Doritos and Starbucks, these Plants and Plant-like Organisms have developed a wonderful system of making their own food, which we call Photosynthesis, in which they combine CARBON DIOXIDE with water, sunlight, and trace elements to produce complex carbohydrates (you know, like you get in your tastes-like-shit-but-is-supposedly-healthy-as-all-hell PowerBar?) and sugars. The Plants and Plant-like Creatures eat these sugars, and therefore, grow and thrive.
4. As a result of Photosynthesis, these Plants and Plant-like Organisms basically "shit" OXYGEN, a gas which is a requirement for life for water buffalo, mountain gorillas, polar bears, spotted owls, parrot fish, and dumbass Watermelons (Green on the outside, Red on the inside) who write stupid e-mails telling me I should die because I happen to disagree with them...an' stuff.
5. It is a known fact that when Plants and Plant-like Organisms have access to more CO2, they tend to grow faster and bigger, much like your average person if fed a steady diet of Chips Ahoy's, Ruffles, Pork chops, whipped-cream-out-of-the-can, ice cream and Pepsi would. More plants means more oxygen, and more food for cute little grazing animals like Bambi and Dumbo.
6. If one takes CO2 out of the atmosphere, then one deprives the Plants and Plant-like Organisms of their main source of food, thus killing them. And Bambi and Dumbo, too.
7. If one kills the Plants and Plant-like Organisms, one reduces the amount of Oxygen in the air, it means that those of us with the ability to find our own asses with both hands and a flashlight will have to kill and eat nosepicking environMENTALists in order to survive in an Oxygen-and-food-depleted environment.
8. Once the herd has been culled of the dumbass envirowhackos, we survivors will go back to putting CO2 back into the atmosphere, so that the Plants and Plant-like Organisms can eat and grow again, so that we can breathe, and so that the chickens, cattle, pigs, and fish -- assuming any of them survived both the loss of plants (their fucking food), and Oxygen -- will return, so that we may eat them instead of environMENTALISTs who aren't so tasty, are far from being Brain Food, and have less nutritional value than CheezWhiz.
So, you see, CO2 is not so much a poison as it is a RESOURCE NECESSARY FOR THE CONTINUATION OF LIFE ON THIS PLANET, YOU DUMB-AS-DOGSHIT ASSHOLE!
Also, I get a kick out of people who:
1. Tell me I should save the world by killing myself, but who apparently won't follow their own advice. Avoiding the "looming environmental disaster headed our way" doesn't fill them with enough fear and despondency to take their own lives. No, no, no; it's all of us regular people who should sacrifice ourselves on the Greenie Meanies' behalf, the selfish cocksuckers. Ever notice how those of us who don't agree with them are "selfish" but those that who would demand your death for their own personal comfort and salvation mysteriously aren't?
2. Lecture me about the evils of industrialization, whilst using a computer made from petroleum products and mined metals, transmitting across the ether on cables made of the same, the whole endeavor powered by coal, oil or natural gas burning power plants, or nuclear plants which leave radioactive waste, the very same things these douchebags say is destroying the atmosphere, and without which, modern life would be impossible.
3. Can use the terms "Massive Global Warming Catastrophe" and "Unprecedented Global Ice Age" in the same sentence and not notice the inherent contradictions, massive stupidity, or delicious irony, contained within?
4. If Darwin (your other Icon) was right, then whatever survives the no-plants-no-oxygen conditions of a global catastrophe will evolve so that they can. It's called Adaptation. They just probably won't be going to college and majoring in Keg Party, Gender Studies and Repeating the Stupid Shit My Professor Says.
If you can process all of this, Children, then maybe you'll begin to discover why it's so difficult to take you seriously.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Snowbound!
There is approximately 3 feet of snow outside the front door this morning. I don't think it actually snowed that much, but the wind has piled drifts that high just about everywhere. I can see no cars on the street;the streets are unplowed, and the parked cars are buried except for little bits of color, or perhaps a side-view mirror sticking out of the drifts.
I was just saying to my nephews on Christmas Day, that it would be a good idea to rent a snow-blower from the local tool rental in anticipation of this storm, so that we could spend the first day afterwards making a killing on driveways and walkways, but they had no enthusiasm for the project, and then I didn't get the chance to actually put the plan into action. Now I'm kicking myself: the opportunity to make several hundred dollars (cash!) this day has gone right out the window.
I wish Al Gore were here right now so that I could push his face into the snow. I'd grab him by the back of his toupee, and hold his head inside a drift, and yell "What was that about global warming, Fuckface!? Huh? What was that about fucking polar bears?" Then I'd bitchslap him a few times and send him home crying to his mother. After I took his lunch money.
Oh, and speaking of mothers...
Mine was in rare form last night. She's one of those people upon whom television actually works. Let me explain that; if there's an announcement of impending holocaust transmitted over the airwaves, she'll buy it, hook, line and sinker. There will be no personal analysis of the information, no thought given to it's veracity, no attempt to put the announcement in context, no need to go to a different source to verify this or that stated "fact", no critical thinking skills involved, whatsoever. If it was on television, it must be true, and cannot be argued against.
