Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Fuck your moms
My feelings about kids (specifically, that they suck and should be destroyed) have long been publicly known. Therefore, it shouldn't surprise anyone that the plethora of ads using motherhood as a qualifying selling point for crappy scams do nothing but piss me off. If you've ever used Facebook, or gone on the internet at all, you've seen these ads touting weight loss and tooth-whitening secrets discovered BY A MOM.
These mom ads are even worse than those old ads bragging that Airborne was discovered "BY A TEACHER!" I don't see what makes a person versed solely in herding unruly second graders and instructing them in complicated topics such as cursive and subtraction remotely qualified to develop products sold as antimicrobial drugs. Certainly it would make more sense to say Airborne was discovered by a virologist, but I suppose they probably couldn't get a virologist to go along with that marketing scheme. Speaking as a virologist (and one who even used to work on the common cold), I would never be so disingenuous as to suggest I discovered vitamin C, which is basically what Airborne is. Furthermore, I would consider it professionally irresponsible to claim that taking vitamin C will somehow act as a magical shield that will allow you to fly surrounded by sick, sneezing people and remain impervious to any kind of respiratory pathogens.
That said, at least a teacher inventing an infuriatingly overpriced vitamin C supplement is still better than hearing that A SINGLE MOM (!!!) invented some kind of fabulous breakthrough in tooth-whitening or weight loss by accident. Granted, there are many women who are mothers as well as competent scientists. If you are talking about Dr. Carol Greider, who was awarded this year's Nobel prize in medicine and physiology and who also has a couple kids, then I might believe that she came up with such a novel discovery. However, the notion that motherhood alone is somehow so superior to rational scientific research that random single moms discover bullshit in ten minutes of their spare time is ludicrous and offensive. If child-bearing is qualification enough to make a person a credible inventor of fabulous new technologies, then any of the following people may as well have accidentally tripped and fallen on the ultimate secret to tooth-whitening:
Yeah, I'm sure Kendra or Britney are likely to stumble upon a cure for AIDS now that they've joined the ranks of intellectual elite by ejecting progeny from their wombs. I'm sure that when Stephenie Meyer isn't encouraging teenage girls to devote themselves unquestioningly to chaste, sparkling Mormon vampires, she dabbles in developing a unified field theory of physics. And that when Courtney Love isn't overwhelming Twitter with incoherent ranting, she's whipping up a time machine. That's plausible...because that's what happens when, despite your intellect or your maternal skills, you squeeze out a rugrat to annoy me with. Your vagina gets used as a human egress, and you become an instant genius.
Yeah, I'm sure Kendra or Britney are likely to stumble upon a cure for AIDS now that they've joined the ranks of intellectual elite by ejecting progeny from their wombs. I'm sure that when Stephenie Meyer isn't encouraging teenage girls to devote themselves unquestioningly to chaste, sparkling Mormon vampires, she dabbles in developing a unified field theory of physics. And that when Courtney Love isn't overwhelming Twitter with incoherent ranting, she's whipping up a time machine. That's plausible...because that's what happens when, despite your intellect or your maternal skills, you squeeze out a rugrat to annoy me with. Your vagina gets used as a human egress, and you become an instant genius.
What's even better is that, per countless other sidebar and pop-up ads, I've been informed that Obama would like to enhance our nation's inventive capacity by sending MOMS TO SCHOOL. After all, if being a mother alone is sufficient for being an innovator on par with Thomas Edison, then imagine how Obama's post-partum educational mandate will produce a veritable technology boom. Bitches are going to be discovering cold fusion and establishing the existence of the hypothesized Higgs boson in between making peanut butter sandwiches and turning on Spongebob Squarepants. Even worse, childless underachieving losers like myself will probably be out of work.
And it's just as well, because I'm obviously NOT qualified to make fabulous discoveries anyway. For example, I always thought moms were women with children. It turns out they were Jesus-esque, hirsute, barechested, male indigents this whole time:
Labels: destroy all children, gross, ranting, scathing indictments
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Excuse me, but WHAT, BITCH NAMED KATE GOSSELIN?!?!?!?!
I am a glutton for punishment, and I really couldn't help myself. I went to the gossip internets and read more completely unsubstantiated, totally unreliable, and most likely false bullshit about the entirely loathsome "Jon and Kate Plus 8" family drama. It seems that there isn't much going on with real famous people, because the Gosselin parents are being thoroughly owned for their incompetence at media whorecraft. I could pretend that I'm the level of classy that stops after one glass of Franzia and takes the high road about obviously obnoxious twats, but let's be real about it: my new life goal apart from professional success and landing lots of hot ass is that THE GOSSELINS MUST BE STOPPED. I don't want to see them or hear about them and their gigantic litter of brats any longer, and I'm more than content to see the tides turn against them so severely that they are uniformly hated by the world and thus fade into the obscurity where they belong.
I'm clearly not the only one. The esteemed journalists at Us Weekly are obviously feeling me. The only thing they fail to point out is that she looked like a massive cunt even when she was just "a mom". She looks like the kind of mom who would force you to drink milk, eat raisins, and say unfamiliar Protestant prayers when you went over to hang out with her kids. This one girl I was friends with in sixth grade had a mom who did that, and she looked just like pre-monster Kate Gosselin. I bet if fleeting reality fame/infamy hadn't come her way, Kate Gosselin would have presumptuously overparented other people's children and decorated with God's eyes, framed needlepoint, and gingham-patterned geese just like Mrs. Gesch.
And due to their highly competent reportage, Us Weekly has managed to distill everything I hate about Kate Gosselin into a quick blurb, courtesy of a probably misappropriated quote from an obscure Associated Press features brief published in 2005:
Kate Gosselin said she feels society has a responsibility to help with the children, since modern medicine promotes the use of fertility drugs, which can lead to multiple births.
Kate Gosselin ought to get down on her knees and thank OctoMom's shameless social parasitism for distracting everyone from the fact that she is the true pioneer of egregious, infuriating media gaffes. However, Kate is finally getting the credit she deserves for her equally obnoxious attitude about subverting nature to achieve such a massive brood and then passing the responsibility off on the rest of us, and that's not going to translate into great "Jon and Kate Plus 8" ratings. Much like a predatory lender or American auto executive, it's a bad time to be a money hungry not-actually-that-famous reality star with eight mouths to feed and a broke-ass equally subfamous stump of a man who may or may not be banging some lesbian fifth grade teacher on the side. Probably because HOW *DARE* YOU BLAME SOCIETY FOR YOUR OWN VAIN BABY-OBSESSED CRAZY BITCH PSYCHOSIS THAT MY TAX DOLLARS SUBSIDIZE YOU FUCKING STUPID UGLY SELF-RIGHTEOUS TROLLOP-ASS CYPRESS MOSS-ESQUE-LABIA-HAVING PROSTITUTE!!!!
I would like to go around telling everyone that society has an obligation to support me because it encourages me to rule their faces off, but for reasons of not seeming like a delusional lunatic, I refrain from doing so. The vast majority of the society that supposedly encouraged Kate to take fertility drugs certainly won't embrace an annoying, shrewish, totally unendearing frigid nagfest pompously informing them that they need to pick up the tab for her own manifest selfishness. As someone who works in the field of "modern medicine" and an avowed child hater, I assuredly did not encourage Kate Gosselin or anyone else to take fertility drugs, and I strongly resent the implication that this bitch did so at my behest rather than her own arrogant desire to overbreed. And her suggestion that somehow I need to shoulder the burden of her own bad decisions makes me want to kill a bitch.
Kate's about to learn the hard way that it doesn't pay to be a mega cunt (literally and figuratively) with a detestable reproductive history and a fucking HORRIBLE Rosie O'Donnell circa 2002-meets-rabid Old Yeller's raised hackles haircut. People are going to quit that bitch and her show's going to get canceled, and she can go back to firing nannies and emasculating her husband without having a television audience to detest her. As far as I'm concerned, that joyous moment can't come soon enough. Down with the Gosselins!
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Jon and Kate Plus HATE
An ill wind blows. Lately, every time I go onto the internets for some celebitchery, I am confronted with the unattractive visage of Jon and/or Kate Gosselin. Even worse, I'm confronted with headlines suggesting that one or both of them has been getting freaky with their busted asses...and not with each other. Either I have to picture Jon's fugly pedophile eyes humping drunkenly on some bitch with low self-esteem who thinks he's a celebrity, or I have to picture Kate's haircut doing ANYTHING sexy, which is about as titillating as the notion of watching two rabid prairie dogs mating.
