This is what I have in mind...
I think it would be appropriate and beneficial to the welfare of the country, if Democrats and Republicans can forge an agreement regarding the upcoming 2012 Presidential election.
If Mitt Romney wins, Democrats have to agree not to go berserk that a rich, white Mormon born in Michigan is the president. They further agree not to say they hope Romney fails like Rush Limbaugh did after Obama was elected. They must also take a vow not to oppose everything Romney does regardless of whether they're in favor of it or not.
If Obama wins, Republicans must let him do his job, fill presidential appointments (like naming the new postmaster of Irving, North Dakota without blocking it), and let bills pass in the Senate with a simple majority instead of filibustering every piece of legislation that comes before them. The also have to shut up about Obama being an anti-American socialist Muslim from Kenya.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Blunt Talk About Abortion
BLUNT TALK ABOUT ABORTION
No sane person views abortion as just another birth control method.
No
sane person wants to go through an abortion.
Proponents
of pro-choice do not glorify abortion any more than proponents of pro-life glorify
genocide.
So
other than an adherence to fanatical, religious-based, self-righteous opinion,
why would any proponent of pro-life feel it necessary to dictate to another
human being what they can and cannot do with their own bodies? What business is
it of theirs? Who, specifically, gave them the right to tell other people how
to live? Who gave them the right to judge other people?
Well… Just ask them and they’ll tell you: it was gentle Jesus, meek and mild. He gave
them those rights. Him and his book…
Anthropomorphism
can only go so far. Sure, you can attribute human qualities to the character of
Jesus in the New Testament—scriptures claim He was both God and man; however,
the qualities and characteristics the rabid interventionists of the pro-life
crowd attribute to Jesus are no more biblically valid than is the Mars Rover.
Jesus never spoke a word about abortion nor did He ever speak a word about the
moment life begins or of the much-touted pro-life credo of the “sanctity of
life.”
Abortion
isn’t mentioned in the Bible because the ignorant desert-wandering tribes it
was written for had no conception of the female reproductive system and would
have no more idea of how to perform an abortion than a Neanderthal would have
of how to fly a Boeing 757.
And
nowhere in scripture is it written, “By the way, if we forgot to mention it,
just go ahead and make something up.”
Because
that’s exactly what they’re doing when they climb their pedestals of arrogance
and attempt to force everyone to abide by what they imagine to be “God’s will.”
They’re making it up. But they’re also sinning. They’re blaspheming. Oh, they
don’t realize it because in their narrow, concentrated hatred of anything
smacking of personal freedom, they believe they’re striking a blow for “decency,”
but what they’re actually doing is blaspheming.
You’d
go to hell for that.
You
see, they’re claiming to know the mind of God. They’re dictating to others on His
behalf. They’re taking the name of God in vain. That’s blasphemy, regardless of
the motives behind it and if abortion is a black and white issue without a
shade of gray, then so is blasphemy.
Pro-lifers
are obsessed with fetuses, but not so much with people. From the moment a
zygote is formed by the fertilization of an egg, pro-lifers are all about the fetus
and the sanctity of life. Once the fetus emerges and becomes a child, these
same pro-lifers lose interest quickly. Before it was a human, they were fixated
with protecting it; but the minute it sucks in its first breath, they’re
finished.
Neo-natal
care? You’re on your own, kid. Now that we can see you, you’re not that cute after all.
Tax
dollars for WIC? Nope. That’s socialism
and welfare. Women, infants, and children—you’re on your own.
Crack
baby? Piss off—your mother’s a whore.
Day
care? Head Start? Look…we’re like the airlines, okay? We got you here safely. That’s
all you get.
But come see us again when you’re 18
and can join the military. Then we’ll sing the Star Spangled Banner and beat
our chests about how wonderful our young men and women in uniform are, but
between the ages of birth to the age of 18, you can go fuck yourselves.
For
people who pride themselves on being compassionate, you don’t see a lot of it
in pro-lifers, at least not any genuine compassion. You do see a lot of hatred,
sanctimony, and pomposity, but no genuine compassion. You also see that sense
of moral superiority all phony Christians display along with their well-rehearsed
“camouflaged look of disdain.” It wouldn’t be Christian to openly show disdain,
so they work on acting as if they’re
trying so hard not to be judgmental…hiding
it just enough so you can still see
it, but you just know they’re
stifling it as best they can to save your miserable, heathen feelings. Watching
one of these performances is mesmerizing.
They
do not want anyone having an abortion for any reason.
And
again, no sane person would use abortion as a method of birth control. It’s too
expensive, it’s too time-consuming, and it’s too risky. It’s a medical
procedure. Using abortion as a method of birth control would be like being
catheterized because it’s more convenient than walking to the bathroom.