And so it was that last night's overwrought, overdone wall-to-wall weather reporting which would have had you believing the Earth was entering a new Ice Age, worked it's fear-mongering magic upon her. (Just why is it that every local TV station must do this? They interrupt normal programming to give you an over-the-top, fear-injected five-hour weather report -- with other assholes in parkas and microphones standing at strategic locations to tell you how the bread lines are at the supermarkets -- to tell you what you already know: It's snowing outside...a lot).
I happened to be out last night. My friends are in New York from Britain for the holidays, and I haven't seen them for over a year. In fact, I barely get to see any of my friends, at all. They all live in different cities, states, and even countries. A little thing like a snowstorm wasn't keeping me home. Besides, this is New York; unlike most other places that either completely shut down in a snowstorm, or where complete pandemonium breaks out after a light dusting, we New Yorkers can deal with snow. Even two feet of it with 60-mph winds. If you can't, you're a pussy.
Get yourself some boots, dammit.
So, there I am, getting ready to enjoy a lovely evening, with lovely people, and...mother keeps calling their hotel room. She managed to get through twice, but that's only because the first three times she tried she had the wrong number. The Television Weather Report had achieved it's goal of making a winter snowstorm (like they never happen?) seem like the Apocalypse. Mom is now worried that I won't be able to get home, and every minute that goes by brings more dire and dreadful predictions and pronouncements from the Weather Chick on Channel 4 Whom I'd Like to Fucking Strangle Now.
Note to all my readers who may not have known this previously: your local weatherdouche gets his/her information from the National Weather Service. The Weather Service is actually pretty good at collecting information about weather and weather patterns, BUT, despite all of their Accu-weather-this, and Doppler-4000-that, you cannot get a weather report that is accurate to within 4 hours, give or take. This means that the idiot on the television giving you the temperature, and prognosticating over the prospects of rain and snow probably provides information as accurate as you could get by simply sticking your fucking head out the window.
And since his/her information comes from the same Federal Government that pays $400 for toilet paper and considers forced redistribution of wealth to drug addicts, career baby mamas, and people who just plain don't give a shit to be an anti-poverty program, well, you can just imagine how accurate your weather reporting actually is, despite all the super-expensive high-tech whizzbangery involved.
You see, Mom was frightened to death by the doom monger before the green-screen map. However, because she's my mother -- and that means she's a neurotic mess -- what worried her the most was that even if had successfully made the Odyssean journey from Manhattan to Staten Island, I might arrive at a time when the front door would be snowed shut by an accumulation of snow at it's base.
I'll repeat that: my mother was scared out of her fucking skull that I would be snowed out of my own house, and that I just might not be smart or motivated enough to dig through to the front door, if I really needed to. I suppose she thought I would, upon finding the door buried in snow, simply curl up on the doorstep and accept my fate quietly, like a dying Alpha Wolf in those nature documentaries. Or maybe she thought I would stand there for several hours like a nose-picking moron at a complete loss as to what to do, whereupon I would freeze to death. That would be embarrassing...for her. Her friends would all say, "My, how strange...he froze to death just feet from his own front door...The poor boy."
But first, she'd enjoy all the attention she'd get at the funeral.
So there it is; dinner plans shot to hell. My first night out in about a month, wasted. An opportunity to see friends that live 3,000 miles away frittered away; I've been cheated by a conspiracy of foul weather and a mother who lays awake all night in a panic that the front door will never be open ever again.
Maybe I'll bury her in the snow, and let Al Gore off with a Wet-Willie?
I was just saying to my nephews on Christmas Day, that it would be a good idea to rent a snow-blower from the local tool rental in anticipation of this storm, so that we could spend the first day afterwards making a killing on driveways and walkways, but they had no enthusiasm for the project, and then I didn't get the chance to actually put the plan into action. Now I'm kicking myself: the opportunity to make several hundred dollars (cash!) this day has gone right out the window.
I wish Al Gore were here right now so that I could push his face into the snow. I'd grab him by the back of his toupee, and hold his head inside a drift, and yell "What was that about global warming, Fuckface!? Huh? What was that about fucking polar bears?" Then I'd bitchslap him a few times and send him home crying to his mother. After I took his lunch money.
Oh, and speaking of mothers...
Mine was in rare form last night. She's one of those people upon whom television actually works. Let me explain that; if there's an announcement of impending holocaust transmitted over the airwaves, she'll buy it, hook, line and sinker. There will be no personal analysis of the information, no thought given to it's veracity, no attempt to put the announcement in context, no need to go to a different source to verify this or that stated "fact", no critical thinking skills involved, whatsoever. If it was on television, it must be true, and cannot be argued against.