For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this fugly little pair, they are the stars of the TLC reality show "Jon and Kate Plus 8." This show is basically about these two IVF junkies who wound up churning out a set of sextuplets to go with their twins, and all the consequent grossness that ensues. I watched this show once, and in that hilarious installation all eight kids had rotavirus or some kind of nasty gastrointestinal virus. As much as I love watching eight toddlers simultaneously shitting their pants and puking everywhere, I almost immediately flipped the channel to something more classy and palatable, like "Rock of Love Bus." Hey, I'd WAY rather watch drunken strippers and porn stars fall off a pole and puke on Bret Michaels during the "White Trash Olympics" or whatever than watch 60 minutes of this:
I am never going to get into a show about two assclowns whose own outrageous vanity compelled them to bring not one or two but EIGHT bratty kids into the world. I hate kids, and watching eight of them raise hell while these two make annoying commentary (or more accurately, while Kate bitches incessantly in an obnoxious, authoritarian "I'm a MOM!" tone at Jon) is not my idea of must see TV. So while I'm laughing internally that their heavily marketed marriage is falling apart per the gossip internets, I also can't fathom for the life of me why I have to hear unpleasant tales about these two getting some strange on the side.
I can't really blame Jon for straying from his marital bed. I'd probably want to screw faux lesbian kindergarten teachers too, if I had to fight with this harpy about getting some on the regular.
The prospect of Kate's stretch marks alone should be considered a mitigating factor in Jon's adultery. And you know this bitch hasn't given him a BJ in ten years (if ever.) Instead, she uses her mouth to constantly berate and belittle him, so I can understand how a frustrated little fella like Jon might eventually get frustrated and look for a less fortified, non-industrial strength vagina to scribble on with his golf pencil. I don't blame him for making like the Ying Yang Twins and deciding that he's sick and tired of listenin' at ya naggin'. In these pictures from the past weekend, you can almost hear Kate's shrewish bossing-around.
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
The only thing I'm curious about is why anyone would want to fuck either of these tools. As discussed previously, Kate's naked torso probably looks like a leather hobo bag that got dropped on the subway tracks and run over by a speeding A train and her hair looks like the nexus of a lesbian book club and a tragic Flowbee accident. And for any dumb chick who thinks she's star fucking on Jon, should I remind her that he has EIGHT CHILDREN? That means not only will you have to put up with eight uncontrollable monsters every other weekend, but he will always be broke and trying desperately to keep up with his child support. Any self-respecting skank will not settle for Z-list fame and no fortune, especially when he's a stumpy, easily dominated pussy. In the wise words of Lil' Kim, I'll pass; the dick is trash.
The moral of this story is that kids don't guarantee a happy marriage or a happy family, so don't have eight of them. That will take an already fragile and ill-advised marriage and turn it into fucking around and miserable birthdays. In fifteen years, please believe these kids are going to go on the "Jon and Kate Plus 8 E! True Hollywood Story" to describe in graphic detail how much they loathe their reality whore parents for forcing them to publicly perpetuate their sham of a marriage. Just throw in the towel, Jon and Kate, for your kids' sake and for those of us who don't want your fertile asses cluttering up their gossip pages.
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, media whores, oh the horror, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Twi-LAME
When I travel, I have a ritual that I almost always perform. I stop at the airport gift/book/junk food/drugstore, and purchase a trashy piece of reading material. This is the only time I allow myself to read crappy paperback bestselling works of fiction. I prefer books with murders, sex, and an utterly predictable mystery to solve, particularly the Mother Goose-inspired titles of James Patterson. I’ve also been known to indulge in some Stephen King and John Grisham from time to time. Sometimes this ritual works out well, and by “well” I mean I enjoy this guilty pleasure, I finish the book right around the time my flight is landing, leave it in the pocket of the seat in front of me with the SkyMall for the next passenger to enjoy, and immediately forget about whatever the cookie cutter plot was. Sometimes it doesn’t work out so well, such as the times that I’ve made the foolish mistake of reading anything by Dan Brown. When I read Angels and Demons, I was literally reminding myself that audibly cursing out a book on a plane surrounded by strangers is probably not a good idea, even if said book is as offensively retarded as Angels and Demons.
When I decided that, in spite of the A&D debacle, I was going to read The Da Vinci Code, it was even worse. I had some hippie computer programmer with a fucking ponytail hitting on me via incomprehensible jokes about coding in Perl and inviting me on sailing trips through the San Juans on one side, and The Da Vinci Code pissing me off with every poorly composed page in front of me. I was only reading The Da Vinci Code because so many people, including ones who normally don’t read these types of books, were talking about this shit like it was the best thing since the Bible, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. As I read, I grew angrier and angrier that The Da Vinci Code, which I rated as the literary equivalent of a frost-bitten Lean Cuisine chicken cordon bleu , was something that a significant number of people had recommended to me as both mindblowingly awesome and educational. I was insulted that Dan Brown conned a lot of otherwise intelligent people into believing that a bland, patronizing, Grail Quest-flavored retelling of a Learning Annex art appreciation course is some sort of phenomenal contribution to the canon of great literature. I thought that after enduring The Da Vinci Code without either falling into some state of catatonia or murdering anyone, I had suffered enough. And then last month, I wandered into the Hudson News at JFK and purchased a book that made The Da Vinci Code look like War and Peace
That book, which may be the single worst book I’ve ever read, is called Twilight.
In case you aren’t a fat, ugly, bespectacled adolescent preteen girl and you didn’t notice hordes of the same swarming your local theater a few months back, you might not know about Twilight. It’s a Mormon vampire fantasy with legions of extremely dedicated tween girl fans. I normally don’t read books for children because I hate kids, and I normally avoid vampire stories, because I don’t care about what annoying goth fruitcakes get up to when they’re not exsanguinating random bitches. I assume shopping for crushed velvet frocks or appropriately spooky wine goblets for their decrepit old mansions and castles, listening to "Toccata and Fugue," and practicing their Transylvanian accents. However, several of my friends liked this trash, so I decided to give it a try. After all, I’d spoken derisively at length about Harry Potter, but after reading it became a serious HP nerd so dedicated that I cut in front of children at the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble TWICE trying to get my copy of book 7 . Maybe I’d likewise be pleasantly surprised by Twilight. At least I expected that it would at worst be solid trashy plane reading.
WRONG. Twilight sucks. Actually, “sucks” isn’t strong enough. Twilight is so bad that the very word should be stricken from the English language. I’d be happy to exclusively say “dusk” just to ensure that nothing could remind me of the mind-numbingly horrific experience of reading this shitty fucking abomination of a novel. I think I would probably rather read The Notebook fifty times without stopping than Twilight once. I hate Twilight so much that I’m tempted to bring my copy into lab and destroy it with whatever kind of hardcore acid we have in our "Corrosives" cabinet. Actually, I’d like to piss on Twilight before burning it and destroying the ashes with acid. In fact, I think the actual paper the book is printed on is begging me to do so. The book is that fucking appallingly terrible.
For starters, the story’s narrator, the protagonist Bella, is the dumbest bitch I’ve ever encountered in the world of fiction, and that includes legendary dumb bitches like Daisy from The Great Gatsby. Daisy looks like a damn rocket scientist next to this hooker. Bella spends the entire book pining away after Edward, her obnoxious vampire boyfriend. In fact, Bella seems to have no interest in anything whatsoever besides obsessing over Edward. Occasionally she takes a break from figuring out how to better craft her entire reason for living around her statuesque undead paramour to do some domestic chores around the house, but that's about it. What kind of a personality devoid loser does fucking dishes and laundry for fun when she's not devoting herself slavishly to some dumbass guy? Not any slag I would be rolling with. The minute Edward and all the other devastatingly sexy vampires roll onto the scene, I was hoping one of them would bite the fuck out of Bella and call it a day, because I was so sick of reading Bella's utterly idiotic musings like "there's no way this godlike creature could be meant for me", "I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him," and (my favorite) "you're exactly my brand of heroin." Oh, bitch, please. Save it for some bad poetry in your diary and get a life, and that's real talk.
When I decided that, in spite of the A&D debacle, I was going to read The Da Vinci Code, it was even worse. I had some hippie computer programmer with a fucking ponytail hitting on me via incomprehensible jokes about coding in Perl and inviting me on sailing trips through the San Juans on one side, and The Da Vinci Code pissing me off with every poorly composed page in front of me. I was only reading The Da Vinci Code because so many people, including ones who normally don’t read these types of books, were talking about this shit like it was the best thing since the Bible, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. As I read, I grew angrier and angrier that The Da Vinci Code, which I rated as the literary equivalent of a frost-bitten Lean Cuisine chicken cordon bleu , was something that a significant number of people had recommended to me as both mindblowingly awesome and educational. I was insulted that Dan Brown conned a lot of otherwise intelligent people into believing that a bland, patronizing, Grail Quest-flavored retelling of a Learning Annex art appreciation course is some sort of phenomenal contribution to the canon of great literature. I thought that after enduring The Da Vinci Code without either falling into some state of catatonia or murdering anyone, I had suffered enough. And then last month, I wandered into the Hudson News at JFK and purchased a book that made The Da Vinci Code look like War and Peace
That book, which may be the single worst book I’ve ever read, is called Twilight.
