A few weeks ago, I attained a (very) small measure of internet fame with this post on my mother's post-operative recovery. The original blog post was linked to in the New York Times Healthcare blogs, and beyond the "Holy shit! I'm really in the New York Times!" period of absolute shock, I didn't give much thought to it afterwards.
But,there's still an absolute ton of people following that Times post back to my blog, which means it's probably still rather popular, and so I decided to see what people were saying in the comments section over there. Idle curiosity, and all that. Two particular comments jumped off the page, and should be addressed here for entertainment's sake.
The first one:
It figures that a systems programmer would feel especially overwhelmed by this task. They tend to be systematic thinkers rather than empathizers. There's no program you can write or system you can invent to solve these kinds of problems. His main coping technique is useless. No wonder he's losing it so badly.
Spoken like someone who probably has a shelf full of dusty-and-unused Self-Help books, and who believes that Dr. Phil's brand of McDonald's Drive-through psychology is exactly what the world needs more of. Actually, I was not overwhelmed by the task of providing care; the feeding, bathing, arranging pillows parts were not that difficult. No, the difficult part came about because my mother is a raving lunatic. I happen to know this, because I have first-hand experience of her vast array of mental disorders which begin with clinical depression, take a long detour through OCD, with a little sightseeing at the Monument to Narcissism, and finally come to a screeching halt at Anxiety Complex.
After my initial phase of discomfort with having to do things which one would rather not do, if given the choice -- like injecting your mother with a daily dose of blood thinners (in the stomach) which might actually kill her without great care being taken, or washing a parent who is quite capable of doing so herself but decides that the opportunity to play helpless victim is too great an opportunity to pass up for the sake of garnering pity and sympathy -- the actual "doing" part of the process becomes quite easy, if repetitive and annoying.
The issue, which this particular commenter missed because she was in a rush to pontificate about what a superior douche she is, is that beyond a certain point, it's not about medical necessities; it's about milking the situation so as to scratch the itches of her own neuroses. If she doesn't call my name out and have me respond every 20 minutes, she's afraid I've packed my bags and left her alone. If I do respond, then there had better be something for me to do, because otherwise, she'll have to answer that most basic of questions"What did you want?", and have no answer for it. If she doesn't have a reason to have called me beyond this fear and anxiety, and she doesn't have a medically-necessary reason for calling me every 20-minutes, then she must invent one to avoid looking foolish or pissing me off, because Narcissists do everything short of murder to avoid looking foolish.
Once the initial list of necessary "must do's" quickly exhausts itself, she must invent another list of "must do's" which have absolutely no connection to her health, immediate comfort, or necessity, but are intended to ensure that I'm not leaving her alone, or which play to her selfishness and compulsions; hence, "when you get a chance, go chop the hanging branches off that tree outside", or "as long as you're up, would you check to see if there's any canned peas in the pantry", when she knows damned well there aren't. And that's when the branches and the canned peas, or lack thereof, don't actually consume her every waking thought, because my mother is a compulsive worrier over the pettiest of details (that's the OCD talking).
It's not about her needing me to take care of her as much as it is her needing me to take care of all the stupid bullshit that keeps her up at night because she's a crazy woman with far too much time on her hands and no distractions. She's been seeing "professionals" about this for over 20 years, and it doesn't seem to have helped any. Either she's an extremely rare case, or psychiatry is bullshit.
And no, my 'coping mechanism' is not to systematize or write a computer program; it's to vent, usually with humor that could be considered 'dark'. This is a far sight better than my old 'coping mechanism' which was to drink...heavily (I was the best goddmaned functioning alcoholic you ever did see!) , or my even more-primordial 'coping mechanism', which was to punch someone in the fucking face because my goddamned fuse was so short, and I was probably drunk, too.
Then there was this gem, most-likely written by someone with a permanent menstrual cycle, and a community-college degree;
Nothing against the frustrations that family caretakers experience on a daily basis-- I am 24 and have not yet experienced it, but as a child, I watched my parents deal with my grandparents' declining health--and yes, I understand that it is immensely difficult. But I have a pretty serious issue with this piece, and it is this: Why is a respectable publication like this one giving any sort of publicity AT ALL to an angry, small-spirited man whose writings you openly admit "include offensive references to an array of groups and institutions, including various immigrant groups, unions, the giant bank that was his former employer and the entire third world?" Especially one whose name we are not given? What ever happened to credible references and sources?Roman Polanski, Mel Gibson, and "Matt N.," ladies and gentlemen, for your viewing displeasure-- who cares what they do, as long as they keep entertaining us?
Well, as it was explained to me, the reason why the Times "gave" me publicity was because I had given voice to an opinion and viewpoint that the Times would normally not present. Now, if you accept the validity of anything the Times has to say on any subject, then you have to accept that it has an obligation, the right, and even a responsibility, to make public opinions which you might find angry, small-spirited and offensive. That's what newspapers DO, after all, or are supposed to. If you want to be protected from the opinions and thought processes of other people, I suggest you find a nice tent in the Mojave, lose the cellphone, television, and laptop, and assiduously avoid all human contact.
As for "credibility", just because the Times didn't use my last name (something I specifically asked them not to do), it doesn't make me any less credible, nor does it make my opinions/views any less valid. News organizations routinely make use of "unnamed sources" or "sources speaking on condition of anonymity", and I wonder if you call the validity of their views and facts into question? Or is it simply views and facts that you disagree with or find distasteful that aren't "valid"?
I think I already know the answer to that question; it was contained in the first sentence of your reply, when you said "I am 24".
I'm thinking that's pretty close to your I.Q., as well, Sweetcheeks. Hopefully you have big breasts and know what to do with your tongue, so that some man will come along and relieve you of the responsibility of having to take care of yourself.
Otherwise, the responses were mostly supportive, sympathetic, or along the lines of "Goddamn, I wish I had the balls to say that!"
I've said it before, and I shall reiterate for those who may have missed it: I really don't give a Tinker's Turd for what anyone thinks of me. I know who and what I am, and I'm pretty happy with it, and don't feel the need to show my soft-squishy-feminine side to every asshole who demnds or expects to see it. If I were a heartless bastard incapable of empathy, I wouldn't have been at my mother's bedside. That, somehow, always goes unnoticed and unremarked, because people who want to give an opinion without thinking it through are legion. The point was to screech something that makes them feel as if they are superior human beings, possessed of more 'empathy' and 'caring' then everyone else.
They are the Saints, you see, The Special Ones, the Light-Bringers, Our Moral Superiors, and the rest of us are shit on their shoes. I have taken the time, and wasted the bandwidth, to point out the glaring idiocy and logical inconsistencies in these replies, not because I had to, but because there is some slim hope that having had your stupidity identified for you, you might be able to the necessary take steps to correct your issues and, therefore, lead a productive and happier life. You don't have to thank me for it, either, and just in case you haven't learned your lesson and will persist in your fatuity, then you can go expletive-deleted yourself.
(because a couple of people were upset with the language,too)
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.
"Princess Boys"...
This is what happens when you treat your children as a fashion accessory,or project your unfulfilled dreams and aspirations upon them, and you encourage behavior in them for the purposes of writing a freakin' book, because that's easier than working for a living.
You are not a parent; you are a little girl playing at Barbie Dolls...with Penises. Which, I'm led to understand that Barbie's supposedly-hetero-male counterpart, Ken, does not have.
Now, does letting your son wear a dress and forcing him to take ballet classes against his will for your own personal edification produce a well-adjusted child?
Take a look at the potential future mayor of Chicago, and you tell me.
But, I digress...
feel sorry for this little boy, because he obviously has a mother who is a dumbass, and one is left wondering "Where the fuck is this kid's father?", and, "Why hasn't he smacked the shit out of his Baby Momma yet?"
Now, kids go through phases; we all know this. It's quite possible this child will outgrow his passion for pink and purple frilly things. I certainly hope that he does, but it's going to be difficult when his mother is a pretentious moron with a political agenda, and less native intelligence than one normally associates with a garden snail. She's found herself a Golden Goose in our therapeutic culture, and one gets the impression that we have another ersatz "expert" in the making; you know, those people the newsdouches turn to for answers to obscure questions on obscure subjects that no one wants answered, but that some idiot producer thinks would make an awesome "human interest" story.
"Mom" is in the process of making a career for herself out of her child's idiosyncracies. In any context except within the touchy-feely world of the drum-circle-diversity-inclusion industry, this would be called "exploitation".
Watching this video, it's obvious that the mother is little more than this kid's puppet master: she has to encourage the kid to speak (almost like she's giving him permission to do so) when Meredith Viera (damn that woman still looks good after all these years) asks him a question, and then usually ends up answering it for him. Edgar Bergen was a rank amateur compared to this doofus, who should be taken out and shot for the rankest and most egregious child abuse.
Seriously, if your boys are wearing dresses, and it ain't for the school play, or a Halloween costume, and they're above the age of 3; you've got a problem.
Normal parents who recognize their child has a problem take them to doctors, or take corrective action on their own. They don't write look-at-me books and go on the Today Show.
(H/T JammieWearingFool).
You are not a parent; you are a little girl playing at Barbie Dolls...with Penises. Which, I'm led to understand that Barbie's supposedly-hetero-male counterpart, Ken, does not have.
Now, does letting your son wear a dress and forcing him to take ballet classes against his will for your own personal edification produce a well-adjusted child?
Take a look at the potential future mayor of Chicago, and you tell me.
But, I digress...
feel sorry for this little boy, because he obviously has a mother who is a dumbass, and one is left wondering "Where the fuck is this kid's father?", and, "Why hasn't he smacked the shit out of his Baby Momma yet?"
Now, kids go through phases; we all know this. It's quite possible this child will outgrow his passion for pink and purple frilly things. I certainly hope that he does, but it's going to be difficult when his mother is a pretentious moron with a political agenda, and less native intelligence than one normally associates with a garden snail. She's found herself a Golden Goose in our therapeutic culture, and one gets the impression that we have another ersatz "expert" in the making; you know, those people the newsdouches turn to for answers to obscure questions on obscure subjects that no one wants answered, but that some idiot producer thinks would make an awesome "human interest" story.
"Mom" is in the process of making a career for herself out of her child's idiosyncracies. In any context except within the touchy-feely world of the drum-circle-diversity-inclusion industry, this would be called "exploitation".