But
picture these scenarios:
A
couple who were overjoyed a few weeks ago when the home pregnancy test showed
positive rush to the hospital, the wife cramping and in obvious agony. An
ultrasound shows the fetus is implanted in one of her fallopian tubes—not in
her uterus where it should be. The wife is in very real danger. But rather than
terminate the pregnancy immediately, the doctor puts the wife in a room, dopes
her up, and lets her wait out the pain, watching for either the fetus’s heart
to stop beating or for the wife’s fallopian tube to rupture.
*A
girl arrives in the emergency room in lower abdominal agony and with heavy
bleeding. An intern determines that she is having a miscarriage. Instead of
treating her, the intern calls for a gynecologist who forces the young woman to
submit to an examination whether she wants one or not to determine whether the
miscarriage is a common, natural event or whether it’s a crime scene.
*During
divorce hearings, a man described as a “one-man-cult” who claimed all his
actions, which included taking two of his daughters as brides were “guided by
God” is arrested when his sobbing, battered, and bruised 13 and 15-year-old-daughters
testify that he raped them both while their mother was visiting a sick relative
three months prior to the trial hearing. Charges against the man include
incest, assault, forcible confinement, corrupting the morals of children, and
rape. Both girls are pregnant.
*An
attractive, 40ish, vehemently pro-life mother of three, whose husband works for
the city planning commission, is leaving the Bell Hill Baptist Church late one
evening after volunteering to assist the church secretary by stuffing envelopes
announcing the annual bake sale. As she reaches her car and fumbles for her
keys, a mentally disabled, syphilitic, homeless man appears out of nowhere, grabs
her around the throat, forces her to the ground, shoves a filthy rag into her
mouth, tears off her skirt, and violently rapes her.
*An
older couple, their two children grown, educated, and married with families of
their own, are making love one evening and the condom breaks. They hope for the
best, but the woman misses her next period. A positive pregnancy test results
in a follow-up gynecologist visit and the woman is pregnant. Subsequent tests
indicate the likelihood of the child having severe Down’s Syndrome is extremely
high.
What
did these people do wrong? What exactly is it that would bring the pro-life
cause screaming down on their heads demanding that they let nature take its
course? An ectopic pregnancy, a natural miscarriage in progress, incest, rape,
and an accidental, unwanted pregnancy…
And
the pro-lifers say, “Nope. Have the kid. We don’t care if you die or suffer. We
don’t care if it’s your own father’s child. We don’t care that you’ll remember
that rape each time you look at the baby. We don’t care if your condom broke
and you’re bringing a child you can’t afford or can’t care for into the
world. We just don’t care. We cared before
they were born. We cared so much before
they were born that we’d do anything to force you to have that kid. But we don’t
care now.”
Where
is the logic in this line of thought? Where is the logic in demanding that other people—not you, but
other people—do what you want them to
do because you believe God is
anti-abortion? Medical estimates are that 30% to 50% of the pregnancies in the
United States end in miscarriage. Among abortionists, God appears quite prolific.
The
entire right-to-life movement is a farce. A ploy. A smoke-and-mirrors parlor
trick. These people aren’t pro-life, they’re anti-woman. Even the women who are
pro-life are anti-woman. Their express purpose in championing this sick,
twisted, backward philosophy is to “keep women in their place.”
The
pro-life men in this country are scared to death by any woman who has the
audacity to believe she’s her own woman in control of her own destiny and her
own body. These men like the fact
that their Bible has put them in charge. Even the wimpiest little Casper
Milquetoast in the country can walk into church and hear God command, “I do not
permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she must be silent!”
and brother, do they ever love that.
Pro-life
women are also scared to death by any woman who has the audacity to believe she
controls her own body—and they also want women under the control of men. By
women, they mean other women. The ones who aren’t them.
The
bottom line, the ultimate bottom line of this entire debate, once it is
stripped of all the false trappings used to attempt to make it appear
legitimate, is this: If men could get pregnant, an abortion would be easier to
get than a pack of cigarettes.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Old Soldiers Never Die...I Hope
Back in November, I received my retirement packet from the US Army Resources Command. I had to fill it out, get it notarized, go to the bank and get a form for direct deposit, etc. The instructions told me to mail it back in the envelope provided and don't send it registered, certified, or anything else. If I wanted confirmation they received it, put a self-addressed stamped postcard inside and they send it back to me.
So I mailed it in January and I'm still waiting for the self-addressed stamped postcard and since January, I've been obsessing about whether they processed the packet or not.