WRONG. Twilight sucks. Actually, “sucks” isn’t strong enough. Twilight is so bad that the very word should be stricken from the English language. I’d be happy to exclusively say “dusk” just to ensure that nothing could remind me of the mind-numbingly horrific experience of reading this shitty fucking abomination of a novel. I think I would probably rather read The Notebook fifty times without stopping than Twilight once. I hate Twilight so much that I’m tempted to bring my copy into lab and destroy it with whatever kind of hardcore acid we have in our "Corrosives" cabinet. Actually, I’d like to piss on Twilight before burning it and destroying the ashes with acid. In fact, I think the actual paper the book is printed on is begging me to do so. The book is that fucking appallingly terrible.
For starters, the story’s narrator, the protagonist Bella, is the dumbest bitch I’ve ever encountered in the world of fiction, and that includes legendary dumb bitches like Daisy from The Great Gatsby. Daisy looks like a damn rocket scientist next to this hooker. Bella spends the entire book pining away after Edward, her obnoxious vampire boyfriend. In fact, Bella seems to have no interest in anything whatsoever besides obsessing over Edward. Occasionally she takes a break from figuring out how to better craft her entire reason for living around her statuesque undead paramour to do some domestic chores around the house, but that's about it. What kind of a personality devoid loser does fucking dishes and laundry for fun when she's not devoting herself slavishly to some dumbass guy? Not any slag I would be rolling with. The minute Edward and all the other devastatingly sexy vampires roll onto the scene, I was hoping one of them would bite the fuck out of Bella and call it a day, because I was so sick of reading Bella's utterly idiotic musings like "there's no way this godlike creature could be meant for me", "I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him," and (my favorite) "you're exactly my brand of heroin." Oh, bitch, please. Save it for some bad poetry in your diary and get a life, and that's real talk.
The only sensible thing Bella does in the entire book is show disdain for Forks, Washington, where most of the action takes place. I have been to Forks on several occasions, and if given a choice between eternity there or in Hell, I'd strongly consider Hell. It's a tiny, piece of trash town with absolutely no redeeming qualities, which is apparently why domesticated (ie: non-people-eating) vampires like living there. There's not a lot of sun (which just causes the vampires to glitter like a bunch of really attractive disco balls, but it's apparently really obvious and distracting) and the place is populated exclusively with ignorant hicks, so it's clearly a great place for a clan of statuesque Volvo-driving (seriously) Mormon vampires to blend in. Just as a further indication of the type of people living in Forks, the teenagers in the book all take time out from their parents by cruising over to La Push. My family spent a couple summer vacations salmon fishing at this fetid shitshow of a Quileute reservation town, and those were the crappiest summer vacations ever. La Push was always cold, I invariably got seasick from being on the north Pacific in my uncle's 20-foot Bayliner, and the beach was covered with broken glass, because the kids in La Push do what every other bored-ass teenager from a crappy economically depressed town: drink cooking wine stolen from the coolers outside tourist fishermen's RVs and smash the bottles on the beach. This happened like four times before it occured to my aunt to keep her salmon poaching-grade chardonnay inside the trailer...and yes, note that we were the "rich," faincy out-of-towners and we were worried about losing four jugs of Gallo from outside the RV, which should give you an idea of how classy the denizens of La Push actually are. However, that's not the way the kids roll in Twilight. They go to the beach and there isn't a drop of liquor anywhere in sight. They build beach fires and look at tide pools. Those aren't the drunken Forksian/La Push hicks I remember. UNREALISTIC. FAIL, STEPHENIE MEYER, FAIL!
Apart from the lame setting and lead characters, Twilight may actually be one of the most poorly written, relentlessly cheesy novels I've ever read. Half the fucking book is this bitch Bella gushing about how incomparably gorgeous her vampire boyfriend is, and how she literally faints when he pecks her on the cheek. The rest is them exchanging lame dialogue while they smell each other because that's about as hot and heavy as they can get. Apparently, though he is a boring Volvo-driving vampire who only eats random wild animals, making out too passionately with Bella will cause him to lose control and eat her. Clumsy teenage boning is thus definitely out of the question. So instead they just snuggle and sniff each other and have lame exchanges like this:
I could feel his cool breath on my neck, feel his nose sliding along my jaw, inhaling."I thought you were desensitized.""Just because I'm resisting the wine doesn't mean I can't appreciate the bouquet," he whispered. "You have a very floral smell, like lavender...or freesia," he noted. "It's mouthwatering."
Seriously, dumb vampire, that is not the smell of your fucking destiny. It's the smell of a $7.99 bottle of Bath and Body Works lotion. Get with the century, loser. And as long as Edward is learning about modern customs, he might read up on how the women of the present regard STALKING. This moron vampire actually tells stupid-ass Bella that he fucking hangs out in a tree and watches her sleep every night. Instead of being creeped out and ordering him the hell out of her life, Bella, again demonstrating her total and utter lack of any sense or intelligence whatsoever, thinks it's fucking cute and endearing after he assures her that she repeats an endless litany of "Edward" in her sleep. Then again, I would expect no less from a bitch so completely clueless she refers to NyQuil as "gratuitous drug use" and thinks exchanging body odor with her man is hot. Granted, I like a man to be on top of his hygiene and smell nice, but at the end of the day I want a dude who I can blow without him either whining about how dangerous he is or trying to exsanguinate me. That's something Edward can fucking work on, and it shouldn't be THAT hard if he's so "godlike."
I could probably rage on about this abortion of a novel for hours, but I have to get back to work on my thesis, and frankly, I'm not sure the internets are big enough to contain all my anti-Twilight hatred. I'll just try to work on getting my breathing and heart rate under control, and leave you with a reminder that all the bitches who love this trash look like this:
Before you start criticizing me for knocking on these children, let me remind you all that I am a huge nerd. I can tell you that Gandalf's sword is named Glamdring. I know Hermione Granger's middle name. I can tell you who Cthulhu is and that in his house of R'lyeh he waits dreaming. And I've been remiss with the posts lately because I'm on the home stretch doctorate in science. My nerdiness is well-established, and is in fact my profession. However, I am like the fucking captain of the cheerleading squad in comparison to these fugly, custom-shirt-crafting losers. Even when I was a poetry-writing, morbidly depressed, Sylvia Plath-reading baby dyke wearing hideous Eddie Bauer fleece pullovers and ill-fitting Salvation Army khakis I was like a prom queen compared to these bitches in terms of our respective spots on the social hierarchy. These are the bottom of the high school barrel. These are the kids who lettered in band and got jackets made anyway. They were the kids who you thought you would rather be stretched on the rack than kiss. The ones who had bad skin and smelled weird and still wore stirrup stretch pants long after the early 90s were over. They are the ones who read Twilight. Don't be one of them! Leave sexless Mormon vampire romance novels on the shelf (or better yet, the garbage can) where they belong!
Labels: destroy all children, epic geekery, librophilia, nerd alert, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Thursday, February 12, 2009
This is why I always remember to take my pill on time
It's pretty safe to say that "octomommy" Nadya Suleman is the antithesis of me. This crazy bitch lives with her mom, is unemployed, has over 50 grand in debt, receives food stamps and collects disability benefits for three of her kids (although according to her, that doesn't count as welfare), and is a single mother with an addiction to the IVF clinic. Seriously, this bitch put fourteen fucking test tube babies on the California taxpayers' tab because she was lonely as a child or something. Being saddled with one brat I couldn't afford, much less FOURTEEN of them, and subsisting as a parasite of the state/online mendicant is not my idea of a great way to spend my life.
Apart from the fact that I hate children and being stuck at home with a small army of them rather than doing some type of interesting, meaningful job is an accurate description of my personal hell, there is another reason why I would never want to be start procreating aggressively.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!! Seriously, being eight months pregnant with octuplets is just as bad as I could imagine, if not worse. Homegirl looks like the main egg-laying bitch from the movie Aliens. I mean that shit is like some kind of Lovecraftian horror that will drive anyone who interacts with it completely batshit insane. And speaking of batshit insane, I'm going to have nightmares for weeks about those stretch marks alone. Pregnancy with one kid is bad enough on a bitch's figure, but after seeing what having EIGHT buns in the oven looks like, I'm ready to rip out my entire reproductive tract and sew up my vagina for good measure just on the off chance that something like this might happen to me. I could pretty much write off ever having sex again with anyone remotely attractive (at least not without getting them really, REALLY drunk and in a really dark room) if my body was ravaged like this. Nadya's not going to be ready for bikini season for a while...or hopefully ever. This is just not okay.