Watching this video, it's obvious that the mother is little more than this kid's puppet master: she has to encourage the kid to speak (almost like she's giving him permission to do so) when Meredith Viera (damn that woman still looks good after all these years) asks him a question, and then usually ends up answering it for him. Edgar Bergen was a rank amateur compared to this doofus, who should be taken out and shot for the rankest and most egregious child abuse.
Seriously, if your boys are wearing dresses, and it ain't for the school play, or a Halloween costume, and they're above the age of 3; you've got a problem.
Normal parents who recognize their child has a problem take them to doctors, or take corrective action on their own. They don't write look-at-me books and go on the Today Show.
(H/T JammieWearingFool).
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
The Haircut...
A Note to All The Ladies Who Visit the Asylum; as a public service, I am about to offer you a FREE piece of advice about the inner-workings of that most disagreeable of creatures: The Man.
This advice will not help you rekindle the romance. It will not give you any greater insight as to what absolute pigs men are (believe me, we are). It will not even help you to better understand us, except in some superficial way. It is an observation, one that I hadn't really made about myself before, but that now having discovered this intriguing bit of unrealized stupidity, I simply must write about it.
In case no one ever told you...
...Men are creatures of habit, and the Older we get, the more set we are in those habits. The more we persist in that sort of stupidity, the more dull and boring life becomes. I would wager that at least a third of divorces arise because some dude won't give up his comfortable, but annoying, habits.
You would think that with all the time I've spent in therapy, I would have noticed this about myself before, and perhaps even taken steps to correct this potentially-dangerous-on-par-with-OCD behavior earlier, but for some reason while I have been able to recognize the really big -and-obvious destructive baggage that I carry, I had never quite noticed this little personality quirk until today.
And it took a Gay Man to bring about this Epiphany.
See, I've needed a haircut for quite some time. In fact, I'm one of those men who finds a trip to the barber shop to be a massive inconvenience, like passing a kidney stone, or having to eventually do the laundry because you've run out of socks and underpants to turn inside-out. My last haircut, before today, was approximately seven months ago. Most people go to a doctor once a year for a physical, I go to the barber but once a year and usually because it's difficult to see, or birds are beginning to nest in my hair. I shave (almost) every day. I often shower twice a day. I'm manic-bordering-on-anal-retentive about creased trousers, perfectly-ironed shirts, and shined shoes, but when it comes to getting a haircut, I'd probably prefer a Clorox enema.
Oh, of course, I can find justifications for this weird behavior: at my advanced age (nearing 44) most of the men I know are losing their hair, while my own magnificent mane continues to flourish, growing like an endless field of wind-blown amber grain. I'm only now starting to go gray, and it's but a few strands here and there, while everyone else my age is already starting to show a little snow on the roof. My hair is probably, on some Freudian level, my visible symbol of continued virility. In a way, I think I'm engaging in what might be called, under different circumstances, female behavior: it's almost as if I'm telling all the other 40-something men "Eat your heart out, sucka!".
Anyways, eventually, even I break down and have to admit that it's time to bring in the harvest. My hair was curling over my collar in the back -- a look that hasn't been popular since the days when David Cassidy could set teenybopper vaginas aflame. My head appeared to have grown to twice it's normal size. I could take the hair hanging down in the front of my head and nearly touch the tip of my nose with it. A few days ago, I was out in the cold, and two hours after my morning shower, my hair was still wet (blow dryers are for pussies!)...and it froze to my scalp. I could actually pick ice crystals out of it.
So, it was time. And herein lie the discovery of my inner Creature of Habit.
I was, unfortunately, very busy this afternoon. Mom is getting more mobile, but is still not fully independent, so this afternoon I was needed to escort her and help her out while she did her errands. One of these errands was a trip to the laundromat. Now, my mother doesn't do what normal people do, and use the laundromat four blocks away, because that would be too easy and would deprive her of the opportunity to annoy the living shit out of me. No, she must use the "better" laundromat (how one makes these distinctions is beyond me) ten blocks away. This conflicts with my desire to, finally, chop the hair off my head in my regular barber's chair. While she sits around waiting for the laundry that I will have to carry back home, I'm looking for the nearest haircutters, just to get the damned thing over with.
And so it was that I walked into one of the newer salons that has just recently opened in the neighborhood. It was nearby. it was convenient. It was full of really cute Korean Girls. That's good enough for me, so I walked in.
I was greeted by a really adorable little thing with funky pigtails, like you usually only see on a Pokemon or in a Japanese anime feature. Immediately, it becomes apparent that there is going to be a little problem with language, my Korean (learned from Korean ex-girlfriends) being limited to about three phrases -- and they shouldn't be repeated in polite company, but I'm going to because you've come to expect that sort of coarseness from me -- are, roughly translated into Engrish...errr...English:
1. Oh My God, that was awesome!
2. Easy! That hurts a little (I like 'em petite, and I am Italian, after all...wink, wink)
3. Not now, you stupid bastard!
So, Funky Pigtails asks me:
You wan' hay-cut?
Yes, I want a haircut. Do you do Men's hair here?
You wan' hay-cut?
Yes (pointing at my head) I would like a haircut. Do you do Men's hair here?
And then I heard it as clear as day. That sound that reminds one of steam escaping, or of a slow leak in a steel-belted radial.
Yessssss, we cut Men's hair.
Turning, I caught sight of something so funny that I'm amazed that I managed to stifle my laughter. If there's anything funnier than a Gay Hairdresser, it's a Gay Korean Hairdresser. This is a long way away from my usual haircut routine, where I walk into the same place I've gone to for the last five or so years, and they know what to do without asking. In fact, no words are exchanged at all; they just start cutting. I'm caught now. Cornered. I'm used to having women cut my hair (admission: it's vanity. Women rave about my hair), not some skinny dude in skinny jeans with cowboy boots and a bandanna around his neck. There's nothing for it.
I'm about to get some Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
And I'm about to discover that "Yesssss, we cut Men's hair" is about all the English this guy knows.
I try to explain what I want, in a combination of pidgin and hand gestures, and he just stares. When I'm finished, he shakes his head, indicating that this will not do. He tries to explain what he thinks should be done, and I'm not really getting it. I don't speak Hair, nor do I speak Korean Queer. Eventually, for some unknown reason, I simply make a gesture which could be interpreted as "whatever you think is best". Surrender: It's easier that way.
The guy was a scissor demon. I don't think I have ever had someone spend that much time with a pair of scissors on my head, and it wasn't just the considerable amount of hair he took off, either; the guy was working like a sculptor -- a fine cut here, a little adjustment of an angle there, ooops! Missed that little bit over there.
Then he whipped out (pardon the pun) the electric shears. I was now about to go into apoplexy, imagining one of those ridiculous close-cropped monstrosities that passes for fashion these days. All the best Guidos on Staten Island have haircuts that resemble what you get on your first day on Parris Island, only with designs or messages carved into it. The man goes to town with comb and shears, shaving here, slicing there, trimming everywhere. Every so often he stops, and I can't quite tell if he's trying to get some loose shavings out of his way, of if he's trying to turn me on by blowing in my ear, but at this point, I don't give a crap; I'm in the chair for nearly 45 minutes, already. If I had gone to my regular place, I'd have left 20 minutes ago.
Apparently, something wasn't quite up to snuff, so the scissors come out again. I'm not exactly sure what he's trimming and cutting, but he's determined. Every so often, he stops to ask me something I cannot understand, and somehow I find myself reflexively saying "yes, that's fine". Eventually, the job is done; there is an inch-thick pile of hair at the base of the chair. That oversized bib-thingy I'm wearing looks like Magnum, P.I.'s chest. You could construct an entire grizzly bear from what came off my head, I reckon.
And Super-Gay Korean Dude holds up the little mirror, and gives me the rear view (hah! I said "gay" and "rear view"! Oh, I slay me!), the side view and the view from above. I finally look into the big mirror across from the chair, and not only has this dude done an incredible job on my haircut -- it's shorter than I've ever worn it, and I suddenly look thinner and about ten years younger (I already look very young for my age, but this was simply incredible). I'd like to think I'm not a (terribly) vain man, and I will admit that I know jack about fashion and the finer points of personal grooming beyond the occasional snipping of nostril hangers -- I mean, I don't even trim my mustache; when it gets to the point where I'm actually eating it along with my dinner, I simply shave it off and start again -- but this was a revelation.
Creature of Habit. I'd been getting the same haircut, more or less, since high-school, with little variation. Had I ever given much thought to the possibilities of something different, who knows what might have been? I have to say, I felt exceedingly happy about a simple haircut, and in one hour three habits seem to have gone by the wayside:
1. I have decided that I shall get more frequent haircuts.
2. I may have found a new barber.
3. I will resolve from this day forward to occasionally, consciously, break with my usual habits. I will try a new coffee shop. I will order a different sandwich at the deli instead of my usual chicken cutlet/fresh mozzarella/roasted red pepper, fresh garlic and olive oil on Semolina. I will do something different at least once a week from here on in.
It gets better.
On my return to the laundromat that attractive strawberry blond who wouldn't give me a second look when I first walked in? She struck up a conversation. Oh, and I have clean underpants again.
And here is your second piece of free advice, Ladies:
Get your man to break some of his stupid habits (by no means all of them!), and you just might get yourself a New Man in the process.
This advice will not help you rekindle the romance. It will not give you any greater insight as to what absolute pigs men are (believe me, we are). It will not even help you to better understand us, except in some superficial way. It is an observation, one that I hadn't really made about myself before, but that now having discovered this intriguing bit of unrealized stupidity, I simply must write about it.
In case no one ever told you...
...Men are creatures of habit, and the Older we get, the more set we are in those habits. The more we persist in that sort of stupidity, the more dull and boring life becomes. I would wager that at least a third of divorces arise because some dude won't give up his comfortable, but annoying, habits.
You would think that with all the time I've spent in therapy, I would have noticed this about myself before, and perhaps even taken steps to correct this potentially-dangerous-on-par-with-OCD behavior earlier, but for some reason while I have been able to recognize the really big -and-obvious destructive baggage that I carry, I had never quite noticed this little personality quirk until today.
And it took a Gay Man to bring about this Epiphany.