And so it was that last night's overwrought, overdone wall-to-wall weather reporting which would have had you believing the Earth was entering a new Ice Age, worked it's fear-mongering magic upon her. (Just why is it that every local TV station must do this? They interrupt normal programming to give you an over-the-top, fear-injected five-hour weather report -- with other assholes in parkas and microphones standing at strategic locations to tell you how the bread lines are at the supermarkets -- to tell you what you already know: It's snowing outside...a lot).
I happened to be out last night. My friends are in New York from Britain for the holidays, and I haven't seen them for over a year. In fact, I barely get to see any of my friends, at all. They all live in different cities, states, and even countries. A little thing like a snowstorm wasn't keeping me home. Besides, this is New York; unlike most other places that either completely shut down in a snowstorm, or where complete pandemonium breaks out after a light dusting, we New Yorkers can deal with snow. Even two feet of it with 60-mph winds. If you can't, you're a pussy.
Get yourself some boots, dammit.
So, there I am, getting ready to enjoy a lovely evening, with lovely people, and...mother keeps calling their hotel room. She managed to get through twice, but that's only because the first three times she tried she had the wrong number. The Television Weather Report had achieved it's goal of making a winter snowstorm (like they never happen?) seem like the Apocalypse. Mom is now worried that I won't be able to get home, and every minute that goes by brings more dire and dreadful predictions and pronouncements from the Weather Chick on Channel 4 Whom I'd Like to Fucking Strangle Now.
Note to all my readers who may not have known this previously: your local weatherdouche gets his/her information from the National Weather Service. The Weather Service is actually pretty good at collecting information about weather and weather patterns, BUT, despite all of their Accu-weather-this, and Doppler-4000-that, you cannot get a weather report that is accurate to within 4 hours, give or take. This means that the idiot on the television giving you the temperature, and prognosticating over the prospects of rain and snow probably provides information as accurate as you could get by simply sticking your fucking head out the window.
And since his/her information comes from the same Federal Government that pays $400 for toilet paper and considers forced redistribution of wealth to drug addicts, career baby mamas, and people who just plain don't give a shit to be an anti-poverty program, well, you can just imagine how accurate your weather reporting actually is, despite all the super-expensive high-tech whizzbangery involved.
You see, Mom was frightened to death by the doom monger before the green-screen map. However, because she's my mother -- and that means she's a neurotic mess -- what worried her the most was that even if had successfully made the Odyssean journey from Manhattan to Staten Island, I might arrive at a time when the front door would be snowed shut by an accumulation of snow at it's base.
I'll repeat that: my mother was scared out of her fucking skull that I would be snowed out of my own house, and that I just might not be smart or motivated enough to dig through to the front door, if I really needed to. I suppose she thought I would, upon finding the door buried in snow, simply curl up on the doorstep and accept my fate quietly, like a dying Alpha Wolf in those nature documentaries. Or maybe she thought I would stand there for several hours like a nose-picking moron at a complete loss as to what to do, whereupon I would freeze to death. That would be embarrassing...for her. Her friends would all say, "My, how strange...he froze to death just feet from his own front door...The poor boy."
But first, she'd enjoy all the attention she'd get at the funeral.
So there it is; dinner plans shot to hell. My first night out in about a month, wasted. An opportunity to see friends that live 3,000 miles away frittered away; I've been cheated by a conspiracy of foul weather and a mother who lays awake all night in a panic that the front door will never be open ever again.
Maybe I'll bury her in the snow, and let Al Gore off with a Wet-Willie?
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Hey, S.E. Cupp: I Already Wrote This!
Dear S.E. Cupp: if you've lifted one my posts, then you owe me. Since it's Christmas, I'd like you to arrive at my doorstep, in a bikini, with a bottle of something good, and a fistful of $100 bills. We'll find a hot tub later, Sugarshorts.
Now, I'm not accusing anyone of anything, because I have no proof of anything untoward. But when I read Cupp's Opinion piece in the NY Daily News this morning, I had a feeling of deja vu. I wrote the almost exact same post back in January! It's possible that two people might have the same exact idea eleven months apart, but it's kinda spooky, dont'cha think? Then again, great minds thinking alike and all that.
You be the judge. Here's mine.
l'll be waiting for your call, S.E., you sexy beast.
UPDATE: Updated the link.
Now, I'm not accusing anyone of anything, because I have no proof of anything untoward. But when I read Cupp's Opinion piece in the NY Daily News this morning, I had a feeling of deja vu. I wrote the almost exact same post back in January! It's possible that two people might have the same exact idea eleven months apart, but it's kinda spooky, dont'cha think? Then again, great minds thinking alike and all that.
You be the judge. Here's mine.
l'll be waiting for your call, S.E., you sexy beast.
UPDATE: Updated the link.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Words I'd Thought I Would Never Type...
"Al Gore" and "Sex Scandal". In the same sentence. Allegedly.