Labels: crazies, destroy all children, gross, oh the horror
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
HEY! YOU! GUYS! You suck at apostrophes
I have no idea why, but periodically Sesame Workshop drops into my hood to disrupt all the parking on St. Nicholas Avenue by filming new episodes of "The Electric Company." This is a little weird, because whenever stuff is filmed on my street it usually either involves the cast of "Law and Order: SVU" pretending to bust some perv in the park or some kind of movie about crack and/or gang violence, like the low-rent straight-to-video movie that caused my dog Caesar to run afoul of Tom Berenger's production assistant. As a children's educational program on PBS, "The Electric Company" is a bit of a departure from the usual urban crime-oriented fare that gets shot in Sugar Hill.
So let me get this straight...the person who wrote this letter is planning on teaching the language arts to children "age's six to nine"? I didn't realize that age could own numbers. I guess this must be part of some advanced new teaching strategy, because there's no way that an educational series that "strives to encourage language and vocabulary development" would fuck up their punctuation so flagrantly. Granted, I hate children and don't really care whether they are proficiently literate or not, but those children will grow up to annoy me with their poorly punctuated blog comments and e-mails. Therefore, I can't abide "The Electric Company" running up on the telly with a shout of "HEY YOU GUYS!" and proceeding to instruct kids on the finer points of misusing apostrophes and confusing the plural and possessive forms of a word. When these fools are double parked all over my neighborhood come Thursday, I'm going to march right up to their head bitch in charge with this letter, a red pen, and an indignant sense of grammatical superiority. Cancel this shit.
I don't really care about parking disruptions because I don't have a car, although both children AND public television can, in the words of the inimitable Kelly Taylor to some unworthy frat boy at the Halloween party where she was later almost date-raped by a different frat boy, "get into Daddy's Lexus, drive to the Santa Monica pier, and just keep on going." PBS sucks! With the notable exception of the hotness that was "Where In the World is Carmen Sandiego?," I didn't even like any of the children's programming on PBS when I was a child. "Sesame Street" was for dumbasses who couldn't count or spell, and anyway I learned how to do both from books, not big annoying puppets with imaginary elephant friends. Even at the age of five or six I was convinced that I would greatly prefer Big Bird stuffed, trussed, roasted, and served with gravy than teaching me facile lessons about friendship, singing songs about phonics lessons I'd long since mastered, and sending the message that obnoxious, pathological self-delusion is okay. Fuck Big Bird and the fucking stupid street he lives on, and fuck PBS running pledge drives to support this trash, especially considering these shows fail miserably in the education department anyway. Certainly the correspondence issuing forth from their production staff leads me to believe that their education credentials are decidedly lacking.
As I was walking the dogs last night, I noticed that "The Electric Company" had taped letters to all the lampposts explaining their presence in the neighborhood:
So let me get this straight...the person who wrote this letter is planning on teaching the language arts to children "age's six to nine"? I didn't realize that age could own numbers. I guess this must be part of some advanced new teaching strategy, because there's no way that an educational series that "strives to encourage language and vocabulary development" would fuck up their punctuation so flagrantly. Granted, I hate children and don't really care whether they are proficiently literate or not, but those children will grow up to annoy me with their poorly punctuated blog comments and e-mails. Therefore, I can't abide "The Electric Company" running up on the telly with a shout of "HEY YOU GUYS!" and proceeding to instruct kids on the finer points of misusing apostrophes and confusing the plural and possessive forms of a word. When these fools are double parked all over my neighborhood come Thursday, I'm going to march right up to their head bitch in charge with this letter, a red pen, and an indignant sense of grammatical superiority. Cancel this shit. Labels: destroy all children, grammar gestapo, Harlem world, TV
Thursday, August 28, 2008
People are such prudes
I saw this article the other day and shook my head in disappointment:
BARTLETT, TN (WMC-TV) - Bartlett Grove Park sits in the middle of a subdivision. It's a favorite spot for children, and was recently the site of an adult website porno shoot.
The video clip we discovered begins innocently enough.
"I thought I'd come out for the day," says the "model."
She then exposes herself on the playground slide.Some garden variety exposure is pretty tame as far as "explicit pornography" is concerned. After watching the clip of the local news story, I gathered that this chick pretty much just flashes her twat at the camera from the top of the playground slide. It's not like Anabolic was shooting the latest installment in their Romantic Rectal Reaming series there. A brief flash of sloppily augmented breasts and her cooch are a far cry from doing a double anal ass-to-mouth scene with Vince Voyeur and Lexington Steele.
"She's definitely a tramp -- just nasty," parent Barbara Taylor said in reaction to the video.
Taylor had a typical reaction.
"I think it's disgusting," she said. "I think I'm not letting my kids go down that slide anymore."
Danny Berryhill is a Baptist minister who lives right across the street.
"I don't have the words," he said. "I'm a Baptist minister, and I have no words."
Action News 5 is not publicizing the the exact web-site the video appears on, but it's full of explicit pornography, and there's a promise to visit more public places.
Bartlett Police Capt. Tina Schaber said the girl in the video is clearly breaking a law.
"Public indecency right off the bat," she said.
Police got on the case after Action News 5 clued them in.
"I don't think this would be appropriate for an adult to see in a park -- much less a child," Schaber said.
According to Schaber, the model and those video-taping her could be charged with a number of other crimes.
"These days, who knows?" she said. "She could be over 18 -- she could be under 18."
Action News 5 was unable to locate the "model." She writes on the web-site that the pornographic shoot took place just last week.
A brief search of the internets turned up the identity of the "model," and as far as porn goes, my blog is more hardcore than the park spectacle perpetrated by "nasty tramp" calling herself Foxy Jacky. The extent of her inappropriate public indecency is primarily her giggling and doing stuff like this ("have a looksee at my hooters, y'all!"):
SCANDALOUS! I mean, there are some mildly more offensive shots of Foxy Jacky providing the camera with some intentional upskirt action, but nothing that would really warrant disinfecting the playground. Her site does have some uninspired whipped cream blowjob pictures and trite hardcore on it, but...yawn. All that seems to be done in the private confines of her apartment, and is nothing I haven't seen about 80,000 times from do-it-yourself adult cam entrepreneurs. Frankly, I find Foxy Jacky's poorly punctuated narrative of her adventures in indecent exposure more of an affront to my moral sensibilities than any of the actual public nudity:
August 26 - I am sure this update isn't going to go over too well with the local police but I don't care. I was called a tramp and a few other not so nice things last night by the local news station. All of this because I took a few naked pictures at a park how stupid. I made sure when I did it that there were no kids around and I didn't hurt anyony when I did it so I don't see a problem. Now the local police are talking about arresting me for doing this well here is another set in the public that I shot I hope you like it and I have lots more to put up soon lol. If you have no real crimes to investigate and need to meet a quota I guess there is not much I can do here is the link check it out.
Foxy Jacky accompanies this scathing polemic with new shots of her flashing her ossified snap-on clearance sale tits at an arcade. Her brand of boring gonzo nudity might lull me to sleep, but I do have to applaud her for continuing her subversive behavior despite threats of police intervention. Not only is she sticking it to authority, but she's demonstrating the marketing savvy to parlay her notoriety into at least two or three more foxyjacky.com subscribers. Maybe if she really takes advantage of her ability to shock Baptist ministers into silence, she might hit the big time (ie: a slot on the next iteration of "Rock of Love with Bret Michaels," since that seems the number one vehicle for cam whores and low-rent pro/am porn stars crossing over to the mainstream).
If I were a resident of Bartlett, Tennessee, I would consider providing a forum for a "tramp" to expose herself a better use of my tax dollars than recreational equipment for hateful children to play on. Certainly I'd rather see public space appropriated by blond chicks getting naked than kids running around getting dirty, making noise, and generally pissing me off. Foxy Jacky has actually done her community a service by getting uptight soccer moms to keep their brats at home and off the streets, not to mention silencing annoying preacher types. Clearly, these horribly offended parties are a bunch of lame prudes who spend way too much time judging other people, so if Foxy Jacky's briefly bared pussy is going to keep them locked up in their homes and churches, I say give that skank a key to the fucking city.
Labels: crime and punishment, destroy all children, nudity, porn, retard rage, sluts
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
DOB: November 21, 2008
Occupation: ruling your face off
Hometown: London, England (oh, oops, it looks like some of this was filmed in Norway too)
Current residence: post-production
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I am completely and totally unashamed about the fact that I love Harry Potter in a serious way. When book 7 dropped, JerseyGirl, FalloniusMonk, and I went to the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble to pick up our pre-ordered copies of HP and the DH, and were so eager that we cut in front of not one but TWO groups of children so as not to delay our gratification. Yeah, I know it's kind of an asshole move to cut in front of kids, but their arguments are easily quelled by some grown-up bitchery and as far as I am concerned, it's just Darwinism in action. It's not my problem if those dumb ten-year-olds with fake glasses, drawn-on lightning bolt scars, and Warner Brothers' sanctioned Gryffindor robes can't adapt to the selection pressures of the Harry Potter book release line.