See, I've needed a haircut for quite some time. In fact, I'm one of those men who finds a trip to the barber shop to be a massive inconvenience, like passing a kidney stone, or having to eventually do the laundry because you've run out of socks and underpants to turn inside-out. My last haircut, before today, was approximately seven months ago. Most people go to a doctor once a year for a physical, I go to the barber but once a year and usually because it's difficult to see, or birds are beginning to nest in my hair. I shave (almost) every day. I often shower twice a day. I'm manic-bordering-on-anal-retentive about creased trousers, perfectly-ironed shirts, and shined shoes, but when it comes to getting a haircut, I'd probably prefer a Clorox enema.
Oh, of course, I can find justifications for this weird behavior: at my advanced age (nearing 44) most of the men I know are losing their hair, while my own magnificent mane continues to flourish, growing like an endless field of wind-blown amber grain. I'm only now starting to go gray, and it's but a few strands here and there, while everyone else my age is already starting to show a little snow on the roof. My hair is probably, on some Freudian level, my visible symbol of continued virility. In a way, I think I'm engaging in what might be called, under different circumstances, female behavior: it's almost as if I'm telling all the other 40-something men "Eat your heart out, sucka!".
Anyways, eventually, even I break down and have to admit that it's time to bring in the harvest. My hair was curling over my collar in the back -- a look that hasn't been popular since the days when David Cassidy could set teenybopper vaginas aflame. My head appeared to have grown to twice it's normal size. I could take the hair hanging down in the front of my head and nearly touch the tip of my nose with it. A few days ago, I was out in the cold, and two hours after my morning shower, my hair was still wet (blow dryers are for pussies!)...and it froze to my scalp. I could actually pick ice crystals out of it.
So, it was time. And herein lie the discovery of my inner Creature of Habit.
I was, unfortunately, very busy this afternoon. Mom is getting more mobile, but is still not fully independent, so this afternoon I was needed to escort her and help her out while she did her errands. One of these errands was a trip to the laundromat. Now, my mother doesn't do what normal people do, and use the laundromat four blocks away, because that would be too easy and would deprive her of the opportunity to annoy the living shit out of me. No, she must use the "better" laundromat (how one makes these distinctions is beyond me) ten blocks away. This conflicts with my desire to, finally, chop the hair off my head in my regular barber's chair. While she sits around waiting for the laundry that I will have to carry back home, I'm looking for the nearest haircutters, just to get the damned thing over with.
And so it was that I walked into one of the newer salons that has just recently opened in the neighborhood. It was nearby. it was convenient. It was full of really cute Korean Girls. That's good enough for me, so I walked in.
I was greeted by a really adorable little thing with funky pigtails, like you usually only see on a Pokemon or in a Japanese anime feature. Immediately, it becomes apparent that there is going to be a little problem with language, my Korean (learned from Korean ex-girlfriends) being limited to about three phrases -- and they shouldn't be repeated in polite company, but I'm going to because you've come to expect that sort of coarseness from me -- are, roughly translated into Engrish...errr...English:
1. Oh My God, that was awesome!
2. Easy! That hurts a little (I like 'em petite, and I am Italian, after all...wink, wink)
3. Not now, you stupid bastard!
So, Funky Pigtails asks me:
You wan' hay-cut?
Yes, I want a haircut. Do you do Men's hair here?
You wan' hay-cut?
Yes (pointing at my head) I would like a haircut. Do you do Men's hair here?
And then I heard it as clear as day. That sound that reminds one of steam escaping, or of a slow leak in a steel-belted radial.
Yessssss, we cut Men's hair.
Turning, I caught sight of something so funny that I'm amazed that I managed to stifle my laughter. If there's anything funnier than a Gay Hairdresser, it's a Gay Korean Hairdresser. This is a long way away from my usual haircut routine, where I walk into the same place I've gone to for the last five or so years, and they know what to do without asking. In fact, no words are exchanged at all; they just start cutting. I'm caught now. Cornered. I'm used to having women cut my hair (admission: it's vanity. Women rave about my hair), not some skinny dude in skinny jeans with cowboy boots and a bandanna around his neck. There's nothing for it.
I'm about to get some Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
And I'm about to discover that "Yesssss, we cut Men's hair" is about all the English this guy knows.
I try to explain what I want, in a combination of pidgin and hand gestures, and he just stares. When I'm finished, he shakes his head, indicating that this will not do. He tries to explain what he thinks should be done, and I'm not really getting it. I don't speak Hair, nor do I speak Korean Queer. Eventually, for some unknown reason, I simply make a gesture which could be interpreted as "whatever you think is best". Surrender: It's easier that way.
The guy was a scissor demon. I don't think I have ever had someone spend that much time with a pair of scissors on my head, and it wasn't just the considerable amount of hair he took off, either; the guy was working like a sculptor -- a fine cut here, a little adjustment of an angle there, ooops! Missed that little bit over there.
Then he whipped out (pardon the pun) the electric shears. I was now about to go into apoplexy, imagining one of those ridiculous close-cropped monstrosities that passes for fashion these days. All the best Guidos on Staten Island have haircuts that resemble what you get on your first day on Parris Island, only with designs or messages carved into it. The man goes to town with comb and shears, shaving here, slicing there, trimming everywhere. Every so often he stops, and I can't quite tell if he's trying to get some loose shavings out of his way, of if he's trying to turn me on by blowing in my ear, but at this point, I don't give a crap; I'm in the chair for nearly 45 minutes, already. If I had gone to my regular place, I'd have left 20 minutes ago.
Apparently, something wasn't quite up to snuff, so the scissors come out again. I'm not exactly sure what he's trimming and cutting, but he's determined. Every so often, he stops to ask me something I cannot understand, and somehow I find myself reflexively saying "yes, that's fine". Eventually, the job is done; there is an inch-thick pile of hair at the base of the chair. That oversized bib-thingy I'm wearing looks like Magnum, P.I.'s chest. You could construct an entire grizzly bear from what came off my head, I reckon.
And Super-Gay Korean Dude holds up the little mirror, and gives me the rear view (hah! I said "gay" and "rear view"! Oh, I slay me!), the side view and the view from above. I finally look into the big mirror across from the chair, and not only has this dude done an incredible job on my haircut -- it's shorter than I've ever worn it, and I suddenly look thinner and about ten years younger (I already look very young for my age, but this was simply incredible). I'd like to think I'm not a (terribly) vain man, and I will admit that I know jack about fashion and the finer points of personal grooming beyond the occasional snipping of nostril hangers -- I mean, I don't even trim my mustache; when it gets to the point where I'm actually eating it along with my dinner, I simply shave it off and start again -- but this was a revelation.
Creature of Habit. I'd been getting the same haircut, more or less, since high-school, with little variation. Had I ever given much thought to the possibilities of something different, who knows what might have been? I have to say, I felt exceedingly happy about a simple haircut, and in one hour three habits seem to have gone by the wayside:
1. I have decided that I shall get more frequent haircuts.
2. I may have found a new barber.
3. I will resolve from this day forward to occasionally, consciously, break with my usual habits. I will try a new coffee shop. I will order a different sandwich at the deli instead of my usual chicken cutlet/fresh mozzarella/roasted red pepper, fresh garlic and olive oil on Semolina. I will do something different at least once a week from here on in.
It gets better.
On my return to the laundromat that attractive strawberry blond who wouldn't give me a second look when I first walked in? She struck up a conversation. Oh, and I have clean underpants again.
And here is your second piece of free advice, Ladies:
Get your man to break some of his stupid habits (by no means all of them!), and you just might get yourself a New Man in the process.
Monday, January 03, 2011
This Just In: Obama Vows to Fuck Up Africa, Too...
Yep. This should work.
Having found himself unable to cope with the problems of this Continent (high unemployment, rampant illegal immigration, home-grown jihadis, unsustainable public debt, moribund economy, all-devouring Federal Bureaucracy), President Marriot-Suites has decided to turn his mighty teleprompter skills upon the problems of Africa.
Because he's had such stunning success here, you know, why not take the show on the road?
I'm certain that bribing an Ivory Coast despot with the promise of a higher international role is a sure-fire bell-ringer. Why, if only someone had offered Hitler a higher international profile on the cocktail circuit of the swankier European capitals, things might have worked out quite differently.
What absolute blather this is:
Rhodes said the White House understands that U.S. involvement in African politics can be viewed as meddling. But he said Obama can speak to African leaders with a unique level of candor, reflecting his personal connection to Africa and that his father and other family members have been affected by the corruption that plagues many countries there.
First off, Obama himself has little "connection" to Africa, apart from being (half-) black. This is a man who was raised in Hawaii and Indonesia, and educated (so they say) at Harvard. The assertion that he has a "connection" to Africa is complete bullshit; no one has any connection to any place or culture that one wasn't actually born and/or raised in. An Englishman who vacationed in India is no more Indian than his pet goldfish. Obama is no more Kenyan for having lived in Honolulu and Chicago, and being raised by his white grandparents, then Bo the Water Spaniel is.
By all accounts, and I'm parsing the sources here, Obama's "African connection" seems to have consisted of short visits with an absentee father who could give a shit, because he was too busy playing at revolutionary and Pan-African Nationalist. Because the middle-class white chicks just dug that crap back in the 60's, you know.
And besides, Mr. President, isn't there enough for you to do here? I know, I know: doing isn't really your thing, but do you think that at some point you could at least make an effort to appear to be paying attention to your own citizens? A few minutes between vacations and press-conferences-where-nothing-actually-gets-said, at the least?
Playing to Africa is a desperate gambit by a desperate man who knows that his re-election is a lost cause. It tells me that Obama cannot look all Presidential and leadery-like over here, and so he has "raise his profile" by taking on "Big Stage" issues Overseas -- where no one can vote for him. It's the old "Great Man of History" routine,and every democratic president in trouble trots out this well-worn script; if you can't convince your own citizens of your greatness, then try to sell it to The World, so that you can always hammer your detractors over the head with "He may not be popular in Boise, but they love him in Soweto. You must be missing something" routine.
Eventually, most democratic presidencies of the last 50 years are reduced to the Grand Gesture, complete with all the pomp and trappings of grandeur; the Summit Meetings, The U.N. Speeches, The Great Diplomatic Potemkin-Cluster-Fuck in Geneva. Ultimately, it means nothing, but it looks good on the Evening News and in the History Books.