Though I struggle not to form some mental picture of the Goremeister wrapped in a towel, rivulets of white, doughy flesh hanging over the tuck, my inner eye has just such an image burned into it. The very thought is profoundly disturbing, and if I don't keep my guard up, it pops, unbidden, back into my tortured mind and activates the gag reflex. I've thrown up into my own mouth so many times in the past week that no amount of toothpaste or Scope will wash away the lingering taste of involuntary bile. Even Cayenne and Jalapenos have not scoured the residue of nausea away.
The scene my subconscious insists on creating has me on the verge of committing a violent act, as if the release of all that pent up disgust and rage will somehow scrub the grey matter clean of the mental version of ring-around-the-tub. I shan't link to any of the stories floating on the Web because they'll only make you projectile vomit, but all the highlights of this sordid..ahem...affair (allegedly) are included. It's always the same unwanted vision running through the diseased landscape of my inner mind:
"...His swollen, puffy, corpulent body lay stretched out upon the masseuse table, face-down. A towel covers his flabbier parts, but he's still clenching his butt cheeks together in an attempt to leave the impression that there's still a few remnants of sinewy youth there beneath it all. His manly back, covered in a thick, Brillo-like fur, was glistening with scented oils and lotions. Somewhere in the background, Barry Manilow was softly playing; the Muzak of the Rutting Bore. Manilow knew how to make chicks cream. Al had selected it exactly for this purpose. The masseuse, a vision of early-middle-aged American womanhood -- thrice-divorced, a stray hair protruding from the mole on her chin, face frozen in a mask of permanent surprise from the combination of poor eyebrow-pencil skills and Botox, the Low-End-Store-Brand-Danny-Kaye-Auburn dye job -- leaned over the Beached Whale of an ex-Vice President in that starched, institutional-green smock that always turned him on because it reminded him so of the Good Old Days of Soviet Communism. She was rubbing away the knots and strains of the rough-and-tumble universe of The Sanctimonious Bullshit World Tour, and the absolute Roman-Coliseum Fishbowl that was the Modern Indulgence Selling that used to characterize much of pre-Reformation Christianity, but which still smelled slightly enough of capitalism that the rubes hardly even noticed.
Her strong hands, much like her donkey-like Slavic ankles, swollen from so much water-retention that she had been unable to file the Last Wedding Ring from her finger -- even though her last divorce was finalized five years before -- found a tender spot. The Gorebot winced momentarily, and then relaxed as her expert digits rubbed the tension away. He sighed, a sound that was almost half-seal-bark-half-phlegmy-rattle. She paused to pluck an errant, wire-stiff back hair or two from under her fingernail, and in that moment, the former Vice-President-in-Litigation made his move. With a great deal of grunting but less struggle than usual he had turned over on the table, and a hint of his manhood became visible as a bump under the hospital-white towel, like a miniature Washington Monument caught beneath the the thick, cold layers of another Ice Age. But that was an illusion: were it not for the triple-layered rolls of belly fat that slid past his waistline and sloughed off between his spongy, varicose-veined thighs, there just might be a whole whopping four, perhaps four-and-a quarter, inches of pulsing Inconvenient Truth lurking beneath that linen.
She was taken aback. She caught her breath, a staccato-sigh of surprise, nay, perhaps even fear. She tried not to look, but couldn't help herself; for even laying down the Vice-President's boobs were strangely bigger than her own, with great, fleshy, earth-toned nipples and the same thick, stiff hairs pointing out of them. They strangely reminded her of Sputnik for a moment, and she was caught in a web of confusion, embarrassment...and lust? She flushed and appeared faint, the first sign of the coming glow of perspiration began to darken the smock beneath her armpits. Her slightly fried-onion-y underarm scent aroused him further -- but this hunter liked to play with his prey first.
"They all react that way...at first", said Al. His dark eyes looked into hers. They were hypnotic, but she could not decide if it was because he was such a magnificent specimen of Old-Money-Hypocrite-middle-aged pork, or because even when he spoke in short sentences he was still such a dashing figure of bone-crushing boredom and banality. She stepped away from the table, but he grabbed her wrist -- gently-yet-firmly and still somehow clammy-and-slimy. She was strangely aroused and repulsed, all at once.
" You know", Al begins., "I was the Inspiration for Love Story..."
Her Drug-store false eyelashes fluttered, her face reddened, and she nervously licked at her lips. Al knew that he had her now; they all fell for that line. Tipper fell hard for it --- that and the inherited Controlling Interest in Standard Oil. So did that Naomi Wolff, that little vixen. He began to remember fondly the six...no...seven whole minutes he had held Naomi in the sodden grip of flop-sweaty passion. It had been his crowning achievement, and had infused him with a sense of manhood that he had not felt since the days when he was writing for Stars and Stripes and pretending to be fighting the War in Vietnam until Daddy could pull enough strings. He remembered the blazing fire of the assault upon Tipper's head on the campaign trail, when he appeared so passionate and devoted to her that he almost sucked her into his being as if he were sucking the Bavarian Cream from the center of a doughnut.