Sadly, since there aren't any more Harry Potter books coming out, I've got to get excited about the movies coming out. Luckily, there are three more to look forward to (HP and the DH has been split into two movies), so I have plenty of Harry Potter geekery to look forward to for the next few years. Last summer when HP and the OOTP came out, Rack, TheOldGuy, FalloniusMonk, and I ate some really awesome special brownies and saw it in 3-D IMAX, and it was truly amazing. I even went to see it again with JerseyGirl later, and I never go see movies twice in the theater. I didn't even see Lord of the Rings: Return of the King in the theater more than once, and that's my favorite movie ever (although in fairness, I didn't have a spare eight hours to kill after the first time I saw it to accommodate a repeat theater visit for LOTR: ROTK).
Anyway, to ensure my unbridled excitement over the next few months, the trailer for HP and the HBP has been released and I'm fucking thrilled. Okay, they don't show the part where Dumbledore's homo ass bites it courtesy of Severus Snape, but I guess that wouldn't make it much of a teaser trailer. And oops, did I say that? Yeah, Dumbledore totally gets avada kedavre-d by Snape at the end. Sorry to spoil it, but if you haven't read the book by now, that's what you get for slacking. Also, the chick in The Crying Game is really a dude, and Bruce Willis is dead the whole time in The Sixth Sense. If you can't get on this shit when it's hot, then get over it!
So back to Harry Potter...this movie looks like it's going to totally rock everyone's face off, as per usual. If only it had Daniel Radcliffe's barely legal weiner in it, it would be perfect. I guess I'll have to go see Equus for that and content myself with the fact that Harry Potter is awesome enough to accommodate the lack of teenage male nudity and the presence of a few despicable children in the audience with me.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, destroy all children, Harry Potter, I LOVE IT, movies
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Daily Douchebag: people who don't vaccinate
DOB: various
Occupation: gullible disease-promoting losers
Hometown: Anytown, USA
Current residence: Everywhere
Douchebaggery: I always get really annoyed when I hear someone talking about how they're not going to vaccinate their kids. For one thing, I'm annoyed they had kids in the first place, because kids are fucking annoying. For another, people who oppose vaccination are usually really fucking pompous about it and spout off a bunch of condescending bullshit like "don't you know that vaccines cause AUTISM???"
Usually when I come across one of these people, I school them hard by dropping a truckload of virology all over their asses, because they are wrong about almost every bit of scientastic made-up crap they patronizingly present as factual. For starters, the link to autism has been disproven by every major clinical study ever conducted. When you mention this, you usually hear something like, "Oh yeah? Well, what about the THIMEROSAL in vaccines? It's made from MERCURY!" Maybe that would fly if thimerosal was still included in most of the childhood vaccine preparations. Since pharmaceutical companies began packaging vaccines in single-use vials, there is no longer a need to use preservatives such as thimerosal since health care providers aren't double-dipping needles anymore. The rate of autism has not changed significantly in relation to the exclusion of thimerosal from childhood vaccines, nor has it decreased in populations that skip vaccination. However, I guess things like "studies published in reputable peer-reviewed journals" don't mean much to people like Jenny McCarthy, who has an autistic kid and blames that on vaccination. She went on Larry King to demonstrate her simultaneous desire to blame someone for her kid's condition and her total ignorance on the subject, as she went off about how the studies disproving the link between vaccines and autism were totally wrong. It speaks volumes about the innate intelligence of the anti-vaccination movement when they consider the former host of "Singled Out" and 1994's Playmate of the Year a more credible scientific authority than the fucking American Medical Association when it comes to the interpretation of clinical data from multicenter studies involving thousands of patients.
I Googled "people who don't vaccinate" just to see what other wacked-out excuses people were using to avoid vaccination. This one dude's blog, called "massivetruth," claims that "human diploid cells" (translation: any kind of cell except a sperm or egg) in vaccines are a huge ethical problem, because "some pharmaceutical companies are extracting them from aborted fetuses such as the WI-38 and MRC-5." This sounds like some sort of mwah-ha-ha-type evil scientist-type shit that has something to do with cloning, but the fact is the WI-38 and MRC-5 are cell lines that were isolated in 1962 and 1966 from embryonic tissue and have been banked ever since. It's not like pharmaceutical companies are running some kind of abortion factory for vaccine production. And almost every drug has, at some point, probably been tested on WI-38s, MRC-5s, or HEK293s (another line derived from embryonic tissue), so if you don't want something that has been tested on a cell line with fetal origins, then you better give up popping Advil for your headaches, taking antibiotics for infections, and modern medicine altogether.
This dumbass goes on to bitch about how "we also see a rise in super virus strands such as the ever-evolving flu virus. The U.S. Centers for Disease Control has noted that the flu vaccine has become increasingly ineffective. This is because the flu viral strands are adapting, becoming stronger. I personally attribute this to the mass inoculations people take without regard." Well, "massivetruth," you'd be better off calling yourself "massiveidiot" with something like that. Influenza is constantly evolving, but not because of "mass inoculations." Not that I would expect this moron to know anything about how RNA viruses such as influenza mutate more rapidly than DNA viruses (such as smallpox, herpes, etc.) because of the 100-1000 fold higher error rate of RNA polymerases. Flu viruses–which are taxonomically grouped into "STRAINS," not "strands"–not only constantly evolve due to their fundamental molecular nature, but they're not necessarily becoming "super" or "stronger." And the reason flu vaccines sometimes don't work is because every year, the vaccine powers that be gather a bunch of epidemiological data and try to predict which flu strains will emerge during the next flu season so they can make a vaccine against the top 3 most likely strains to circulate widely. Sometimes they are correct, and sometimes they are not, but it has to be done this way because there are hundreds of flu strains and the vaccine takes months to make.
In fact, the only thing this asshole does get right is that Congress passed the National Childhood Vaccine Act in 1986 to shield pharmaceutical companies from excessive liability due to vaccine side effects. The author notes "I can't imagine the guilt of losing my child because I let someone inject them with micro-doses of viruses." It's true that live attenuated vaccines (which are weakened viruses that infect the recipient but don't cause disease, like the Sabin polio vaccine) sometimes have side effects and can result in disease occasionally. However, I would feel a hell of a lot more guilty if my kid got polio the old-fashioned way and wound up permanently disabled or dead because I was taking drastic stands on scientific matters I didn't fully understand.
These anti-vaccine people really piss me off, because thanks to their self-righteous ignorance, they are bringing the vanquished diseases of yesteryear back into vogue. A measles outbreak is currently spreading through 15 states, mostly through the unvaccinated population. I would be willing to bet that population is comprised mostly of kids younger than 15 who have dumb parents that heard somewhere vaccination is bad and thus put their offspring at risk for diseases that haven't been a significant problem since the dawn of the fucking Cold War. I can't wait until polio starts tearing through the suburbs. Maybe when all their kids are strapping on their leg braces and climbing into their iron lungs instead of going to soccer practice these fucktards will realize how fucking stupid they are. Until then, take it from me (and no matter what people say about my personal life, I am a virologist by training)...don't be as dumb as Jenny McCarthy. Immunize your brats.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, destroy all children, epidemic geekery, retard rage, scathing indictments, science, viruses rule
Friday, June 06, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Safeco Field staff
DOB: July 15, 1999
Occupation: homophobic, civil rights-infringing assholes
Hometown: Seattle, Washington
Current residence: Seattle, Washington
Douchebaggery: Yesterday, CorporateCard shot me an e-mail with a link to this news story about a couple of hot lezzies who got busted by ushers at Safeco Field for making out during a Mariners game. Apparently, people seated nearby didn't like them smooching over Safeco's famous (and fucking delicious) garlic fries, and didn't want to have to explain to their children why two women were kissing (my explanation would be "because they're awesome"), so the ushers told them that they'd have to leave if they didn't keep it platonic. Apart from the squashing of hot girl-on-girl being further evidence supporting my theory that children totally suck, this is bullshit, but it's par for the course when it comes to Safeco Field.