Obama and his Magic Teleprompter, and his super-human Turd-Polishing abilities, are not going to solve the cultural issues of tribal animosity, religious bigotry, corrupt politics, industrial underdevelopment, lack of a democratic mindset and widespread ignorance of a Continent that shits in it's own drinking water, and then does little more than breed and fight.
The point isn't to actually achieve anything, but to create the perception of accomplishment for strictly domestic audiences.
Or maybe it's just an excuse to drag Air Farce One out of the hangar again for some more R-and-R on the taxpayer dime?
I wonder how many golf courses they have in Zimbabwe?
Having found himself unable to cope with the problems of this Continent (high unemployment, rampant illegal immigration, home-grown jihadis, unsustainable public debt, moribund economy, all-devouring Federal Bureaucracy), President Marriot-Suites has decided to turn his mighty teleprompter skills upon the problems of Africa.
Because he's had such stunning success here, you know, why not take the show on the road?
I'm certain that bribing an Ivory Coast despot with the promise of a higher international role is a sure-fire bell-ringer. Why, if only someone had offered Hitler a higher international profile on the cocktail circuit of the swankier European capitals, things might have worked out quite differently.
What absolute blather this is:
Rhodes said the White House understands that U.S. involvement in African politics can be viewed as meddling. But he said Obama can speak to African leaders with a unique level of candor, reflecting his personal connection to Africa and that his father and other family members have been affected by the corruption that plagues many countries there.
First off, Obama himself has little "connection" to Africa, apart from being (half-) black. This is a man who was raised in Hawaii and Indonesia, and educated (so they say) at Harvard. The assertion that he has a "connection" to Africa is complete bullshit; no one has any connection to any place or culture that one wasn't actually born and/or raised in. An Englishman who vacationed in India is no more Indian than his pet goldfish. Obama is no more Kenyan for having lived in Honolulu and Chicago, and being raised by his white grandparents, then Bo the Water Spaniel is.
By all accounts, and I'm parsing the sources here, Obama's "African connection" seems to have consisted of short visits with an absentee father who could give a shit, because he was too busy playing at revolutionary and Pan-African Nationalist. Because the middle-class white chicks just dug that crap back in the 60's, you know.
And besides, Mr. President, isn't there enough for you to do here? I know, I know: doing isn't really your thing, but do you think that at some point you could at least make an effort to appear to be paying attention to your own citizens? A few minutes between vacations and press-conferences-where-nothing-actually-gets-said, at the least?
Playing to Africa is a desperate gambit by a desperate man who knows that his re-election is a lost cause. It tells me that Obama cannot look all Presidential and leadery-like over here, and so he has "raise his profile" by taking on "Big Stage" issues Overseas -- where no one can vote for him. It's the old "Great Man of History" routine,and every democratic president in trouble trots out this well-worn script; if you can't convince your own citizens of your greatness, then try to sell it to The World, so that you can always hammer your detractors over the head with "He may not be popular in Boise, but they love him in Soweto. You must be missing something" routine.
Eventually, most democratic presidencies of the last 50 years are reduced to the Grand Gesture, complete with all the pomp and trappings of grandeur; the Summit Meetings, The U.N. Speeches, The Great Diplomatic Potemkin-Cluster-Fuck in Geneva. Ultimately, it means nothing, but it looks good on the Evening News and in the History Books.
Obama and his Magic Teleprompter, and his super-human Turd-Polishing abilities, are not going to solve the cultural issues of tribal animosity, religious bigotry, corrupt politics, industrial underdevelopment, lack of a democratic mindset and widespread ignorance of a Continent that shits in it's own drinking water, and then does little more than breed and fight.
The point isn't to actually achieve anything, but to create the perception of accomplishment for strictly domestic audiences.
Or maybe it's just an excuse to drag Air Farce One out of the hangar again for some more R-and-R on the taxpayer dime?
I wonder how many golf courses they have in Zimbabwe?
When All Else Fails, Show 'em Your Tits!
Environmentalists and scientists are concerned about the massive drop in public interest in the topic of Global Warming over the last year. Now they are looking for new strategies to turn the tide. They're searching for so-called "mind bombs" -- highly emotional images that reduce a complex problem down to one core message.
This is par for the course for Lefties: when you can't make your argument on logic, science, facts, or enlightened self-interest, go for emotion....or sex.
One initial experiment showed an attractive female researcher posing in a bathing suit in front of Arctic ice. "Climate change is sexy," was also the motto of several working groups at the Global Media Forum in Bonn.
I'm told this sells beer and automobiles, too. You would think they could have found more attractive models for this sort of thing. I guess the sight of flesh, even on ugly people (see the slide show within the article) , is enough to arouse a Lefty and get him or her (it's usually a her) motivated to do stupid things. But, just in case you were worried that this was all about tits and vaginas, and therefore, extremely sexist, there's this:
India has even managed to turn a sex symbol into an icon for climate protection. The Ice Shiva Lingam, an enormous ice stalagmite in the Amarnath caves of northern India, is revered as a fertility symbol. Major news outlets in the country have begun reporting on global warming since the frozen phallic symbol began to melt.
Yep, because when I think "phallic symbols", I always think "India". If there was a more direct and obvious correlation between the phallus and Indians, there would probably be more Indian dudes making porn movies, I think.
The next logical step is to give 'em an image, out of context, which is supposed to appeal to people's better sensibilities, and a short, catchy slogan (no more than four words, please; the committed Leftist can't remember more than that, i.e. 'No Blood 4 Oil", "Hands off My Bush", "It's for the Children", "Think Global, Act Local" and so forth). When sex and simplicity don't work, then go for pure shock value:
One commercial in a campaign by the British-based environmental organization 10:10 showed a teacher blowing up two students who were skeptical about cutting their carbon emissions, with fountains of blood spraying the others in the class. Other 10:10 videos have the same fate befalling recalcitrant office workers and footballers. But the campaign proved a dud -- it sparked massive protests and was quickly withdrawn.
More successful was a Greenpeace advertising spot that targeted the multinational food company Nestlé. Greenpeace wanted the video, in which a bar of chocolate turns out to be a gorilla's bleeding finger, to be understood as a symbol of endangered rainforests, where harvesting palm oil for chocolate production encroaches on great apes' habitats. After the video caused a considerable stir, Nestlé promised to stop using products that damaged rainforests.
I would assume there are means of obtaining palm oil for chocolate which doesn't endanger rainforests, but probably costs twice as much, an expense that will eventually be passed on to the consumer until a Nestle's Crunch costs the same as a gallon of gasoline. Thanks douchebags!
When that fails, go with the celebrity factor, because we all know that stupid people just love to take their cues, or advice about how to think or live their lives from even dumber people who just happen to be "famous". I wonder if George Clooney or Brangelina are available to provide play-by-play commentary on the next video of pandas being nailed to trees by men in Nazi costume?
The rest of the article is telling. It shows an environMENTAL movement that is so desperate that it is wiling to lie (only they call it "A New Kind of Journalism"), invent a new "Scientific Language" (hey, hasn't "Global Warming" already become "Climate Change, and then "Climate Chaos" in little more than a year?), and even adopting the strategy of Leftardism's greatest enemy; religion. They call this "The Search For a New Messiah" (because the old one, Al Gore, is such a douche), and even make an appeal to the sainted memory of Martin Luther King, Jr., because let's face it: Climate Change is just as bad as treating a formerly-enslaved race like second-class citizens, when you aren't burning crosses on their front lawns or hanging them from any convenient tree.
It makes you wonder if this planet isn't simply the loony bin of some alien race, which sits back and watches from above and laughs it's collective ass off at the stupidity of some human beings.
What's really funny, in that it's-so pathetic-you-don't-know-whether-to-laugh-or-cry way, is that Save Gaia propaganda is handled in exactly the same shallow-flashy Madison-Avenue fashion that one would use to promote any other product or brand name. But if you asked any committed Leftard his opinion on Madison Avenue, he'd probably call it the Handmaiden of Death, because it's the very vehicle that pushes the unsustainable, mass-consumption vision of the world that the Leftards insist is destroying the planet in the first place!
This is par for the course for Lefties: when you can't make your argument on logic, science, facts, or enlightened self-interest, go for emotion....or sex.
One initial experiment showed an attractive female researcher posing in a bathing suit in front of Arctic ice. "Climate change is sexy," was also the motto of several working groups at the Global Media Forum in Bonn.
I'm told this sells beer and automobiles, too. You would think they could have found more attractive models for this sort of thing. I guess the sight of flesh, even on ugly people (see the slide show within the article) , is enough to arouse a Lefty and get him or her (it's usually a her) motivated to do stupid things. But, just in case you were worried that this was all about tits and vaginas, and therefore, extremely sexist, there's this:
India has even managed to turn a sex symbol into an icon for climate protection. The Ice Shiva Lingam, an enormous ice stalagmite in the Amarnath caves of northern India, is revered as a fertility symbol. Major news outlets in the country have begun reporting on global warming since the frozen phallic symbol began to melt.
Yep, because when I think "phallic symbols", I always think "India". If there was a more direct and obvious correlation between the phallus and Indians, there would probably be more Indian dudes making porn movies, I think.
The next logical step is to give 'em an image, out of context, which is supposed to appeal to people's better sensibilities, and a short, catchy slogan (no more than four words, please; the committed Leftist can't remember more than that, i.e. 'No Blood 4 Oil", "Hands off My Bush", "It's for the Children", "Think Global, Act Local" and so forth). When sex and simplicity don't work, then go for pure shock value:
One commercial in a campaign by the British-based environmental organization 10:10 showed a teacher blowing up two students who were skeptical about cutting their carbon emissions, with fountains of blood spraying the others in the class. Other 10:10 videos have the same fate befalling recalcitrant office workers and footballers. But the campaign proved a dud -- it sparked massive protests and was quickly withdrawn.
More successful was a Greenpeace advertising spot that targeted the multinational food company Nestlé. Greenpeace wanted the video, in which a bar of chocolate turns out to be a gorilla's bleeding finger, to be understood as a symbol of endangered rainforests, where harvesting palm oil for chocolate production encroaches on great apes' habitats. After the video caused a considerable stir, Nestlé promised to stop using products that damaged rainforests.