Yes...panting feminists and women in prisons everywhere around the world mailed him their soiled underwear for months after that. Not even Clinton got that sort of love. But that was all in the past; the future, for at least the next three-to-five minutes -- more if he could manage to contain the raging Beast Totem in the Towel -- was now there before him. She was panting now, her chest ( with one breast hanging four inches below the other, and the thick, reinforced underwire of her brassiere became visible beneath the fabric ("Steel-Belted Radials", All liked to call those. He wondered, "Front-loader or back-loader?) was heaving like the stormy North Atlantic.
The Goremeister had caused a Storm in her Maidenforms. She was dead in his sights now.
"Don't be afraid, Yummymuffins. I may have invented the Internet, but no one will know of our passion. It will be OUR guilty secret...".
She wilted at that, delivered as it was with a slight Southern drawl and that sibilant-yet-slightly-effeminate "s" of his. She was now all his. He pulled her closer and began to negotiate the towel so that his throbbing, massive-relative-to-your-average-cocker-spaniel Pelvis Bazooka -- the Green Hornet, as he liked to call it -- could be unleashed in all of it's glory. Yes...she was well-and-truly his, and She would be yet another notch in his ever-expanding belt. There was a flash, like lightning. A quick stirring in his loins, an explosion of ecstasy that caused white-hot spots to float before his eyes, and which made him slightly dizzy thanks to the Watered-Down-Canadian-Healthcare System Viagra he had been taking, and he had marked her forever with a hot load of Environmentally-friendly Man-Milk...all over that sexy-as-a-Phony-Carbon-Credit-Sold-Under-False-Pretenses (allegedly) starched smock. "Mark your territory well", Bill had always told him. It was a valuable lesson. He held her gaze for another seven, maybe ten seconds, so that she could bask in the afterglow. All women needed to bask. Al knew this, being the quiet, passionate, unselfish type who always saw to a woman's needs.
"I'll bet you keep that smock forever, Snugglelumps. No one does it like ManBearPig". She sighed, and was about to speak. "No...not another word about it", he said as he pressed his thoroughly-gooey finger gently across her lips. "We must part now, and keep our Runaway Passion a secret, for those parts of the planet that manage to avoid being flooded by sea-level rise, de-forested by the Inhumanity of Mankind, the shores piled waist-deep in drowned polar bears, all destroyed in the Name of the Internal Combustion Engine, burned to the ground by Acid Rain, or frosted over by the Next Ice Age could never understand what passes between us...".
With that, Al Gore, The Love-em-and-Leave-'Em Ambassador of Mother Gaia, wiped his sexed-up hand upon her cheek, hitched his towel back into place, and in a motion that was reminiscent of a crippled walrus trying to refloat itself from a shingle beach, swung the massive U.S.D.A. Grade-A hamhocks he called legs off the table, and waddled to the door, leaving a tangled mat of greasy back hairs on the smooth, vinyl surface of the table. An Oil Slick of Romance. He paused to give her one last, piercing come-hither look from his watery-yet-still-somehow-smouldering eyes, that bulged out from beneath his Just-for-Men-treated eyebrows, only to find that she was vomiting copiously upon the floor.
It was always the same. Al always had that effect on women; he made them all sooooo fucking hot -- hotter than a rapidly-heating atmosphere burdened with the excess carbon dioxide of a civilization intent upon it's own doom -- that their bodies just could not withstand the onslaught. Now that his Inner-Beast had been Unleashed, he set about seeking more nubile prey. There must be a sixty-plus-year-old T.V. satirist's wife just dying to be Gored by Gore...."
And now you know why I've been puking for a week...
Me and my goddamned imagination! I won't sleep for a year.
Though I struggle not to form some mental picture of the Goremeister wrapped in a towel, rivulets of white, doughy flesh hanging over the tuck, my inner eye has just such an image burned into it. The very thought is profoundly disturbing, and if I don't keep my guard up, it pops, unbidden, back into my tortured mind and activates the gag reflex. I've thrown up into my own mouth so many times in the past week that no amount of toothpaste or Scope will wash away the lingering taste of involuntary bile. Even Cayenne and Jalapenos have not scoured the residue of nausea away.
The scene my subconscious insists on creating has me on the verge of committing a violent act, as if the release of all that pent up disgust and rage will somehow scrub the grey matter clean of the mental version of ring-around-the-tub. I shan't link to any of the stories floating on the Web because they'll only make you projectile vomit, but all the highlights of this sordid..ahem...affair (allegedly) are included. It's always the same unwanted vision running through the diseased landscape of my inner mind:
"...His swollen, puffy, corpulent body lay stretched out upon the masseuse table, face-down. A towel covers his flabbier parts, but he's still clenching his butt cheeks together in an attempt to leave the impression that there's still a few remnants of sinewy youth there beneath it all. His manly back, covered in a thick, Brillo-like fur, was glistening with scented oils and lotions. Somewhere in the background, Barry Manilow was softly playing; the Muzak of the Rutting Bore. Manilow knew how to make chicks cream. Al had selected it exactly for this purpose. The masseuse, a vision of early-middle-aged American womanhood -- thrice-divorced, a stray hair protruding from the mole on her chin, face frozen in a mask of permanent surprise from the combination of poor eyebrow-pencil skills and Botox, the Low-End-Store-Brand-Danny-Kaye-Auburn dye job -- leaned over the Beached Whale of an ex-Vice President in that starched, institutional-green smock that always turned him on because it reminded him so of the Good Old Days of Soviet Communism. She was rubbing away the knots and strains of the rough-and-tumble universe of The Sanctimonious Bullshit World Tour, and the absolute Roman-Coliseum Fishbowl that was the Modern Indulgence Selling that used to characterize much of pre-Reformation Christianity, but which still smelled slightly enough of capitalism that the rubes hardly even noticed.