Approximately six months before my 60th birthday, I'm supposed to receive orders placing me on the US Army Retired List and confirming that my retirement pay will start on my birthday. That's about six months away and I'm still waiting for that notification, too.
Anyway, to make a short story even shorter, today I found a resource on line for a local Retirement NCO right over on Sidco Drive at the National Guard Armory who's supposed to help out "Gray Area Retirees" which is what someone who's retired but has not yet reached age 60 is called. Gray area. Evidently they got a look at my hair.
I called the number and got a recording. Things sure have changed in the 16 years I've been gone. In my day, we wouldn't dream of having a call answered by voice mail. A person would answer it.
So I told the machine who I was and that I was the Chief of the Personnel Services Branch before the one they've got now, and here's my problem, and please give me a call.
And guess what I'm still waiting for?
So I mailed it in January and I'm still waiting for the self-addressed stamped postcard and since January, I've been obsessing about whether they processed the packet or not.
Approximately six months before my 60th birthday, I'm supposed to receive orders placing me on the US Army Retired List and confirming that my retirement pay will start on my birthday. That's about six months away and I'm still waiting for that notification, too.
Anyway, to make a short story even shorter, today I found a resource on line for a local Retirement NCO right over on Sidco Drive at the National Guard Armory who's supposed to help out "Gray Area Retirees" which is what someone who's retired but has not yet reached age 60 is called. Gray area. Evidently they got a look at my hair.
I called the number and got a recording. Things sure have changed in the 16 years I've been gone. In my day, we wouldn't dream of having a call answered by voice mail. A person would answer it.
So I told the machine who I was and that I was the Chief of the Personnel Services Branch before the one they've got now, and here's my problem, and please give me a call.
And guess what I'm still waiting for?
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Taking Care Of Your Body
Although you wouldn't guess it to look at me, I've been on a physical fitness and diet regimen since I was 18 years old and entered Basic Combat Training at Fort Polk, Louisiana. Well...except for a 6 month interlude that lasted from the day I retired from the military until the day I went to work again and discovered the shorts and cut-off sweatshirt I'd been wearing daily during that period wouldn't cut it in the business world.
In all those years, I learned almost every single thing you could ever want to know about diet, nutrtion, exercise, and the human body. Seriously. I don't mean to brag, but there are nutritionists, doctors, dieticians, and Olympic athletes out there who haven't read as much about physical fitness and health as I have. The first diet and fitness book I ever read was written by Charles Atlas and the last one I read was written by some wiggler who edits a magazine called Men's Health that's been running the same 132 articles over and over again with different titles since they started publishing.
The problem with having all this knowledge, you see, is getting it "out there." For most people, that means they feel compelled to write a book. But books are tedious. They're long. And they're usually full of little anecdotes nobody cares about except the writer's relatives.
No, I think the way to impart knowledge about anything is with a list.
So let's take this opportunity to examine some of our most compelling beliefs about physical fitness, diet, exercise, the human body, and its social role and function. (I borrowed that sentence from the skirts over at Good Housekeeping, so don't get anything on it because I've got to get it back to them for their February article on divorced lesbians who raise their sons as transvestites.)
1. The absolute worst thing in the world for you, worse than anything else, is commercial white bread.
2. The only thing worse than that is refined white sugar.
3. In fact, anything white, such as white rice, is bad for you and anything brown, such as brown rice, is good for you.
4. The only white thing that's good for you is white wine.
5. The only other white things that are good for you are fish and chicken which are much better for you than beef which is bad for you unless it's veal which is sort of good for you unless it's deep fried.
6. Fish is so good for you that it's almost a vegetable except that it has intenstines.
7. Exercise is good for you and the more vigorous and frequent the exercise, the better it is for you. But you shouldn't exercise too much because exercise really wears you down.
8. Cancer is the result of having a certain personality type that represses emotions and things.
9. Only real straight Republican conservative "business-types" repress emotions. And your mother.
10. All other diseases we get are caused by the foods we eat.
11. All other diseases we get are caused by the environment we live in.
12. American eating habits are very unhealthy and Americans are very unhealthy even though statistics say we live longer than almost everybody else in the world.
13. You can lose weight and get in real good shape by eating 1,000 calories a day and exercising like a madman and within 6 months of stopping that, you'll be out of shape and fat again.
14. All folk medicine works really well, especially Chinese folk medicine.
15. Doctors don't know anything about medicine.
16. It's more natural for a baby to be born on a geodesic houseboat in Bali than a hospital in Nashville.
17. Karate, Judo, and Tae Kwan Do are good, but fighting is bad.
18. Women have more endurance than men.
19. Shaving under your arms is barbaric, but putting half a dozen holes in each ear and one in your belly button is good.