I would assume there are means of obtaining palm oil for chocolate which doesn't endanger rainforests, but probably costs twice as much, an expense that will eventually be passed on to the consumer until a Nestle's Crunch costs the same as a gallon of gasoline. Thanks douchebags!
When that fails, go with the celebrity factor, because we all know that stupid people just love to take their cues, or advice about how to think or live their lives from even dumber people who just happen to be "famous". I wonder if George Clooney or Brangelina are available to provide play-by-play commentary on the next video of pandas being nailed to trees by men in Nazi costume?
The rest of the article is telling. It shows an environMENTAL movement that is so desperate that it is wiling to lie (only they call it "A New Kind of Journalism"), invent a new "Scientific Language" (hey, hasn't "Global Warming" already become "Climate Change, and then "Climate Chaos" in little more than a year?), and even adopting the strategy of Leftardism's greatest enemy; religion. They call this "The Search For a New Messiah" (because the old one, Al Gore, is such a douche), and even make an appeal to the sainted memory of Martin Luther King, Jr., because let's face it: Climate Change is just as bad as treating a formerly-enslaved race like second-class citizens, when you aren't burning crosses on their front lawns or hanging them from any convenient tree.
It makes you wonder if this planet isn't simply the loony bin of some alien race, which sits back and watches from above and laughs it's collective ass off at the stupidity of some human beings.
What's really funny, in that it's-so pathetic-you-don't-know-whether-to-laugh-or-cry way, is that Save Gaia propaganda is handled in exactly the same shallow-flashy Madison-Avenue fashion that one would use to promote any other product or brand name. But if you asked any committed Leftard his opinion on Madison Avenue, he'd probably call it the Handmaiden of Death, because it's the very vehicle that pushes the unsustainable, mass-consumption vision of the world that the Leftards insist is destroying the planet in the first place!
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Of Shoes and Other Feet...
I can now add another subject to the list of Things That Get You Nasty E-mail When You Write Them; taking a crack at one's own!
In another blog post earlier this week, I made reference to "The Jersey Shore Italians", and "The Shanty Irish",and you would have thought I had slaughtered and dismembered a busload of kittens in someone's living room. The response was enormous, and most of the respondents were grossly offended by my use of "hateful stereotypes".
Which was fascinating, because in some cases, the uproar came from regular readers who have absolutely no truck with me when I'm having a go at Muslims, or Gays, saying things about Blacks that they know they all think, but lack the courage to put on the printed page for themselves. Somehow they can all find it within themselves to get all uppity and outraged when it's them, or their sacred cows, within the crosshairs.
I am nothing if not an equal-opportunity offender.
I'm sure that at some rate this is simply human nature at work, or more likely, it's a realization by a certain type of person that these stereotypes might, indeed, apply to them or someone they love, and they find the realization mortifying.
I make no claim to perfection, nor am I implying that I am a superior human being. It's just an observation, on my part, that I am surrounded by living proof that stereotypes a) exist, and b) are largely true, but that the people they most often apply to haven't a clue they exhibit this behavior. The intent is to get people to think, and then, perhaps, to change. To what degree or for what purpose any individual changes is largely a personal concern, because I'm not here to improve the human race, and even if I were granted that power, I don't think I would; why should I have to do everything for everyone else, and let's face it, I wouldn't even get a "Thank You" afterwards. That's just how people are.
The real object of that exercise was to show just what sort of doofus it requires to start a fight over a claim to a stupid parking space that one doesn't even own.
Then, there were other people who wrote in who weren't exactly certain what the terms"Jersey Shore Italians" and "Shanty Irish" really meant, and were asking for a clarification, uncertain as they were about whether or not they actually knew people like this. So, in the name of perfect clarity so that those in the dark may know thy enemy, and for the purposes of pissing off the offended one more time, I will teach you now how to identify these creatures at first glance.
You Know You're a Jersey Shore Italian If:
(Note: I'm Italian!)
1. You wear velour,and think it stylish or comfortable. Especially track suits. Velour went out of style in the 1970's, I believe, and it ain't, or at least shouldn't, ever come back into fashion. Velour is for automobile upholstery, cheap barstool coverings in topless joints, and cheesy Las Vegas nightclubs.
2. You are either unable, or simply refuse, to pronounce the, "er", "ur", "th" and "oi" sounds properly. I have been surrounded by people my entire life who "change dare earl in front o da choich at Turd Avenue and Turdy-turd street, and den go ta da terlet to wash up aftah."
3. If you live in a house with at least one garishly-decorated room, usually with a multitude of gilded mirrors and a great deal of marble or ceramic tile, that never gets used. No one is allowed into it, no occasion is an excuse to use it. It is simply for show, and is given the same treatment one would expect to be provided for an exhibit in the local museum. Additionally, if you have at least one bathroom like this in your house, you make the list.
Everything in your house is intended to convey an impression of class and taste, but only ends up convincing a visitor that you have neither -- unless they come from the same background as you do, in which case, it's a contest in one-upsmanship-in-vulgarity.
4. If your house is liberally-decorated with religious pictures, at least one stained-glass Passion scene in the foyer, a cheap-hotel-quality picture of the Sacred Heart, a back-lit Madonna and Child in a front-lawn artificial grotto, the collected prayer cards from a dozen funerals all over a decade old, then you fall into this category.
5. You can't stop tapping your inner Robert DeNiro or Joe Pesci, can't go at least one day without making reference to The Godfather, Goodfellas, Casino, Raging Bull, Analyze This, Frank, Dean and the rest of the Rat Pack, all of whom you regard as a minor pantheon of deities, and the movies the Mythology that surrounds them.
6. You name your children after saints, and send them to Catholic School so that they may receive all their sacraments, but only attend church on Easter, Ash Wednesday and Christmas Eve, or because someone has died or is getting married or christened, and then spend the rest of the year avoiding church like a $5 whore with a dinner-plate-sized cold sore. If so, then you certainly belong on this list.
7. When you go out to eat dinner, you go solely to Italian restaurants despite having all the pasta, cheese, olive oil, meatballs and tomato sauce you could ever hope to inhale at home. Your idea of international cuisine is either Northern Italian or Southern Italian.
You tend to eat long Sunday afternoon "dinners", with at least five courses, which begin punctually at 3:30, and end sometime after 8:00, just in time to sit on your fat ass and watch television for five minutes before you're fast asleep from overeating.
8. You are a moderate-to-heavy gambler, and regularly play the lottery, or make several pilgrimages to Atlantic City or Las Vegas every year. There is no office or bar pool that you won't cough up $10 bucks for.
9. You're the loud-mouthed asshole in the velour tracksuit at your kid's Little League game imploring him to perform acts upon an athletic field that would get him arrested in any other setting. Your kid may be a complete spaz, but he's going to pitch for the Yankees, or be the starting quarterback for the Giants. You can do absolutely nothing without making a tremendous racket, with a lot "Aaaaayyy!" and"Ooohhh!".
10. You believe the highest forms of culture ever devised all have Robert DeNiro in them, or are based upon an Organized Crime theme. To you, The Sopranos is either an over-the-top stereotype of Italian-Americans, or it's your life in microcosm, because everyone knows a Paulie Walnuts in real life, and has an ungrateful mother that's impossible to please who plays the martyr to the hilt. Your ambition in life is to own Bada-Bing, a place akin to Heavenly Paradise... only with tits.
You have forgotten that your ancient culture produced Michelangelo, Columbus, Polo, Malphiggi, Dante, DaVinci (unless you saw the movie, dipshit), Brunelleschi, Verdi, Marconi, and the legacy of the Roman Empire. That your Old Country was the epicenter of the Renaissance that created the Modern World, which allows you to sit around in your velour pajamas, upon your slip-cover-protected, faux-Louis-XIV-velour-covered furniture, and watch football on a flat-screen, while you stuff your fat face with imported sweet peppers and potato chips.
11. Your children begin to curse at around age six -- because you probably did, too -- and it's you who taught them how to do it properly. You then ineffectually yell at them to stop -- because it's "not nice" -- without imposing any real discipline or consequences upon them for straying from the straight-and-narrow. Short of brandishing a burning tree branch and threatening to beat your kids within an inch of their lives with it, there's hardly any discipline in your house, at all.
Your sons, unless they've been reined and shown the wages of sin in at an early age, become complete doofuses, consumed with hair gel, flashy cars and clothes, and bodybuilding, when they aren't trying to be (need I say it?) the next DeNiro, their True God. Picking up a book is considered "gay", and marks one as someone to be beaten up daily for his milk money. They are mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging morons incapable of a thought that doesn't originate with their stomach, their dick or their haircare regimen.
Your daughters are painstakingly trained -- by their mothers -- in the mysterious arts of the Madonna/Whore complex, and how to be an unconscionable pain in the ass, so that one day they may marry "a nice man". This somehow requires they acquire a nasally whine that could curdle milk, pile their hair upon their heads in a way that would defy gravity without Aqua Net, slather on enough make-up to camouflage a battleship, dress like hookers on a job interview, and snap their gum while they chew it in a bovine manner. Think Fran Drescher in The Nanny, only with the ability to make lasagne on a moment's notice.
It is in this way, people like "The Situation" and Snooki become de facto spokesdouches for the entire Italian-American race, and you celebrate them for it because they're "real", and resemble you.
If, by some quirk of fate, your daughter does manage to snare a husband, then the wedding will either be an exact replica of the wedding in The Godfather, or an amalgamation of all the cheap and disgusting excess one usually finds on Bravo or MTV.
12. Everything you do in life is vulgar, ostentatious, oversized, shallow and ultimately, on the cheap. Your SUV, Your Cigar, Your House, Your Swimming Pool, Your Christmas Light Display, all literally scream All Sizzle and No Steak. On anything approaching an intellectual debate, you bring the old saying "Three Italians, Four Opinions" a breath of new life with every guttural utterance, and the opinions you profess are invariably about YOU, and how everything revolves around YOU.
You Know You're Shanty Irish If:
1. You are an Italian wanna-be who can't go one week without corned beef, and who drinks his whiskey cut with water, because to do so without is considered "Scottish", and therefore, uncivilized. Besides, it helps the bottle last longer. You probably order pizza with fruit on it, when no one is looking. Your idea of tomato sauce is ketchup and water, suitably boiled until it's thick enough to waterproof a boot.
Your idea of fine dining is a night at the Outback Steakhouse, preferably with three-to-five drinks, interspersed between courses.