Her strong hands, much like her donkey-like Slavic ankles, swollen from so much water-retention that she had been unable to file the Last Wedding Ring from her finger -- even though her last divorce was finalized five years before -- found a tender spot. The Gorebot winced momentarily, and then relaxed as her expert digits rubbed the tension away. He sighed, a sound that was almost half-seal-bark-half-phlegmy-rattle. She paused to pluck an errant, wire-stiff back hair or two from under her fingernail, and in that moment, the former Vice-President-in-Litigation made his move. With a great deal of grunting but less struggle than usual he had turned over on the table, and a hint of his manhood became visible as a bump under the hospital-white towel, like a miniature Washington Monument caught beneath the the thick, cold layers of another Ice Age. But that was an illusion: were it not for the triple-layered rolls of belly fat that slid past his waistline and sloughed off between his spongy, varicose-veined thighs, there just might be a whole whopping four, perhaps four-and-a quarter, inches of pulsing Inconvenient Truth lurking beneath that linen.
She was taken aback. She caught her breath, a staccato-sigh of surprise, nay, perhaps even fear. She tried not to look, but couldn't help herself; for even laying down the Vice-President's boobs were strangely bigger than her own, with great, fleshy, earth-toned nipples and the same thick, stiff hairs pointing out of them. They strangely reminded her of Sputnik for a moment, and she was caught in a web of confusion, embarrassment...and lust? She flushed and appeared faint, the first sign of the coming glow of perspiration began to darken the smock beneath her armpits. Her slightly fried-onion-y underarm scent aroused him further -- but this hunter liked to play with his prey first.
"They all react that way...at first", said Al. His dark eyes looked into hers. They were hypnotic, but she could not decide if it was because he was such a magnificent specimen of Old-Money-Hypocrite-middle-aged pork, or because even when he spoke in short sentences he was still such a dashing figure of bone-crushing boredom and banality. She stepped away from the table, but he grabbed her wrist -- gently-yet-firmly and still somehow clammy-and-slimy. She was strangely aroused and repulsed, all at once.
" You know", Al begins., "I was the Inspiration for Love Story..."
Her Drug-store false eyelashes fluttered, her face reddened, and she nervously licked at her lips. Al knew that he had her now; they all fell for that line. Tipper fell hard for it --- that and the inherited Controlling Interest in Standard Oil. So did that Naomi Wolff, that little vixen. He began to remember fondly the six...no...seven whole minutes he had held Naomi in the sodden grip of flop-sweaty passion. It had been his crowning achievement, and had infused him with a sense of manhood that he had not felt since the days when he was writing for Stars and Stripes and pretending to be fighting the War in Vietnam until Daddy could pull enough strings. He remembered the blazing fire of the assault upon Tipper's head on the campaign trail, when he appeared so passionate and devoted to her that he almost sucked her into his being as if he were sucking the Bavarian Cream from the center of a doughnut.
Yes...panting feminists and women in prisons everywhere around the world mailed him their soiled underwear for months after that. Not even Clinton got that sort of love. But that was all in the past; the future, for at least the next three-to-five minutes -- more if he could manage to contain the raging Beast Totem in the Towel -- was now there before him. She was panting now, her chest ( with one breast hanging four inches below the other, and the thick, reinforced underwire of her brassiere became visible beneath the fabric ("Steel-Belted Radials", All liked to call those. He wondered, "Front-loader or back-loader?) was heaving like the stormy North Atlantic.
The Goremeister had caused a Storm in her Maidenforms. She was dead in his sights now.
"Don't be afraid, Yummymuffins. I may have invented the Internet, but no one will know of our passion. It will be OUR guilty secret...".
She wilted at that, delivered as it was with a slight Southern drawl and that sibilant-yet-slightly-effeminate "s" of his. She was now all his. He pulled her closer and began to negotiate the towel so that his throbbing, massive-relative-to-your-average-cocker-spaniel Pelvis Bazooka -- the Green Hornet, as he liked to call it -- could be unleashed in all of it's glory. Yes...she was well-and-truly his, and She would be yet another notch in his ever-expanding belt. There was a flash, like lightning. A quick stirring in his loins, an explosion of ecstasy that caused white-hot spots to float before his eyes, and which made him slightly dizzy thanks to the Watered-Down-Canadian-Healthcare System Viagra he had been taking, and he had marked her forever with a hot load of Environmentally-friendly Man-Milk...all over that sexy-as-a-Phony-Carbon-Credit-Sold-Under-False-Pretenses (allegedly) starched smock. "Mark your territory well", Bill had always told him. It was a valuable lesson. He held her gaze for another seven, maybe ten seconds, so that she could bask in the afterglow. All women needed to bask. Al knew this, being the quiet, passionate, unselfish type who always saw to a woman's needs.