As a native of the glorious P-N-Dub, I have watched the Mariners lose at Safeco many, many, many times. Safeco is a beautiful ballpark, and catching a game there is one of the best things about being in Seattle during the few months that the skies aren't consistently overcast. As I mentioned before, the garlic fries are awesome, as is the icy cold Rainier Beer (AKA "Vitamin R") on tap, as is the view of downtown Seattle, the Olympic Mountains, and the Puget Sound. However, the ushers at Safeco have perennially been famous for their prudish fascism since the Safe opened its doors. I remember in the first couple years after Safeco's opening, some genius Mariners fans decided to start wearing shirts that said "YANKEES SUCK" on them. I think almost everyone in the world who isn't among the hateful legions of Satan worshipers AKA Yankees fans) not only appreciates this sentiment, but agrees with it wholeheartedly. However, Safeco's lame usher staff spotted these shirts, claimed they were "offensive," and made everyone wearing one either take it off, turn it inside out, or get the fuck out of the stadium. At the time of the "Yankees Suck" controversy, I remember being disgusted with what I marked as typical Seattle bullshit. Only in politically-correct Seattle is "suck" considered a vulgarity (and again, when "suck" is paired with the word "Yankees," I consider that phrase a sacred utterance), and only in Seattle is wearing a shirt that's considered not nice by some an ejectable offense. Trust that you could probably walk into Yankee Stadium wearing a hat with a flashing neon sign that says "FUCK THOSE ASSHOLE (insert name of team playing Yankees here)!" and get a damn seating upgrade. I mean, Alex Rodriguez's wife wore a wife beater that said "FUCK YOU" on the back to Yankee Stadium, for God's sake! In Seattle, you'd probably be jailed for those kind of foul-mouthed shenanigans.
After a massive public outcry, Safeco Field officials finally conceded that "Yankees Suck" shirts weren't the end of the world, and without much fanfare stopped their dedicated campaign to stifle anti-(sonofabitchbastard) Yankees sentiment among Mariner fans. However, the ushers at Safeco continue to be totally lame. One time I went to a Mariners game with a bunch of my colleagues at the company I used to work at in Seattle. Being a group of highly professional, unbelievably classy science nerds, we smuggled in a flask of booze to augment our overpriced Vitamin Rs. At some point around the 6th inning, an usher caught us passing it around and confiscated it.
"You can't take our private property!" I hissed at the usher, who was approximately 97 years old. "What the fuck are you going to do if we don't hand it over?"
"Call the police," he replied. We handed it over.
"That's a treasured possession!" protested the flask's owner. "I insist that I get it back after the game! You aren't entitled to keep it!"
"Inquire at the security office after the game," said the usher.
The flask's owner and I drunkenly marched to the security office after the game and demanded the flask back. The security guy was a total dick, and he got out the flask. "Oh, you mean this flask?" he asked.
"Yes," we said. "Return it immediately."
"Well, sorry, I can't," he said, taunting us with it. "You see, it has alcohol in it, and we are obligated not to release any alcoholic substances."
In a move of drunken ballsiness that I probably would never in a million years contemplate doing sober, I snatched it from him and poured out the remaining three swigs of booze in it on the security office floor. I handed it back to him.
"Problem solved," I said. "Now give it back to us. It has sentimental value, and you have no right to confiscate it permanently."
The security guy made some threats about how we had better behave properly at future Mariners games, but gave us the flask. We went to a bar to drink more with our other colleagues/drunks to celebrate our victory over the nefarious Safeco Field gestapo.
Hearing now that Safeco Field's staff is cracking down on hot chicks kissing is hardly surprising. It merely continues the tradition of intolerant lameness that has become the standard. Compounding the ass-suckery that is par for the course at Safeco, management is defending their decision to hate on horny dykes as a response to their behavior, not their sexual orientation. Supposedly, they were kissing, groping, and fondling, which is as gross a violation of Safeco's "family friendly" policy as a "Yankees Suck" t-shirt. I would argue that since the complaining lesbian was a contestant on "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," kissing, groping, and fondling come to her as naturally as breathing. These are civil rights which Safeco Field has no right to cruelly infringe upon. Besides, the Mariners are as usual underperforming enough to be sitting squarely in last place in the AL West, so it would be nice to be distracted from Felix Hernandez giving up 4 runs to the Red Sox and blowing the game in the 8th inning by some girls getting sexy. Let the lesbians get it on at Mariners games without worrying about whether or not it will confuse idiot children, you homophobic, hating bastards at Safeco Field!
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, destroy all children, fuck the Yankees, hot chicks, lezbollah, Mariners, P-N-Dub, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Beverly Hills Chihuahua
DOB: September 26, 2008
Occupation: 50% warrior, 50% lover, 100% chihuahua
Hometown: Walt Disney Studios
Current residence: during previews at a theater near you
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Normally kids movies are something I avoid like the plague, since I hate both children and the cutesy storylines that appeal to them. Furthermore, any movie with a talking animal (especially where said talking animal plays an integral role bastardizing the culture and history of a magnificent ancient civilization like the Aztecs) gets a big thumbs down in my book. I also generally avoid movies starring dogs, because there's almost always at least one dog death, and I can't handle that emotionally. I started crying during I Am Legend, and not just because it was a godawful time-squandering piece of trash, but because I just couldn't tolerate watching Will Smith strangle his sweet Caesar-y German Shepherd. I can't even talk about Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows without choking up, and you had better believe that I unplugged the damn TV within watching the first 10 minutes of Amores Perros. In every respect, Beverly Hills Chihuahua seems like the kind of movie I would hate for myriad reasons, which is why I'm so shocked that I kind of want to see it.
Part of the reason for this may be due to the fact that when LL Cool Jew and I were roommates in 2005, I lived with her little long-haired Chihuahua, Dulcinea. Although Dulcinea (aka "the D") is not without her challenges (in particular, frequent medical problems, a tendency to urinate uncontrollably when startled or terror-stricken, and a sneaky habit of furtively shitting on various furniture and/or carpets), she is a very, very sweet, funny little dog and I am extremely fond of her. Obviously, LL Cool Jew is too, since she went and got ANOTHER long-haired wawa, Sergio, to keep the D company. Even if you hate dogs, you can't say that these two aren't pretty fucking cute:
LL Cool Jew told me that when she recently saw the trailer in the theater, she embarrassed her husband BigBagel because she actually started clapping delightedly. While I don't think I'd get so excited as to burst into raucous applauding, I wouldn't be embarrassed by LL's enthusiasm. If she's in New York when that shit drops, I'll go see Beverly Hills Chihuahua with her, even if it means sitting in a theater full of hateful children. After watching the trailer, I'm convinced that this movie might not make me homicidally crazed. In fact, in spite of the fact that it has none of the three elements I consider critical to a good movie (murder, explosions, people getting fucked), and many of the elements I consider terrible (possible dog death, musical numbers, shameless revisionist history) I think I might actually like it.
It's at least got to be more exciting than Beverly Hills CHONGAY, which would be approximately ninety minutes of this:
It's at least got to be more exciting than Beverly Hills CHONGAY, which would be approximately ninety minutes of this:
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, destroy all children, doggity style, LL Cool Jew, movies, the D
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
New Orleans is awesome
I'm excited for my upcoming trip to New Orleans for many reasons. LL Cool Jew and I are going to nerd out on history, visit the Britney Spears museum, drive by the ruins of the Magnolia Projects where Terius "Juvenile" Grey came up, eat like pigs, and enjoy a few days being BFFs in person as opposed to over the phone and Gchat. Now I have yet another reason to be excited. Over the weekend, LL Cool Jew went to some mall to see the new Indiana Jones movie, and thought I would like the mall's policies:
THE MALL HAS A NO KIDS POLICY! And a policy so serious that they have a huge sign announcing its rigorous enforcement. That's fucking brilliant. I am in a state of deep swoon imagining the possibility of watching movies without annoying children making noise and generally bothering me. I'm going to write to every movie theater in New York and encourage them to enact similar policies here. It would make movies worth every penny of the $12 it costs to see them.
Labels: destroy all children, Dirrty Dirrty, LL Cool Jew
Thursday, May 22, 2008
My confession
I haven't received the sacrament of reconciliation in sixteen years. The grade school I went to forced us to confess prior to Christmas and Easter. Even the few non-Catholics had to go in and talk to the priest even if they couldn't write off their misdeeds with a few Hail Marys. Unfortunately, I hadn't really done any major sinning at that point so it was kind of an exercise in futility. I figured that merciful Christ would not damn me to the fires of Hell for fighting with my little brother or whatever small-time child's play sinning I repented. In high school, we had the option of going to either study hall or confession during Advent and Lent, and I only exercised the confession option once during my freshman year. After that I got on my unfortunate radical feminist jag, and rejected Catholicism for being too patriarchal. Well, and because there's no better way to perpetrate some rebellious teen angst than declaring oneself an atheist carpet muncher at your Jesuit high school. Anyway, the last time I went to confession was when I was thirteen my first semester of high school. I don't remember the sins I sought absolution for. After that, I opted for study hall and I have ever since.