And by the way, it is NOT a stereotype to say the Irish drink heavily. I have, sadly, spent half my life in bars, and you can usually only find three sorts of people in there: losers, drunks and Irishmen.
2. You own a home you can barely afford, and have filled it with children you can barely afford, either. You have this many children because the Pope frowns upon condoms, and your Catholic School-bred wife won't do that other thing for you that the Italian or Spanish girls will. Unless you buy her something nice, first.
3. You, too, name your children after saints, except for the girls who somehow get compound names that make reference to the Virgin, and strangely, a European Monarch. At some point in her life every Mary-Elizabeth, Mary-Catherine, and Mary-Margaret manages to pick up a suggestive nickname, like "Juicy", "Cookie" or "Sunshine", as if they were hookers or topless dancers.
I will say this for Irish women, though; despite the rigors of multiple childbirths, they age way better than their Italian counterparts. Whereas Italian women often get fat and doughy, Irish women seem to retain their good looks (if they had any) well into their middle age...after which gravity and the ravages of time conspire to turn them into bags of opaque skin hanging from an ancient skeleton that flaps in every strong breeze.
4. You can't go more than ten minutes without talking about the Yankees, the New York Football Giants, or Notre Dame. The Boston Celtics are the ultimate expression of Irish Pride, even if it is "just a bunch of niggers in shorts".
Somehow, you find the nickname"The Fighting Irish" either complimentary, or offensive, and often both, depending on how many drinks you've had.
5. You can tut-tut at the Taliban, deplore their resort to senseless violence, and demand vengeange and justice for 9/11...right after you leave this month's IRA fundraiser. There's terrorism, and there's Terrorism, you see.
6. You're a fourth-generation Irish-American, and your debates about politics are dominated by the subjects of: No Irish Need Apply (still), John F. Kennedy, Gays in the St. Patrick's Day Parade, Bloody Sunday, the British Occupation, and the Potato Famine. No people on Earth have suffered like the Irish, as you're so fond of telling us all, in effect making yourselves out to be the Original Jews, Blacks, and American Indians.
The political legacy of the Irish in America largely consists of Kennedys (brain-dead, inbred, Hitler-lovers, and criminals), Nixons, Bidens, O'Neills, Dodds, Andrew Jackson (the First American Emperor), Daleys (inventors and perfectors of vote fraud), McCarthys (continuing right where the Spanish Inquisition left off), and McNamarras (men who send other men to war, but then won't let them fight...unless they can do so at a discount). Somehow, perhaps by accident, you managed a Reagan, and then largely trashed him for disavowing your Kennedy heritage.
These are your heroes. The Olympus of Irish-America, if you will. You defend their sainted memories like you would your own mother, and any reference to the massive tunnel in JFK's head is an invitation to a fistfight.
7. The culture which produced Cu Chulainn, Joyce, Yates, Shaw, illuminated manuscripts, Stoker, Boyle, and Tyndall is largely forgotten, and in place of those giants of intellect, Conan O'Brien and Bono have been installed. Much like the Italian-Americans have forgotten their past, the Irish-Americans have forgotten theirs...except for anything that involves the possibility of shooting at the English, a people many have never had direct contact with, on behalf of a country which isn't even theirs, and which after 800 years still hasn't been "recovered". In this regard, the Irish are the Arabs of Europe. The Irish-Americans wrapped up in the "troubles" of another continent are much like the home-grown-radicallized-jihadis we hear so much about, but never seem to catch until too late.
And yet, once a year, an entire day is set aside to celebrate that Irish Culture that few, if any, Irish-Americans actually have any direct knowledge of. On that day, it's suddenly, magically okay to speak of leprechauns, shillelaghs, shamrocks, and potato famines, without instigating a fistfight or starting someone off on yet another stream of complaints about how hard the Irish have had it just about everywhere.
It's too bad Constant Whining isn't an Olympic Sport, because the Irish would be the East German Women's swim team of such a competition.
Unfortunately, this holiday requires that everything be dyed a hideous shade of green within an inch of it's useful life. Green beer, green food, and ultimately, green vomit. The day is supposed to commemorate the feast of St. Patrick, Patron Saint and Billy-the-Exterminator of the Emerald Isle. You know something is wrong if your national holiday revolves around someone ridding your land of vermin, and then brainwashing you with a foreign religion.
8. You're a cop, fireman, or construction worker, because your Old Man was, too. These are all fine and honorable professions, but you are probably the only family on the block that can boast three or four generations of flatfoot, while neglecting that one of the primary tools of modern law-enforcement, the so-called Paddy Wagon, is named after your ethnic group -- and you can't decide if that's because Irish Cops rode to the rescue on it, or because there was a load of Irishmen being taken to jail inside of it.
Yes, I have painted with an overly-broad brush, but the point is well-and-truly made. If you can look at that list and say to yourself "Gee, I'm Italian/Irish and don't display any of those unattractive traits", then you're probably a goddamned liar.
It's people like you that give New York, in general, and Staten Island specifically, a bad name. It's terrible and embarassing to have people in New Jersey, of all places, remark about the rudeness, loudness, and lack of class shown by Staten Islanders, especially the two groups I've just verbally raped....and who were the targets of the original post. If the shoe fits...
And now all of you people who regularly complain that I'm unfair to Blacks, Mexicans and Muslims can shut the fuck up.
Update: Edited for spelling/grammar. Twice.
In another blog post earlier this week, I made reference to "The Jersey Shore Italians", and "The Shanty Irish",and you would have thought I had slaughtered and dismembered a busload of kittens in someone's living room. The response was enormous, and most of the respondents were grossly offended by my use of "hateful stereotypes".
Which was fascinating, because in some cases, the uproar came from regular readers who have absolutely no truck with me when I'm having a go at Muslims, or Gays, saying things about Blacks that they know they all think, but lack the courage to put on the printed page for themselves. Somehow they can all find it within themselves to get all uppity and outraged when it's them, or their sacred cows, within the crosshairs.
I am nothing if not an equal-opportunity offender.
I'm sure that at some rate this is simply human nature at work, or more likely, it's a realization by a certain type of person that these stereotypes might, indeed, apply to them or someone they love, and they find the realization mortifying.
I make no claim to perfection, nor am I implying that I am a superior human being. It's just an observation, on my part, that I am surrounded by living proof that stereotypes a) exist, and b) are largely true, but that the people they most often apply to haven't a clue they exhibit this behavior. The intent is to get people to think, and then, perhaps, to change. To what degree or for what purpose any individual changes is largely a personal concern, because I'm not here to improve the human race, and even if I were granted that power, I don't think I would; why should I have to do everything for everyone else, and let's face it, I wouldn't even get a "Thank You" afterwards. That's just how people are.
The real object of that exercise was to show just what sort of doofus it requires to start a fight over a claim to a stupid parking space that one doesn't even own.
Then, there were other people who wrote in who weren't exactly certain what the terms"Jersey Shore Italians" and "Shanty Irish" really meant, and were asking for a clarification, uncertain as they were about whether or not they actually knew people like this. So, in the name of perfect clarity so that those in the dark may know thy enemy, and for the purposes of pissing off the offended one more time, I will teach you now how to identify these creatures at first glance.
You Know You're a Jersey Shore Italian If:
(Note: I'm Italian!)
1. You wear velour,and think it stylish or comfortable. Especially track suits. Velour went out of style in the 1970's, I believe, and it ain't, or at least shouldn't, ever come back into fashion. Velour is for automobile upholstery, cheap barstool coverings in topless joints, and cheesy Las Vegas nightclubs.
2. You are either unable, or simply refuse, to pronounce the, "er", "ur", "th" and "oi" sounds properly. I have been surrounded by people my entire life who "change dare earl in front o da choich at Turd Avenue and Turdy-turd street, and den go ta da terlet to wash up aftah."
3. If you live in a house with at least one garishly-decorated room, usually with a multitude of gilded mirrors and a great deal of marble or ceramic tile, that never gets used. No one is allowed into it, no occasion is an excuse to use it. It is simply for show, and is given the same treatment one would expect to be provided for an exhibit in the local museum. Additionally, if you have at least one bathroom like this in your house, you make the list.
Everything in your house is intended to convey an impression of class and taste, but only ends up convincing a visitor that you have neither -- unless they come from the same background as you do, in which case, it's a contest in one-upsmanship-in-vulgarity.
4. If your house is liberally-decorated with religious pictures, at least one stained-glass Passion scene in the foyer, a cheap-hotel-quality picture of the Sacred Heart, a back-lit Madonna and Child in a front-lawn artificial grotto, the collected prayer cards from a dozen funerals all over a decade old, then you fall into this category.
5. You can't stop tapping your inner Robert DeNiro or Joe Pesci, can't go at least one day without making reference to The Godfather, Goodfellas, Casino, Raging Bull, Analyze This, Frank, Dean and the rest of the Rat Pack, all of whom you regard as a minor pantheon of deities, and the movies the Mythology that surrounds them.
6. You name your children after saints, and send them to Catholic School so that they may receive all their sacraments, but only attend church on Easter, Ash Wednesday and Christmas Eve, or because someone has died or is getting married or christened, and then spend the rest of the year avoiding church like a $5 whore with a dinner-plate-sized cold sore. If so, then you certainly belong on this list.
7. When you go out to eat dinner, you go solely to Italian restaurants despite having all the pasta, cheese, olive oil, meatballs and tomato sauce you could ever hope to inhale at home. Your idea of international cuisine is either Northern Italian or Southern Italian.
You tend to eat long Sunday afternoon "dinners", with at least five courses, which begin punctually at 3:30, and end sometime after 8:00, just in time to sit on your fat ass and watch television for five minutes before you're fast asleep from overeating.
8. You are a moderate-to-heavy gambler, and regularly play the lottery, or make several pilgrimages to Atlantic City or Las Vegas every year. There is no office or bar pool that you won't cough up $10 bucks for.
9. You're the loud-mouthed asshole in the velour tracksuit at your kid's Little League game imploring him to perform acts upon an athletic field that would get him arrested in any other setting. Your kid may be a complete spaz, but he's going to pitch for the Yankees, or be the starting quarterback for the Giants. You can do absolutely nothing without making a tremendous racket, with a lot "Aaaaayyy!" and"Ooohhh!".