"I'll bet you keep that smock forever, Snugglelumps. No one does it like ManBearPig". She sighed, and was about to speak. "No...not another word about it", he said as he pressed his thoroughly-gooey finger gently across her lips. "We must part now, and keep our Runaway Passion a secret, for those parts of the planet that manage to avoid being flooded by sea-level rise, de-forested by the Inhumanity of Mankind, the shores piled waist-deep in drowned polar bears, all destroyed in the Name of the Internal Combustion Engine, burned to the ground by Acid Rain, or frosted over by the Next Ice Age could never understand what passes between us...".
With that, Al Gore, The Love-em-and-Leave-'Em Ambassador of Mother Gaia, wiped his sexed-up hand upon her cheek, hitched his towel back into place, and in a motion that was reminiscent of a crippled walrus trying to refloat itself from a shingle beach, swung the massive U.S.D.A. Grade-A hamhocks he called legs off the table, and waddled to the door, leaving a tangled mat of greasy back hairs on the smooth, vinyl surface of the table. An Oil Slick of Romance. He paused to give her one last, piercing come-hither look from his watery-yet-still-somehow-smouldering eyes, that bulged out from beneath his Just-for-Men-treated eyebrows, only to find that she was vomiting copiously upon the floor.
It was always the same. Al always had that effect on women; he made them all sooooo fucking hot -- hotter than a rapidly-heating atmosphere burdened with the excess carbon dioxide of a civilization intent upon it's own doom -- that their bodies just could not withstand the onslaught. Now that his Inner-Beast had been Unleashed, he set about seeking more nubile prey. There must be a sixty-plus-year-old T.V. satirist's wife just dying to be Gored by Gore...."
And now you know why I've been puking for a week...
Me and my goddamned imagination! I won't sleep for a year.
Friday, April 23, 2010
The Circle of Poo...
One of them Global Warming morons has published a theory that whales crapping in the ocean are vital to protecting Mother Gaia from the dreadful effects of that made-up-scientific-abortion-that-made-Al-Gore fabulously-wealthy.
Apparently, whale shit contains a high concentration of iron, which it gets from the krill that whales eat, which when digested and expelled becomes food for the phytoplankton which the krill themselves eat. Phytoplankton, besides having terrible taste in entrees, absorb carbon dioxide. The theory goes that if you let phytoplankton populations explode -- by increasing the amount of baleen whale crap in the oceans -- the whales will clean up the planet by shitting all over the oceans. The phytoplankton eat the shit, the krill eat the phytoplankton, and the whales eat the krill in larger numbers, and leave bigger and more numerous turds, which leads to more carbon-dioxide-absorbing phytoplankton, and so on and so on.
Eventually, it just somehow seems appropriate that some "solution" to this bullshit "problem" would just have to include the heftier and more voluminous shit of a much larger animal.
Anyways, the scientists who did this study only collected 27 samples of baleen whale excrement, which seems to me to be a very small sample, indeed, upon which to base any scientific estimate, conclusion, or theory, but then again, I'm not a scientist getting a...ahem...shitload...of taxpayer money to scour the oceans for whale poop who has a gravy train to justify.
Maybe it's just really difficult to recover whale crap? Anyways, this sounds more like an excuse to put an end to whaling than it does sound science.
I'm reminded of this classic episode of South Park.
If two slacker cartoonists figured this stuff out years ago, why did it need a scientist with government funding to study it again?
It wouldn't surprise me if that episode wasn't the inspiration for the whole study in the first place.
(H/T To SouthParkStudios.com. Thank you Trey Parker and Matt Stone!)
Apparently, whale shit contains a high concentration of iron, which it gets from the krill that whales eat, which when digested and expelled becomes food for the phytoplankton which the krill themselves eat. Phytoplankton, besides having terrible taste in entrees, absorb carbon dioxide. The theory goes that if you let phytoplankton populations explode -- by increasing the amount of baleen whale crap in the oceans -- the whales will clean up the planet by shitting all over the oceans. The phytoplankton eat the shit, the krill eat the phytoplankton, and the whales eat the krill in larger numbers, and leave bigger and more numerous turds, which leads to more carbon-dioxide-absorbing phytoplankton, and so on and so on.
Eventually, it just somehow seems appropriate that some "solution" to this bullshit "problem" would just have to include the heftier and more voluminous shit of a much larger animal.