In all those years, I learned almost every single thing you could ever want to know about diet, nutrtion, exercise, and the human body. Seriously. I don't mean to brag, but there are nutritionists, doctors, dieticians, and Olympic athletes out there who haven't read as much about physical fitness and health as I have. The first diet and fitness book I ever read was written by Charles Atlas and the last one I read was written by some wiggler who edits a magazine called Men's Health that's been running the same 132 articles over and over again with different titles since they started publishing.
The problem with having all this knowledge, you see, is getting it "out there." For most people, that means they feel compelled to write a book. But books are tedious. They're long. And they're usually full of little anecdotes nobody cares about except the writer's relatives.
No, I think the way to impart knowledge about anything is with a list.
So let's take this opportunity to examine some of our most compelling beliefs about physical fitness, diet, exercise, the human body, and its social role and function. (I borrowed that sentence from the skirts over at Good Housekeeping, so don't get anything on it because I've got to get it back to them for their February article on divorced lesbians who raise their sons as transvestites.)
1. The absolute worst thing in the world for you, worse than anything else, is commercial white bread.
2. The only thing worse than that is refined white sugar.
3. In fact, anything white, such as white rice, is bad for you and anything brown, such as brown rice, is good for you.
4. The only white thing that's good for you is white wine.
5. The only other white things that are good for you are fish and chicken which are much better for you than beef which is bad for you unless it's veal which is sort of good for you unless it's deep fried.
6. Fish is so good for you that it's almost a vegetable except that it has intenstines.
7. Exercise is good for you and the more vigorous and frequent the exercise, the better it is for you. But you shouldn't exercise too much because exercise really wears you down.
8. Cancer is the result of having a certain personality type that represses emotions and things.
9. Only real straight Republican conservative "business-types" repress emotions. And your mother.
10. All other diseases we get are caused by the foods we eat.
11. All other diseases we get are caused by the environment we live in.
12. American eating habits are very unhealthy and Americans are very unhealthy even though statistics say we live longer than almost everybody else in the world.
13. You can lose weight and get in real good shape by eating 1,000 calories a day and exercising like a madman and within 6 months of stopping that, you'll be out of shape and fat again.
14. All folk medicine works really well, especially Chinese folk medicine.
15. Doctors don't know anything about medicine.
16. It's more natural for a baby to be born on a geodesic houseboat in Bali than a hospital in Nashville.
17. Karate, Judo, and Tae Kwan Do are good, but fighting is bad.
18. Women have more endurance than men.
19. Shaving under your arms is barbaric, but putting half a dozen holes in each ear and one in your belly button is good.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Tennessee Sports
Every male Tennessean whose father wants him in UT is born with a tiny football in his hand.
The idea is much like the farm boy who carried a calf around the house every day so that he’d finally be strong enough to pick up a full-sized cow: to get the boy to grip a football really early in his career, so that it becomes natural to him when he grows up.
Every six months or so, Daddy gives his growing boy a slightly bigger ball. By the time the kid is two years old, he’s throwing five-yard spirals. At about thirteen, he can sail one forty yards. The young UT prospect goes through an athletic training regimen that makes Russian gymnasts look like jet set street people.
By the time the kid is ready for junior pro competition he’s big, smart, cool, and can throw a squareout right on the button. He can peg one through a swinging tire without even looking. Now he’s ready for some real coaching. A chunky, jowly gym teacher, an ex-second string lineman for Tennessee Tech or MTSU named Buck or Harold, takes over and really whips the kid into shape. He coaches the kid to stay in the pocket even when he hears footsteps and knows he can be blind-sided by a massive one hundred pounder who’s been left back four times and is still struggling through the sixth grade.
“Save that fancy stuff, the dodging around, for your high school games, son. First thing you learn from me is how to hang tough. If you can’t hang tough, hang up your fuckin’ cleats. Ain’t no point in playing football,” says Buck. Or Harold.
Harold (or Buck) cusses, spits, and blows his nose in his hand…and his boys love it. The boys’ daddies love it. The moms hate it in public, but secretly love it, too. Except for the blowing his nose in his hand part. They think that’s disgusting. But, anyway, with cussing and spitting comes manhood, virility, and true UT style.
With all this coaching and playing, the kid develops into a real player, a first-rate junior pro quarterback who leads his grade school team to three championships in their league. Film clips of the kid in action have been on TV news all season. He’s been scouted by plenty of high schools and they all want him, even the private schools.
The kid can’t miss. He’s got what it takes to make it. He’s got the arm, the know-how, the size, and the speed.
Except when he gets to high school, there are twenty-five guys exactly like him.
He can’t make the high school team as quarterback, but they try him as a halfback and he breaks his leg in the first scrimmage.