10. You believe the highest forms of culture ever devised all have Robert DeNiro in them, or are based upon an Organized Crime theme. To you, The Sopranos is either an over-the-top stereotype of Italian-Americans, or it's your life in microcosm, because everyone knows a Paulie Walnuts in real life, and has an ungrateful mother that's impossible to please who plays the martyr to the hilt. Your ambition in life is to own Bada-Bing, a place akin to Heavenly Paradise... only with tits.
You have forgotten that your ancient culture produced Michelangelo, Columbus, Polo, Malphiggi, Dante, DaVinci (unless you saw the movie, dipshit), Brunelleschi, Verdi, Marconi, and the legacy of the Roman Empire. That your Old Country was the epicenter of the Renaissance that created the Modern World, which allows you to sit around in your velour pajamas, upon your slip-cover-protected, faux-Louis-XIV-velour-covered furniture, and watch football on a flat-screen, while you stuff your fat face with imported sweet peppers and potato chips.
11. Your children begin to curse at around age six -- because you probably did, too -- and it's you who taught them how to do it properly. You then ineffectually yell at them to stop -- because it's "not nice" -- without imposing any real discipline or consequences upon them for straying from the straight-and-narrow. Short of brandishing a burning tree branch and threatening to beat your kids within an inch of their lives with it, there's hardly any discipline in your house, at all.
Your sons, unless they've been reined and shown the wages of sin in at an early age, become complete doofuses, consumed with hair gel, flashy cars and clothes, and bodybuilding, when they aren't trying to be (need I say it?) the next DeNiro, their True God. Picking up a book is considered "gay", and marks one as someone to be beaten up daily for his milk money. They are mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging morons incapable of a thought that doesn't originate with their stomach, their dick or their haircare regimen.
Your daughters are painstakingly trained -- by their mothers -- in the mysterious arts of the Madonna/Whore complex, and how to be an unconscionable pain in the ass, so that one day they may marry "a nice man". This somehow requires they acquire a nasally whine that could curdle milk, pile their hair upon their heads in a way that would defy gravity without Aqua Net, slather on enough make-up to camouflage a battleship, dress like hookers on a job interview, and snap their gum while they chew it in a bovine manner. Think Fran Drescher in The Nanny, only with the ability to make lasagne on a moment's notice.
It is in this way, people like "The Situation" and Snooki become de facto spokesdouches for the entire Italian-American race, and you celebrate them for it because they're "real", and resemble you.
If, by some quirk of fate, your daughter does manage to snare a husband, then the wedding will either be an exact replica of the wedding in The Godfather, or an amalgamation of all the cheap and disgusting excess one usually finds on Bravo or MTV.
12. Everything you do in life is vulgar, ostentatious, oversized, shallow and ultimately, on the cheap. Your SUV, Your Cigar, Your House, Your Swimming Pool, Your Christmas Light Display, all literally scream All Sizzle and No Steak. On anything approaching an intellectual debate, you bring the old saying "Three Italians, Four Opinions" a breath of new life with every guttural utterance, and the opinions you profess are invariably about YOU, and how everything revolves around YOU.
You Know You're Shanty Irish If:
1. You are an Italian wanna-be who can't go one week without corned beef, and who drinks his whiskey cut with water, because to do so without is considered "Scottish", and therefore, uncivilized. Besides, it helps the bottle last longer. You probably order pizza with fruit on it, when no one is looking. Your idea of tomato sauce is ketchup and water, suitably boiled until it's thick enough to waterproof a boot.
Your idea of fine dining is a night at the Outback Steakhouse, preferably with three-to-five drinks, interspersed between courses.
And by the way, it is NOT a stereotype to say the Irish drink heavily. I have, sadly, spent half my life in bars, and you can usually only find three sorts of people in there: losers, drunks and Irishmen.
2. You own a home you can barely afford, and have filled it with children you can barely afford, either. You have this many children because the Pope frowns upon condoms, and your Catholic School-bred wife won't do that other thing for you that the Italian or Spanish girls will. Unless you buy her something nice, first.
3. You, too, name your children after saints, except for the girls who somehow get compound names that make reference to the Virgin, and strangely, a European Monarch. At some point in her life every Mary-Elizabeth, Mary-Catherine, and Mary-Margaret manages to pick up a suggestive nickname, like "Juicy", "Cookie" or "Sunshine", as if they were hookers or topless dancers.
I will say this for Irish women, though; despite the rigors of multiple childbirths, they age way better than their Italian counterparts. Whereas Italian women often get fat and doughy, Irish women seem to retain their good looks (if they had any) well into their middle age...after which gravity and the ravages of time conspire to turn them into bags of opaque skin hanging from an ancient skeleton that flaps in every strong breeze.
4. You can't go more than ten minutes without talking about the Yankees, the New York Football Giants, or Notre Dame. The Boston Celtics are the ultimate expression of Irish Pride, even if it is "just a bunch of niggers in shorts".
Somehow, you find the nickname"The Fighting Irish" either complimentary, or offensive, and often both, depending on how many drinks you've had.
5. You can tut-tut at the Taliban, deplore their resort to senseless violence, and demand vengeange and justice for 9/11...right after you leave this month's IRA fundraiser. There's terrorism, and there's Terrorism, you see.
6. You're a fourth-generation Irish-American, and your debates about politics are dominated by the subjects of: No Irish Need Apply (still), John F. Kennedy, Gays in the St. Patrick's Day Parade, Bloody Sunday, the British Occupation, and the Potato Famine. No people on Earth have suffered like the Irish, as you're so fond of telling us all, in effect making yourselves out to be the Original Jews, Blacks, and American Indians.
The political legacy of the Irish in America largely consists of Kennedys (brain-dead, inbred, Hitler-lovers, and criminals), Nixons, Bidens, O'Neills, Dodds, Andrew Jackson (the First American Emperor), Daleys (inventors and perfectors of vote fraud), McCarthys (continuing right where the Spanish Inquisition left off), and McNamarras (men who send other men to war, but then won't let them fight...unless they can do so at a discount). Somehow, perhaps by accident, you managed a Reagan, and then largely trashed him for disavowing your Kennedy heritage.
These are your heroes. The Olympus of Irish-America, if you will. You defend their sainted memories like you would your own mother, and any reference to the massive tunnel in JFK's head is an invitation to a fistfight.
7. The culture which produced Cu Chulainn, Joyce, Yates, Shaw, illuminated manuscripts, Stoker, Boyle, and Tyndall is largely forgotten, and in place of those giants of intellect, Conan O'Brien and Bono have been installed. Much like the Italian-Americans have forgotten their past, the Irish-Americans have forgotten theirs...except for anything that involves the possibility of shooting at the English, a people many have never had direct contact with, on behalf of a country which isn't even theirs, and which after 800 years still hasn't been "recovered". In this regard, the Irish are the Arabs of Europe. The Irish-Americans wrapped up in the "troubles" of another continent are much like the home-grown-radicallized-jihadis we hear so much about, but never seem to catch until too late.
And yet, once a year, an entire day is set aside to celebrate that Irish Culture that few, if any, Irish-Americans actually have any direct knowledge of. On that day, it's suddenly, magically okay to speak of leprechauns, shillelaghs, shamrocks, and potato famines, without instigating a fistfight or starting someone off on yet another stream of complaints about how hard the Irish have had it just about everywhere.
It's too bad Constant Whining isn't an Olympic Sport, because the Irish would be the East German Women's swim team of such a competition.
Unfortunately, this holiday requires that everything be dyed a hideous shade of green within an inch of it's useful life. Green beer, green food, and ultimately, green vomit. The day is supposed to commemorate the feast of St. Patrick, Patron Saint and Billy-the-Exterminator of the Emerald Isle. You know something is wrong if your national holiday revolves around someone ridding your land of vermin, and then brainwashing you with a foreign religion.
8. You're a cop, fireman, or construction worker, because your Old Man was, too. These are all fine and honorable professions, but you are probably the only family on the block that can boast three or four generations of flatfoot, while neglecting that one of the primary tools of modern law-enforcement, the so-called Paddy Wagon, is named after your ethnic group -- and you can't decide if that's because Irish Cops rode to the rescue on it, or because there was a load of Irishmen being taken to jail inside of it.
Yes, I have painted with an overly-broad brush, but the point is well-and-truly made. If you can look at that list and say to yourself "Gee, I'm Italian/Irish and don't display any of those unattractive traits", then you're probably a goddamned liar.
It's people like you that give New York, in general, and Staten Island specifically, a bad name. It's terrible and embarassing to have people in New Jersey, of all places, remark about the rudeness, loudness, and lack of class shown by Staten Islanders, especially the two groups I've just verbally raped....and who were the targets of the original post. If the shoe fits...
And now all of you people who regularly complain that I'm unfair to Blacks, Mexicans and Muslims can shut the fuck up.
Update: Edited for spelling/grammar. Twice.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Soon, They'll Be Considered Obese in the Womb, Too...
...and anew rationale for unfettered abortion will have been found; we're simply killing off the extraneous lumps of cells that would only jack up health care costs in the future, and deny Grandpa his free Viagra and force government to pull the plug on your Grandmother.
Really, it's for your own good, and you'll thank us for it later. The Self-Appointed Hall Monitors of Society simply must be hunted down and buried alive before they make any semblance of what used to be called Normal Life here in America a distant memory.
One Third of All Infants are Obese, Study Says.
At what point does this stupidity stop?
Looking at my pack of cigarettes, one of the warnings states: Cigarette smoking by pregnant women may result in Fetal Injury, Premature Birth, and Low Birth Weight.
How is any rational human being supposed to reconcile these two contradictory ideas, that on the one hand, your child is at risk if born underweight, but on the other, might become a weapon of mass destruction if you should feed it a bit too much?
The article then goes on, after scaring the shit out of any parent without the brains to avoid sticking hatpins into their own eyeballs, to get to the real point of this stupidity:
Researchers say the study is a good reminder to parents to start healthy eating habits early on, including breast feeding and making sure a baby gets regular meals and snacks along with a good night's sleep.
No one, it seems, can mind their own fucking business, anymore.
Of course, we live in a society where this kind of crap actually works on weak-minded parents, the products of a bad educational system that didn't teach them how to think independently, and a media which taught them how to consider their children as little more than a fashion accessory. Heaven forbid little Johnny should show up with unseemly baby fat on his first day of preschool. Heaven forbid that little Suzie should go for the Twinkie when there's perfectly good broccolini and kale available.