Anyways, the scientists who did this study only collected 27 samples of baleen whale excrement, which seems to me to be a very small sample, indeed, upon which to base any scientific estimate, conclusion, or theory, but then again, I'm not a scientist getting a...ahem...shitload...of taxpayer money to scour the oceans for whale poop who has a gravy train to justify.
Maybe it's just really difficult to recover whale crap? Anyways, this sounds more like an excuse to put an end to whaling than it does sound science.
I'm reminded of this classic episode of South Park.
If two slacker cartoonists figured this stuff out years ago, why did it need a scientist with government funding to study it again?
It wouldn't surprise me if that episode wasn't the inspiration for the whole study in the first place.
(H/T To SouthParkStudios.com. Thank you Trey Parker and Matt Stone!)
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Some Random Thoughts On Polar Bears
I was watching the idiot box today when Noah Wylie (since when does anyone remember Noah Wylie?) comes on for the WWF, and starts talking about Polar Bears. Now, I'm not sure just when Vince McMahon and Hulk Hogan started caring about Polar Bears, but I haven't followed wrestling since I was 12...I grew up and discovered girls after that.
Anyways, Noah starts talking about how Polar Bears are dying because of Global Warming. Apparently, Polar Bears need nut-numbing cold in order to survive.They don't know any better. All this warming is so bad that mother bears can't feed their cubs, and so they die. Why is never explained. The gist is that it's a problem with retreating ice and Polar Bears being too stupid to swim, although every David Attenborough documentary I've ever saw shows Polar Bears with Micheal Phelps-like water skills. Maybe Noah doesn't know what he's talking about (See the pictures, do they look like they're drowning?).
Probably not, since two million scientific studies (it seems) say there's more Polar Bears now than there have been in several hundred years, but what the hell do I know? I though tin the world of Global Warming Science, if you had two million studies that all said the same thing, the science was, therefore, settled. I guess that only applies to studies the Warmies conduct and concoct data for, but I digress.
So, there I am, watching a cute-as-a-button Polar Bear Cub (who will one day grow up to be an 800-pound killer, red in tooth and claw, feeding on whale carcasses that no one but the Japanese would want, see above) frolics in the arctic snow, probably already doomed to die a horrid death and seemingly unaware, when I began to think of Charles Darwin.
Just in case you live in a cave, or go to Harvard, Charles Darwin was the author of the Theory of Evolution which states that organisms which best adapt to their environments tend to flourish. And Here's Noah Wylie, and the people in Copenhagen, and Al Gore and the legions of brain-dead college kids and communists-in-sheep's-clothing all trying to conspire to stop a natural process (evolution) in the name of...saving all the other natural processes?
I mean, it's man's special talent to adapt through technology, through the manipulation of his physical environment. That's what's allowed us to survive and inhabit every corner of this planet. In the process, yes, we do some sort of damage to the natural world, but according to Darwin, the natural world (wildlife, plants, bacteria, etc) should adapt in order to survive. Those that adapt will live, and those that don't will go extinct. Extinction is a is part-and-parcel of evolution.
And I thought libs were all great believers in Evolution, so much so that they sue school boards to keep Creationism and Intelligent Design out of classrooms. So, why save Polar Bears if they won't or can't save themselves? And why does Noah Wylie need my money to do this?
Then I was struck by another thought (two in one day? I need to start drinking again); I remember Irving Krystal, the father of modern Conservatism, once said (paraphrasing) that a "Conservative is someone who stands in front of the runaway freight train of progress, yelling "STOP!" The Tree Huggers are trying to stop industrial progress so that they can save polar bears, and snail darters, and spotted owls, and three-toed Cambodian Cockroaches, in defiance of the Theory of Evolution, and asking for money to finance the project, sorta like when some televangelist(in this case, Noah Wylie) tells his flock that God will do the worst and take him if he doesn't raise $3 bazillion dollars for the new Tabernacle-Theme Park-Casino and Bait Shop.
Then I got confused (I don't need to drink for that to happen): Doesn't all of this halting of progress, asking for voluntary contributions to serve a higher purpose sound a lot like conservatism? I mean, would this sorta-kind make them, these self-proclaimed Progressive Liberals, that is...Conservative...in some fashion? I mean, aren't they denying Evolution and adopting the Judeo-Christian view of man as the Steward of All Creation?
I mean, the similarities don't end there, either. Conservatives are always accused of wanting to 'turn back the clock', to some supposed Golden Era which liberals laughingly insist never existed, only how do you explain their own behavior; True Believers in Global Warming theory have to accept two premises:
a) There was a time when the climate of this planet was somehow 'perfect', not too hot, not too cold, and suitable for the flourishing of all life as we currently perceive it. A Golden Era if ever there was one. And...
b) That if we simply arrest and re-direct progress in the proper way (i.e. under oppressive Government direction), mankind can return to that climatic Golden Era.
So, I guess that Noah Wylie and the Wrestling Folks are out there trying to recruit Conservatives and not save Polar Bears after all?
I wonder, if any Tree Huggers out there have ever thought this same way...and had their heads explode.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)