Next year he breaks the other leg trying out as a tight end, and the third year, his collarbone goes.
By his senior year, he’s washed up. His blooming career and hopes and dreams of becoming a star at UT are shot. And so are his Daddy’s dreams for him.
Sure, he’s bitter and disappointed and screwed up in the head. But there’s still hope for the kid. So he does what thousands of young UT football hopefuls with similar problems do—he becomes a faggot and goes to Vanderbilt.
The idea is much like the farm boy who carried a calf around the house every day so that he’d finally be strong enough to pick up a full-sized cow: to get the boy to grip a football really early in his career, so that it becomes natural to him when he grows up.
Every six months or so, Daddy gives his growing boy a slightly bigger ball. By the time the kid is two years old, he’s throwing five-yard spirals. At about thirteen, he can sail one forty yards. The young UT prospect goes through an athletic training regimen that makes Russian gymnasts look like jet set street people.
By the time the kid is ready for junior pro competition he’s big, smart, cool, and can throw a squareout right on the button. He can peg one through a swinging tire without even looking. Now he’s ready for some real coaching. A chunky, jowly gym teacher, an ex-second string lineman for Tennessee Tech or MTSU named Buck or Harold, takes over and really whips the kid into shape. He coaches the kid to stay in the pocket even when he hears footsteps and knows he can be blind-sided by a massive one hundred pounder who’s been left back four times and is still struggling through the sixth grade.
“Save that fancy stuff, the dodging around, for your high school games, son. First thing you learn from me is how to hang tough. If you can’t hang tough, hang up your fuckin’ cleats. Ain’t no point in playing football,” says Buck. Or Harold.
Harold (or Buck) cusses, spits, and blows his nose in his hand…and his boys love it. The boys’ daddies love it. The moms hate it in public, but secretly love it, too. Except for the blowing his nose in his hand part. They think that’s disgusting. But, anyway, with cussing and spitting comes manhood, virility, and true UT style.
With all this coaching and playing, the kid develops into a real player, a first-rate junior pro quarterback who leads his grade school team to three championships in their league. Film clips of the kid in action have been on TV news all season. He’s been scouted by plenty of high schools and they all want him, even the private schools.
The kid can’t miss. He’s got what it takes to make it. He’s got the arm, the know-how, the size, and the speed.
Except when he gets to high school, there are twenty-five guys exactly like him.
He can’t make the high school team as quarterback, but they try him as a halfback and he breaks his leg in the first scrimmage.
Next year he breaks the other leg trying out as a tight end, and the third year, his collarbone goes.
By his senior year, he’s washed up. His blooming career and hopes and dreams of becoming a star at UT are shot. And so are his Daddy’s dreams for him.
Sure, he’s bitter and disappointed and screwed up in the head. But there’s still hope for the kid. So he does what thousands of young UT football hopefuls with similar problems do—he becomes a faggot and goes to Vanderbilt.
Everything About Music
A Guide Through The World Of Sound
Living, as I do, in "Music City, USA", I find it almost an imperative that I help out those less fortunate than I when it comes to the World of Sound.
The Listeners:
Music Hater
Likes music at church, funerals, and between innings at ball games. Does not own, and has never thought of buying, stereo equipment or radios except for the ones that wake you up in the morning and have clocks built in that blink 12:00 every time the power goes off. Has only one radio and that’s in the car. All the buttons are set to either news stations or talk programs. Despite desperate attempts otherwise, often becomes the father or mother of a music freak.
Owns 8,000 old records, 16,000 CDs, and 20,000 MP3s. Suffers from 35 percent hearing loss in both ears. Recently purchased speakers nine feet tall. Always gets fifth row center seats for all concerts. Official Dead Head even after Jerry Garcia died. Saw Pink Floyd movie 200 times. Would sell sister into slavery for a shot at remixing "Exile On Main Street."
Music Student
“Appreciates” music. Played piano well at birth. Can whistle most great classical works. Never heard of Captain Beefheart or Talking Heads, although admits a fondness for Beatles’ Rubber Soul because of simple but interesting rhythm patterns and novel harmonic contrasts. Can maneuver in crowds with cello. Uses the college CD collection and soundproof listening booths; does not own stereo, iPod, or any CDs.
Music Collector
Never listens to any form of music. Has massive collection of records, tapes, and CDs, all wrapped in plastic, and several 2TB external hard drives full of MP3s locked in a safe. Knows the catalog numbers of every Bessie Smith seventy-eight RPM record ever recorded. Likes to chat about the “old Black Tar Moon” label, and so forth. Went on honeymoon to Nashville to hunt for copy of Kentucky Harvest Blues by Myron Glurkovitz.