Fast-forward to the present day, and I could assuredly benefit from some quality time with a priest in a confessional. I have done a hell of a lot of sinning since the last time I got my "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned" on. You could rephrase this to say that I've done a hell of a lot of premarital, extramarital, same sex, and/or group fucking since I was thirteen. The problem with me confessing these sins is that I'm not particularly sorry about most of them. Here and there, I regret times I've used sex to hurt people, or when I've handled sex so cavalierly and insensitively with someone that it fucked up my relationship with that person. However, I don't regret the fact that I stuck my face in a girl's crotch at fifteen and jumped on a dick at sixteen and have been doing that with gusto ever since.
There is, one thing, that I feel very, very bad about. I regret it deeply, and I feel that it is the greatest sin I've ever committed. I've alluded to it in the past, and tried to make light of it, but it is something that haunts me every day of my life. I need to confess it, but I'm still too much of a coward to hear what a priest might tell me. I think I'm afraid of being forgiven for it, because I don't know if I can ever let it go. Certainly a couple trips around the rosary will be insufficient penance. Since I'm too cowardly to seek the sacrament of reconciliation, I figure maybe I should confess this to the rest of the world. If I can give this up to the internets, maybe I'll be able to give this up to a man of the cloth and save my immortal soul from eternal damnation. Therefore, without further ado or pitiful showcases of my Catholic guilt, I'll just get on with the confessing.
In January 2004, after a Christmas vacation spent catching up with my stable of honeys in the P-N-Dub, I returned to New York. I noticed that my New Year's hangover never really quite went away in the sense that I began to experience nausea that became almost constant. At first, I attributed this to a stomach bug, since I am religious about taking my birth control pills on time and have been since the age of 16. When my monthly visitor did not arrive, however, I started to get a really bad feeling about the malady causing this. One night, my friend Miss Corbutt was hanging out at my apartment, and after a few drinks I finally articulated my secret fears to her.
"Dude, I think I might be pregnant."
"WHAT?!" she said.
"Well, I missed my period, and I'm throwing up all the time. I bought a pregnancy test, but I'm afraid to take it."
"It's going to be okay. Take the test first thing in the morning. I'll be here with you. In the meantime, have another beer."
So we drank and then went to bed, and then the next morning I braced myself. I knew I was pregnant. I didn't have to take the test to know it. Something was different with my body, and I could feel it. But even though I knew, I said a prayer that the test would prove this was all in my head. So I pissed on it and tried to hope that my instincts were wrong.
My instincts weren't wrong. I was indeed knocked up. I sat there, not knowing what to do. Miss Corbutt didn't ask what I was planning to do, or give me any advice. She just rubbed my back and told me everything was going to be okay. I told her that I just needed to think. She left me alone to do so.
I didn't really need to think. I knew what I had to do. The situation pretty much dictated what had to happen. I was in my first year of graduate school. I had classes and lab rotations. I didn't have time to become a single mother. I'd have to drop out of Columbia and probably move back to Puyallup. I'd become the unremarkable, economically and intellectually static woman I'd been working my whole life not to be. Add to it that on account of my brazen sluttiness, there were THREE candidates for Baby Daddy. I'm pretty sure I know which one it was, since Bachelor #1 had a serious case of whiskey dick, Bachelor #2 wore a condom and came down with prophylactic-induced erectile dysfunction, and Bachelor #3 gave me at least four cream pies. While I'd bet on Bachelor #3, I didn't really like the idea of involving him (especially since he was living with another woman) only to have the baby's paternity disproven upon its appearance. It would be pretty easy to tell whose kid it was once it came out, since Bachelor #1 was Arab, Bachelor #2 was white, and Bachelor #3 was black. It would be just my luck to have Bachelor #3 coaching me through delivery only to pop out a blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby. The only thing that could make that worse is Maury Povich popping in to declare, "Bachelor #3, you are NOT the father." Needless to say, I didn't feel I had any choice about what to do. I just couldn't bring myself to put the wheels in motion.
I called LL Cool Jew, who lived in Washington, DC at the time. She is steady and manages to combine practical here's-what-we-do actions with lots of compassion. Sometimes you need someone to tell you what to do and make the arrangements for you. I had done the same for her with regard to a bad breakup the year before, so I figured she would be able to do the same for me. I figured correctly.
"Hey, gurrrrrlllll," said LL Cool Jew.
"Dude, I'm pregnant," I said.
LL Cool Jew was quiet for a moment as she assumed a situation-appropriate sobriety. "Are you sure?"
"Tottlez, dude. I just took a test. What do I do?"
"Can you come down to DC in the next couple weekends?"
"Can I bring Caesar?" I asked.
"Duh."
"Yeah, sure."
"Let me call you right back," she said, getting off the phone. Five minutes later she called back.
"So, rent a car for weekend after next," she said. "I made an appointment for you."
"Great. I can't wait to see your and Wmania's new apartment," I said. I didn't know what else to say.
That was it. That was how I decided to have an abortion. I asked my friend to do it for me and acted like it was an excuse to check out LL Cool Jew and Wmania's new digs.
For the next week and a half, my morning sickness grew steadily worse. In fact, I'm not sure why it's even called "morning sickness" since I was afflicted with it at all hours of the day. I got in the habit of carrying a bottle of Pepto-Bismol with me everywhere I went. Some of my classmates at Columbia eventually began to inquire about my health. I told them I had a lingering case of stomach flu. One of my classmates eventually suggested that I see a doctor, since it wasn't right for such an ailment to persist, as we got into an elevator following another riveting Cell Membranes and Organelles class. "It's actually not a stomach flu," I said. "I'm pregnant."
There was a collective gasp from the elevator full of first-year grad students. I guess this is the kind of information you're supposed to hide and be ashamed of, but I have an almost compulsive need to be honest about myself. If I have no skeletons in my closet, nobody can ever hold anything over my head. Besides, I am an absolutely terrible liar. So I just came out with the truth. Then I felt sorry for shocking everyone else, so I comforted them. "Don't worry, I'm getting it taken care of next weekend." Everybody was still shocked, so I just tried to act as nonchalant and emotionally uninvolved as possible, like I'd just informed everyone I was going to the dermatologist to get a mole lasered off.
The time came, and I rented a car and loaded Caesar into it (this was pre-Chingy!), and drove to our nation's capital. LL Cool Jew, Wmania, and I drank wine and watched trash TV and made jokes about getting up early to be at the abortion clinic.
The next morning Wmania drove me to the clinic for my appointment at 8. It was in a suburban part of Maryland, in an unmarked, unassuming office building. "There's no sign," I observed. "Yeah, probably to keep the bombers away," said Wmania.
"That's comforting," I said. The waiting room was largely empty when I checked in.
"I'm here for an appointment to terminate my pregnancy," I said quietly, in the same tone of voice I'd use at a library or a funeral. I figured this was a somber occasion.
"Medical or surgical abortion?" said the receptionist loudly. My somber occasion was just another day at the office for her.
"Uhhh...what's the RU486 one? Medical, I guess," I said. The receptionist handed me some forms to fill out and said mechanically, "The purple form explains everything."
The purple form basically told me how the whole schtick was going to go down. They'd confirm my pregnancy, give me a shot of methotrexate in the ass to terminate my pregnancy, and after a week, I'd shove some misepristone pills in my cooch to induce a miscarriage of my dead fetus.
The waiting room started to fill up, and I waited and waited. Because the demand for the clinic's services apparently greatly exceeded its capacity to supply, they showed movies to help pass the time waiting. You might think that they'd show cheerful, lighthearted fare to lift the undoubtedly gloomy spirits of your average abortion clinic waiting room denizen, but you would be wrong. That morning they were showing Narc, an extremely violent movie about police corruption, drug dealing, torture, and murder. After a particularly lovely scene in which a dude blows his head off while taking a bong hit out of a loaded shotgun, Wmania said, "What the FUCK are we watching? Whoever put this movie in for this crowd was obviously smoking CRACK COCAINE." Whenever someone does something Wmania disapproves of, she always attributes it to the recent use of "crack cocaine."
Finally, they called me in. They wouldn't let Wmania come with me. I paid and made a lame joke about how, since I got airmiles for purchases made using my credit card, I should have abortions more often. The woman taking my payment did not laugh. Instead, she told me that I'd have to return afterward for a follow-up, and wanted to book the appointment then.
"How is February 14th?" she asked.
"Fine," I said. "It's going to be the most romantic Valentine's Day ever," I added. The woman again did not laugh. She sent me to a room for an ultrasound and then I had to piss in a cup for a pregnancy test. It took me an hour to produce a goddamn drop of urine. I attributed my urinary dysfunction to my constant vomiting. Finally, after I managed to piss, I was ushered into the gynecologist's examination room.