Really, it's getting out of hand: children don't play outside anymore for fear of dirt, germs, flesh-eating viruses, pedophiles, cracked sidewalks, raindrops, Global Warming, Amber Alerts, and Bird Flus. Why not just shrink-and-bubble-wrap 'em before you send them anywhere? It's almost as if sending the little ones to school is less about an education than it is Mommy getting a state-funded babysitter and indoctrinator to spell her for a few hours a day. She needs the"Me" time to recover from her day of imagining the worst.
The average kid probably spends 25 hours a week in front of a TV or a computer, and if they get any physical education at all in school, I'd be shocked. Organized athletic activity after school usually consists of sports leagues where competition is a no-no, everyone gets a trophy, and there's no such thing as winning and losing.
Kids today are insulated and protected, but from what, exactly, I'm not sure. Fort Knox has less security than that provided by the typical doting-and-brain-dead parent, these days. Now they have to be protected from food?
And when, exactly, did it become axiomatic that parents were too dumb to make decisions of what and how their children eat, and in what proportions?
Probably at the exact same moment when it became obvious that anyone who would vote for a Clinton or an Obama would probably also be amenable to having some self-appointed busybody with too much free time on her hands (it's usually a "her"), and no respect for personal liberties and boundaries tell them how to live their lives and raise their offspring.
Really, it's for your own good, and you'll thank us for it later. The Self-Appointed Hall Monitors of Society simply must be hunted down and buried alive before they make any semblance of what used to be called Normal Life here in America a distant memory.
One Third of All Infants are Obese, Study Says.
At what point does this stupidity stop?
Looking at my pack of cigarettes, one of the warnings states: Cigarette smoking by pregnant women may result in Fetal Injury, Premature Birth, and Low Birth Weight.
How is any rational human being supposed to reconcile these two contradictory ideas, that on the one hand, your child is at risk if born underweight, but on the other, might become a weapon of mass destruction if you should feed it a bit too much?
The article then goes on, after scaring the shit out of any parent without the brains to avoid sticking hatpins into their own eyeballs, to get to the real point of this stupidity:
Researchers say the study is a good reminder to parents to start healthy eating habits early on, including breast feeding and making sure a baby gets regular meals and snacks along with a good night's sleep.
No one, it seems, can mind their own fucking business, anymore.
Of course, we live in a society where this kind of crap actually works on weak-minded parents, the products of a bad educational system that didn't teach them how to think independently, and a media which taught them how to consider their children as little more than a fashion accessory. Heaven forbid little Johnny should show up with unseemly baby fat on his first day of preschool. Heaven forbid that little Suzie should go for the Twinkie when there's perfectly good broccolini and kale available.
Really, it's getting out of hand: children don't play outside anymore for fear of dirt, germs, flesh-eating viruses, pedophiles, cracked sidewalks, raindrops, Global Warming, Amber Alerts, and Bird Flus. Why not just shrink-and-bubble-wrap 'em before you send them anywhere? It's almost as if sending the little ones to school is less about an education than it is Mommy getting a state-funded babysitter and indoctrinator to spell her for a few hours a day. She needs the"Me" time to recover from her day of imagining the worst.
The average kid probably spends 25 hours a week in front of a TV or a computer, and if they get any physical education at all in school, I'd be shocked. Organized athletic activity after school usually consists of sports leagues where competition is a no-no, everyone gets a trophy, and there's no such thing as winning and losing.
Kids today are insulated and protected, but from what, exactly, I'm not sure. Fort Knox has less security than that provided by the typical doting-and-brain-dead parent, these days. Now they have to be protected from food?
And when, exactly, did it become axiomatic that parents were too dumb to make decisions of what and how their children eat, and in what proportions?
Probably at the exact same moment when it became obvious that anyone who would vote for a Clinton or an Obama would probably also be amenable to having some self-appointed busybody with too much free time on her hands (it's usually a "her"), and no respect for personal liberties and boundaries tell them how to live their lives and raise their offspring.
Five Resolutions That I Intend to Keep...
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Happy New Year, One and All...
...except you Muslim scumbags; you should all die.
So, another year is upon us, and we're all one step closer to the grave. I should hope you've enjoyed your New Year's Celebration, and better still, enjoyed the people you were celebrating with.
I had kept this date open for a certain, special someone, with no actual expectation of having my New Year's Wish come true, but as they say, hope springs eternal, no? I can't say that I don't understand why she didn't accept that open invitation, because I truly do, but sometimes even hard-bitten cynics with a nasty streak a mile wide do, perchance, to dream, as the saying goes.
But, if you were thinking the evening was a complete waste for having been, as it were, stood up, you'd be wrong.
Because my Best Bud was on hand to help me celebrate; my nephew, and it was better than standing around in 2-feet of snow and the cold of Times Square with a million doofuses, or getting all dressed up to get drunk and puked on, or hit upon by some desperate tart with a history of divorces and social diseases at some other asshole's party. Alas, the Little Guy didn't make it all the way to Midnight, but the evening was still enjoyable.
Mostly because he likes to cheat at cards, and it's funny as hell to listen to his excuses and rules-lawyering when he's caught. Kids come up with the silliest excuses and alibis.
And when he had finally had enough Uno, enough Go Fish, enough Legos, and enough cheese and crackers (my life, but this kid can eat and not gain an ounce!), he fell asleep in the most ridiculous position you ever saw upon the couch. Only very small children can do that, for some reason.
Yes, there were adults there. Family, naturally. And after the customary torture of watching post-stroke Dick Clark count down yet another last hour of the year, the champagne was uncorked, libations were drunk, and wishes for The Very Best of Everything in the Coming New Year were exchanged.
There being no other reason to stay, I said my goodbyes and went home. Or, rather, I intended to go home but took a rather roundabout route, for a crowd of drunken 20-somethings hanging about someones front lawn offered me a bottle, and a New Year's Greeting. And you know how it is: you can't really say no to that kind of hospitality, can you? Especially when your benefactor looks so damn scrumptious in that tight sweater that leaves little to the imagination.
My days as a cad and taking advantage of stupid, drunken females are long gone, however, especially when I'm probably old enough to be their father, and it was clear that these kids just wanted to party and were in such a state that if Pol Pot had arrived on the scene, they probably would have offered him a snort, too (they probably wouldn't even know who Pol Pot was, but that's another blog entry for another day). A few drinks, and a lot of "You're how fuckin' old? Really? No fuckin' way..." later, the fireworks started.
I left just as soon as the fireworks ended, because this rowdy crowd of drunken lunatics actually was lighting off a huge mass of fireworks in the street; that can get you arrested around here, and being, most likely, the oldest person on the spot, I could see myself having to answer to the Staten Island Gestapo about what a rotten babysitter I was. Still, it was all a nice gesture.
Now it's my turn to fall asleep upon the couch, and hopefully not in any sort of ridiculous position, because my ancient back shall never recover from it. I'll think about resolutions tomorrow,a s I always do, because I prefer not to tie myself to any particular course of action one minute sooner than necessary. I find that I don't feel the disappointment of having broken them on Jan. 1st to be as acute, always justifying it by thinking I at least got two days out of that one...
So, another year is upon us, and we're all one step closer to the grave. I should hope you've enjoyed your New Year's Celebration, and better still, enjoyed the people you were celebrating with.
I had kept this date open for a certain, special someone, with no actual expectation of having my New Year's Wish come true, but as they say, hope springs eternal, no? I can't say that I don't understand why she didn't accept that open invitation, because I truly do, but sometimes even hard-bitten cynics with a nasty streak a mile wide do, perchance, to dream, as the saying goes.
But, if you were thinking the evening was a complete waste for having been, as it were, stood up, you'd be wrong.
Because my Best Bud was on hand to help me celebrate; my nephew, and it was better than standing around in 2-feet of snow and the cold of Times Square with a million doofuses, or getting all dressed up to get drunk and puked on, or hit upon by some desperate tart with a history of divorces and social diseases at some other asshole's party. Alas, the Little Guy didn't make it all the way to Midnight, but the evening was still enjoyable.
Mostly because he likes to cheat at cards, and it's funny as hell to listen to his excuses and rules-lawyering when he's caught. Kids come up with the silliest excuses and alibis.
And when he had finally had enough Uno, enough Go Fish, enough Legos, and enough cheese and crackers (my life, but this kid can eat and not gain an ounce!), he fell asleep in the most ridiculous position you ever saw upon the couch. Only very small children can do that, for some reason.
Yes, there were adults there. Family, naturally. And after the customary torture of watching post-stroke Dick Clark count down yet another last hour of the year, the champagne was uncorked, libations were drunk, and wishes for The Very Best of Everything in the Coming New Year were exchanged.
There being no other reason to stay, I said my goodbyes and went home. Or, rather, I intended to go home but took a rather roundabout route, for a crowd of drunken 20-somethings hanging about someones front lawn offered me a bottle, and a New Year's Greeting. And you know how it is: you can't really say no to that kind of hospitality, can you? Especially when your benefactor looks so damn scrumptious in that tight sweater that leaves little to the imagination.
My days as a cad and taking advantage of stupid, drunken females are long gone, however, especially when I'm probably old enough to be their father, and it was clear that these kids just wanted to party and were in such a state that if Pol Pot had arrived on the scene, they probably would have offered him a snort, too (they probably wouldn't even know who Pol Pot was, but that's another blog entry for another day). A few drinks, and a lot of "You're how fuckin' old? Really? No fuckin' way..." later, the fireworks started.
I left just as soon as the fireworks ended, because this rowdy crowd of drunken lunatics actually was lighting off a huge mass of fireworks in the street; that can get you arrested around here, and being, most likely, the oldest person on the spot, I could see myself having to answer to the Staten Island Gestapo about what a rotten babysitter I was. Still, it was all a nice gesture.
Now it's my turn to fall asleep upon the couch, and hopefully not in any sort of ridiculous position, because my ancient back shall never recover from it. I'll think about resolutions tomorrow,a s I always do, because I prefer not to tie myself to any particular course of action one minute sooner than necessary. I find that I don't feel the disappointment of having broken them on Jan. 1st to be as acute, always justifying it by thinking I at least got two days out of that one...
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