The Music Lover
Cannot tell the difference between Beethoven and U2. Thinks of music as either beautiful or not beautiful. Has large stereo console in living room. Enjoys listening to General Motors demonstration CD that came with the Buick Electra. Likes Barry Manilow because he writes to his parents. Incurable hummer.
Provided as a service to those of you who have been busy getting jobs, buying homes, and raising families, and whose last album purchase was Sly and the Family Stone, here is a brief update on what’s been going on since you’ve been gone.
Starting with the Rolling Stones, they put out a raft of albums and got real old. Heavy metal got so heavy it sank. Elton John got a hair transplant, but he’s still a fairy. Joe Cocker declined considerably, surfaced briefly on movie soundtracks, and then puked on himself at a concert. Nine more Jimi Hendrix and half a million Tupac CDs came out, but they're still dead. Eric Clapton stole George Harrison’s wife, licked his drug problem, and quit drinking which proves that heroin and tequila really do make you play better. Rod Stewart turned into a huge homo. Ozzie Ozbourne scared himself really badly with some devil songs. Bob Dylan’s still around but instead of being the angry young rebel poet, he’s now the wealthy old fart with throat polyps. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young broke up but recently reunited at a Topanga Canyon Weight Watchers meeting. And that’s about it. All in all, you haven’t missed too much. In fact, all the music you would have picked up at full list price now goes for $1.99 in the bargain bin.
1. Opus in D Major for Trumpeto and Nose Horn by Sebastian Renaldi
2. Sixth Symphony After His Second Marriage by Giancometti Smaltuid.
3. March of the Dimes by Framar DuTugue
4. Suite for Two Adults and One Child for One Night by Holiday Yin.
Who Buys Classical Records?
Mrs. Anthony Golden
143 Washburn Place
Gary, Indiana
Milton Harrison
P.O. Box 243
Normoyle, Delaware
If opera is entertainment, then so is watching the cars go up and down at Midas Muffler.
Technically, opera is a play that is sung in a foreign language in voices designed to gnaw and grate on the ear and make the ass fall dead asleep.
It was originally begun as a yard sport for lunatics in sixteenth-century Italy and survives today with no changes.
Opera is to be avoided at all costs, and if you should happen to stumble onto some free tickets keep in mind that all the female stars are real fat. And while you’re not expected to be able to judge an opera by its name, keep in mind that The Battered Wife, La Serva Padrona, and Lulu are not nearly as exciting or interesting as you might think.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
On Socialism and Homer Zexyality
On the advice of my wife, I'm starting to keep my mouth shut more than normal. She tells me I'm getting older and eventually I'm going to say something somewhere and my size and physical prowess isn't going to be a deterrent to getting my ass kicked.
I figured that rather than admit this to myself, I'd blame her for my new-found ability to keep my mouth shut, but it's really not easy.
Yesterday I was in the locker room at Hermitage Fitness Center and across the room, hidden from my view, was a guy explaining all you needed to know about United States history and politics to several other guys.
His version of history, government, and politics pretty much amounted to running down anything and everything President Obama had done since he was elected. He was a Muslim terrorist, he was born in Kenya, he was ruining the country, etc., etc. etc. There's no sense in confronting someone like that because obviously his train, as they say, had already left the station, but the moment he mentioned that the president was a "liberal socialist communist," I couldn't stand it anymore.
I didn't get up and go over there, I just said, out loud, "You don't have any fucking idea what you're talking about."
And the room got very quiet.
If you know anything at all about political science and philosophy, then you know there are so many different variations of socialism and communism that there really isn't one definition where you can point to a guy and say, "He's a socialist!" And you also know that the spectrum reads, from pure liberty to pure statism, as follows: anarchism, libertarianism, constitutional republicanism, liberal democracy, welfare state democracy, social democracy, socialism, communism, and Marxism.
But if you've lived in this country for more than a year, you also know that for the most part, we get all our education or lack thereof from sound bites on television which is where this guy got his education.
And I was getting ready to offer up this little bit of knowledge to the Neanderthal because wife or no wife, 59 years old or not, I'm still stupid enough to think I can flex my muscle and win through intimidation.
But then another guy came strolling into the room. Little guy. Looked like a thin Elmer Fudd. Ex-boxer from what I could tell because he does a lot of work at the Fitness Center on the speed bag. Always has a sour look on his face and always looks like he's ready for a fight, but since I've also heard him carrying on about Jesus and church stuff I don't really know if he's a real Christian or just a Republican Christian. There is a difference.
Anyway, Neanderthal saw him and shouted out, "Well, we'll get the answer now!"