The doctor performed a pelvic exam on me. I remembered that she had the knobbiest knuckles I'd ever felt in my vagina. She brusquely advised me that I'd signed a form which legally obligated me to follow through with the abortion once I'd received my methotrexate, because otherwise I'd give birth to a deformed monster. I advised her that I was aware of that, and dropped a little science about methotrexate blocking proliferation of rapidly dividing cells by inhibiting dihydrofolate reductase. I told her she'd have to give me the methotrexate as an injection rather than a syrup, because I couldn't even keep water down. She told me to roll over and gave me a shot in the ass. Then she gave me a little packet of pills and told me to shove them up my vagina before bed in a week. She also gave me a prescription for Vicodin.
"Will I need this? Isn't this just going to be like a heavy period?" I asked.
"You might have some cramping," she said. "Just fill the prescription." Then, her clinical manner subsided and she squeezed my hand and shot me a kind, sympathetic expression. Even though her knuckles felt like ping pong balls, it was very comforting. "Make this as painless as possible for yourself," she said. "And avoid folic acid, it interferes with the methotrexate. But you already know that."
I left and Wmania escorted me out. I threw up in the parking lot. Wmania was very alarmed. "Holy shit, Razzy, pregnancy is like a disease to you!" When we got back to their apartment, I pointed out that the brochure the clinic gave me listed their phone number as 1-800-ABORTION. "Dude, I can't believe you fixed me up with this place by calling 1-800-ABORTION!" I said to LL Cool Jew.
"I did NOT call 1-800-ABORTION! They were the first clinic listed in the phone book, and it was a (202) number!"
"Whatever, you probably finished ordering new lenses from 1-800-CONTACTS and then figured you'd do the same for me by dialing 1-800-ABORTION," I teased her.
LL Cool Jew got rather indignant. "I SWEAR I did NOT dial 1-800-ABORTION!" I would have persisted in ragging on her, but I had to go throw up again.
After treating my nausea with a little medical marijuana, LL Cool Jew and Wmania took me out to lunch at Lauriol Plaza, which is the only place in Washington, DC I like at all. I'm a sucker for delicious fajitas. We ordered margaritas, and after a hilarious moment when Wmania decided to ask the non-English-speaking bus boy if they contained folic acid, resumed acting like my abortion was a great excuse for a weekend visit.
The next weekend, LL Cool Jew drove up to New York to keep me company for the actual fetus-purging part of the abortion. I was not in good shape. Despite my pregnancy being halted in its tracks by the methotrexate, I was still suffering from almost crippling nausea. I kept waking up in the night to vomit. In spite of my best efforts to joke about the situation ("Dude! Welcome to the party of the century!"), LL Cool Jew was extremely worried about me. She made sure the Vicodin was ready, she bought maxi-pads for me (trust that I am normally a tampon girl, but these are a no-no during an induced miscarriage), and she walked Caesar for me (a troublesome task given her penchant for five-inch stilettos and Caesar's tendency to pull hard on his leash). Finally, right before bed, I shoved the pills up my vadge, took a Vicodin, and went to bed.
Several hours later, I woke up feeling like my uterus was being rototilled. I tried to be stoic, but the pain was so severe that I started crying. I went into the bathroom so I wouldn't wake up LL Cool Jew. I sat on the toilet, where I realized that I was literally hemorrhaging. I was a fucking mess. Then I had to get off the toilet so that I could throw up into it. During this time, I bled on the floor. I started crying harder when I flushed because I realized that I had not only expelled my child into a toilet, I had puked on top of it and then unceremoniously sent it into the NYC sewer system. At this point, there was a quiet knock on the bathroom door. I'm not sure if my whimpering or my retching woke LL Cool Jew, but she was up and wanting to know if I was okay.
I tried to convince her that I was just fine and would be out in a minute, but failed. LL Cool Jew let herself in to find me wiping blood and chunks of fetus off the bathroom floor between dry heaves and sobs.
"Oh my fucking God, Razzy," she said. "You are NOT okay."
I was a complete mess. LL Cool Jew gave me another couple Vicodin and helped me back to bed. I think I managed to clean up most of the floor before her entrance, so there wasn't much for her to finish. I couldn't keep those Vicodin down. I spent the rest of the night writhing in pain. I felt like someone was wringing out my reproductive organs. LL Cool Jew stayed up with me, stroking my hair and feeling bad about not being able to help me more. Finally, I managed to fight back the urge to vomit long enough to let more pain meds kick in, and fell asleep for a couple hours.
The next day LL Cool Jew and I stayed in bed all day watching Lord of the Rings and eating pizza. I felt a little better. My friend KatieScarlett came over to visit. I was so exhausted and finally able to eat that I fell asleep early while KatieScarlett and LL Cool Jew got to know each other. They ended up dating for almost a year after that. Nothing kindles lesbian love like a mutual friend's abortion.
I figured that LL Cool Jew and KatieScarlett's relationship demonstrated that something good could come out of what was otherwise a horrible and traumatic experience. I resolved to finish off the whole abortion experience on a positive note, so when I went back to DC for my Valentine's Day follow-up confirming my now-empty uterus, LL Cool Jew and I decided that it would be really, really fun to go to Medieval Times for some post-abortion clinic faux jousting.
After the clinic, LL Cool Jew and I went to pick up Wmania from her boyfriend's apartment. She said she would meet us outside, because her then-boyfriend probably didn't want us traipsing around in his den of WASPiness and messing up his golf tee collection (and I'm not kidding...this d-bag from Connecticut actually collected tees from all the expensive golf courses he'd played at). When we arrived, Wmania and said boyfriend were clearly having some sort of fight, as they were standing aggressively opposed and gesturing wildly. LL Cool Jew and I pulled up, blasting "Night Train" by GNR, and I leaned out the window with a Parliament Light hanging out of my mouth and shouted, "Happy Valentine's Day, lovebirds! I just got done at the abortion clinic and I'm ready to drink some mead and watch some fucking jousting, so get your ass in my rental car, bitch!"
Wmania's lame boyfriend just stared at us, clearly offended into silence. He muttered a goodbye to Wmania, adjusted the collar of his polo shirt, and shuffled off to dust his golf tees or whatever. Wmania, LL Cool Jew, and I proceeded to have a great time drinking overpriced Bud Light and shouting about whatever fake knight our seating arrangements required us to support. On our way out, we took a picture in some fancy photo booth that put a picture of us in front a background that said "Bad Attitude." As is my custom, I exposed my right breast for the photo, and only realized upon exiting that there was a large screen outside the booth displaying the picture of my naked tit for everyone in the mall to see.
"Dude, we have to get out of here before we, like, get arrested for indecent exposure or something," Wmania cautioned.
We left and proceeded to spend a lot more time drinking and carousing and forgetting the entire reason for my trip to our nation's capital. However, any distraction from this event in my life is temporary. Not a day has passed since then that I haven't thought about it. It does not escape my notice that if I had made a different choice, I would have a four-year-old today. I have dreams about what my child would have looked like. I can't forgive myself for doing this, but I can't punish myself for it either. I regret it constantly, but in spite of that, I would do the same thing if I found out I was pregnant today.
Well over half of my friends have gone through the same thing. Often they call me when they have to, because everyone knows that I have had the same experience (since my favorite means of coping is to pretend it doesn't bother me and make irreverent jokes about it). It is heartbreaking for all of them. One of my friends undergoing a "medical" abortion called me during the week between the methotrexate and the misepristone, crying and saying over and over, "My baby is dying! I can feel it dying!" Another friend called after her abortion ended and said, "I feel like a terrible woman. I feel like Medea." After assuring her that references to infanticidal witches of Greek mythology will get her nowhere in terms of coping, I still felt like a shit because I still couldn't offer her any tips as to how to get this out of your system. If there is a way to move past this, I haven't discovered it. I still think about it all the time. I'm in therapy because of it. Even if I use the impersonal nomenclature (ie: "terminating a pregnancy") that makes an abortion sound like a simple medical procedure, I can't escape the part of me that thinks I killed my child. I can try to justify it by saying that I killed my bastard to save my own life, but this is not a simple thing to think about or put to rest.
The sad thing is that so many women have gone through this, and nobody talks about how complex the experience is. When people talk about abortion, the discussions tend to be political (either "abortion is murder" or "keep your laws off my body") and don't even come close to addressing what it's like to actually have an abortion. I'm sure women exist who think abortion is very casual and can have one without thinking about it at all, but everyone I know, obviously including myself, has not emerged from the clinic unscathed, undamaged, and without a significant measure of grief and remorse. While every woman I know, also including myself, believes she made the right decision, it is not easy living with it. And writing this all down and putting it on display for the internets and the world doesn't mitigate this burden, but at least it's not something I've got festering away secretly inside me anymore. I don't know if I'll ever find absolution or peace, but now that I've confessed, at least I can hope I'm on the right track. Besides, now you all know, and as GI Joe cartoons used to advise me, that's half the battle.
Labels: Catholicism, destroy all children, for serious people, LL Cool Jew, Miss Corbutt, Razzification, Wmania
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