And little Elmer Fudd, who is obviously on some kind of public assistance because something's not right about him and who shouldn't be a Republican but is because...well, they all are...answered Neanderthal by saying, "He's letting them Homer Zexyals git murred!" This translates to "He's letting the homosexuals get married!" You learn these things.
Neanderthal came around the corner and I finally saw him. Normal appearing guy with a dull look on his face. He said, "I don't care about that!"
To which Elmer Fudd said, "Well, by God, I do!"
And Neanderthal said, "Hey, that just means more women for me!"
So Elmer let it go with, "Well, I guess that's right."
Neanderthal finally realized there were other people in the locker room and looked down at me. I was sitting on the bench just staring at him. Our eyes met and held for about 5 seconds before he skulked away. When he got back to his crowd he said, "Politics in the locker room!"
They all laughed and I left.
I left in a hurry, too.
I didn't want any of those Homer Zexyals trying to murry me.
I figured that rather than admit this to myself, I'd blame her for my new-found ability to keep my mouth shut, but it's really not easy.
Yesterday I was in the locker room at Hermitage Fitness Center and across the room, hidden from my view, was a guy explaining all you needed to know about United States history and politics to several other guys.
His version of history, government, and politics pretty much amounted to running down anything and everything President Obama had done since he was elected. He was a Muslim terrorist, he was born in Kenya, he was ruining the country, etc., etc. etc. There's no sense in confronting someone like that because obviously his train, as they say, had already left the station, but the moment he mentioned that the president was a "liberal socialist communist," I couldn't stand it anymore.
I didn't get up and go over there, I just said, out loud, "You don't have any fucking idea what you're talking about."
And the room got very quiet.
If you know anything at all about political science and philosophy, then you know there are so many different variations of socialism and communism that there really isn't one definition where you can point to a guy and say, "He's a socialist!" And you also know that the spectrum reads, from pure liberty to pure statism, as follows: anarchism, libertarianism, constitutional republicanism, liberal democracy, welfare state democracy, social democracy, socialism, communism, and Marxism.
But if you've lived in this country for more than a year, you also know that for the most part, we get all our education or lack thereof from sound bites on television which is where this guy got his education.
And I was getting ready to offer up this little bit of knowledge to the Neanderthal because wife or no wife, 59 years old or not, I'm still stupid enough to think I can flex my muscle and win through intimidation.
But then another guy came strolling into the room. Little guy. Looked like a thin Elmer Fudd. Ex-boxer from what I could tell because he does a lot of work at the Fitness Center on the speed bag. Always has a sour look on his face and always looks like he's ready for a fight, but since I've also heard him carrying on about Jesus and church stuff I don't really know if he's a real Christian or just a Republican Christian. There is a difference.
Anyway, Neanderthal saw him and shouted out, "Well, we'll get the answer now!"
And little Elmer Fudd, who is obviously on some kind of public assistance because something's not right about him and who shouldn't be a Republican but is because...well, they all are...answered Neanderthal by saying, "He's letting them Homer Zexyals git murred!" This translates to "He's letting the homosexuals get married!" You learn these things.
Neanderthal came around the corner and I finally saw him. Normal appearing guy with a dull look on his face. He said, "I don't care about that!"
To which Elmer Fudd said, "Well, by God, I do!"
And Neanderthal said, "Hey, that just means more women for me!"
So Elmer let it go with, "Well, I guess that's right."
Neanderthal finally realized there were other people in the locker room and looked down at me. I was sitting on the bench just staring at him. Our eyes met and held for about 5 seconds before he skulked away. When he got back to his crowd he said, "Politics in the locker room!"
They all laughed and I left.
I left in a hurry, too.
I didn't want any of those Homer Zexyals trying to murry me.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Driving With Jesus
I ended up in the right hand lane on Elm Hill Pike yesterday where it crosses Donelson Pike. It was my own fault--I should have been in the middle lane because I needed to go straight but I couldn't get over because nobody would speed up or slow down and let me in despite the fact that I had my turn signal on for half a mile.
Anyway, cars were behind me and they all wanted to turn right onto Donelson Pike. If I sat there waiting for anybody in this city to let me in, I'd still be there, so I went straight, signal still on, and waited right in the middle of the intersection for some kind soul to slow up and just give me a little space to squeeze in.
The light changed, but that didn't stop anybody--they just kept on crossing Donelson Pike. Finally, with cars blowing their horns all around me, I saw a chance to merge left and make it across Donelson Pike.
A white tricked-out pickup truck decided against that, though. He decided he'd rather run me into a concrete wall there across from Auto Zone than let me in front of him.
And as he sped past me, giving me the finger and laying on his horn, I noticed the "Fish Sign" on his tailgate.
Evidently, his wife put it there because Jesus doesn't drive like that.
Anyway, cars were behind me and they all wanted to turn right onto Donelson Pike. If I sat there waiting for anybody in this city to let me in, I'd still be there, so I went straight, signal still on, and waited right in the middle of the intersection for some kind soul to slow up and just give me a little space to squeeze in.
The light changed, but that didn't stop anybody--they just kept on crossing Donelson Pike. Finally, with cars blowing their horns all around me, I saw a chance to merge left and make it across Donelson Pike.
A white tricked-out pickup truck decided against that, though. He decided he'd rather run me into a concrete wall there across from Auto Zone than let me in front of him.
And as he sped past me, giving me the finger and laying on his horn, I noticed the "Fish Sign" on his tailgate.
Evidently, his wife put it there because Jesus doesn't drive like that.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
The Steel Plate / Orange Barrel Concessions
If anybody wanted to know how to make a fortune, the first thing I'd tell them to do is to get a piece of the steel plate or orange barrel concessions operating in Nashville.
I don't know who's got their fingers in them now, but they've got to be rolling in the chips.
There's not a single road anyplace downtown that's not lined with orange barrels. Even the ones with no construction in sight have orange barrels along the sidewalks. And half of the roads aren't roads at all--they're huge steel plates that cover up abandoned caverns dug into the streets by phantom front end loaders that show up one day and then mysteriously vanish for months.
I understand now they're getting ready to simply close down Lafayette and 8th Avenue so they can spend the next 2 years putting in a roundabout. Because the one on Music Row works so well.
The other day I read that a 2.5 million square foot ultra-modern convention center was built in Beijing. Took them 8 months. 8 months.
That hideous gaping hole at the corner of Broadway and 17th Avenue N. has been there for more than FIVE YEARS and the only actual construction done on it happens when one of the downtown crazies throw their empties over the fence. So why was that really cool-looking Masonic Lodge torn down and replaced with that hole? Who's responsible for that and why does the city let them continue to get away with it? Why hasn't the thing been condemned, taken back by the city, and sold to somebody who'd actually do something with it?
You really have to wonder about the leadership in Nashville. Where is it? How does Karl Dean get to work every morning? Do they airlift him in or does he have to drive on these same streets we have to drive on? Can he not pick up the phone and say, "Hey--fill in those craters on 17th Avenue and pave it. And don't you dig another fucking hole in another street in this city until you check with me first."
I have a theory that there's really only one construction crew in the entire city. That's why there are orange barrels and steel plates all over every single road downtown but you never see a guy with a shovel in his hand. They're always someplace else digging up something else that they don't intend to finish.
So yeah, if you want to make the big bucks, buy a million orange barrels and as many steel plates as you can afford. Call Karl Dean and tell him you found a few streets left in this burg that are practically begging for barrels and plates.
You'll be farting through silk in no time.
I don't know who's got their fingers in them now, but they've got to be rolling in the chips.
There's not a single road anyplace downtown that's not lined with orange barrels. Even the ones with no construction in sight have orange barrels along the sidewalks. And half of the roads aren't roads at all--they're huge steel plates that cover up abandoned caverns dug into the streets by phantom front end loaders that show up one day and then mysteriously vanish for months.
I understand now they're getting ready to simply close down Lafayette and 8th Avenue so they can spend the next 2 years putting in a roundabout. Because the one on Music Row works so well.
The other day I read that a 2.5 million square foot ultra-modern convention center was built in Beijing. Took them 8 months. 8 months.
That hideous gaping hole at the corner of Broadway and 17th Avenue N. has been there for more than FIVE YEARS and the only actual construction done on it happens when one of the downtown crazies throw their empties over the fence. So why was that really cool-looking Masonic Lodge torn down and replaced with that hole? Who's responsible for that and why does the city let them continue to get away with it? Why hasn't the thing been condemned, taken back by the city, and sold to somebody who'd actually do something with it?
You really have to wonder about the leadership in Nashville. Where is it? How does Karl Dean get to work every morning? Do they airlift him in or does he have to drive on these same streets we have to drive on? Can he not pick up the phone and say, "Hey--fill in those craters on 17th Avenue and pave it. And don't you dig another fucking hole in another street in this city until you check with me first."
I have a theory that there's really only one construction crew in the entire city. That's why there are orange barrels and steel plates all over every single road downtown but you never see a guy with a shovel in his hand. They're always someplace else digging up something else that they don't intend to finish.
So yeah, if you want to make the big bucks, buy a million orange barrels and as many steel plates as you can afford. Call Karl Dean and tell him you found a few streets left in this burg that are practically begging for barrels and plates.
You'll be farting through silk in no time.
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