Yeah, you should be crying, you selfish, obnoxious, useless little asshole.

This is a legally carried firearm in New Hampshire.

 

 

This is a thinly veiled death threat, against the president and pro-health care reformists, abusing a Thomas Jefferson quote:

"The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time, with the blood of patriots and tyrants." 

Shouldn't we be thanking this guy for identifying himself as the mark to zero when gunshots are fired?

 

Taking advantage of your Second Amendment rights doesn't make you a faster draw than SWAT, "patriot."

You'd think someone who believes that there are real parts of our country, as opposed to what, fake?  ...CGI? ...imaginary? parts of our country, would wield her mother tongue more respectfully.

What more obvious symbol of love of country is there than to apply American English properly?

Vanity Fair, for the win:  www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2009/07/palin-speech-edit-200907

I can understand not being able to resist close-fisting that thing in the face.  But really, next face-assaulters, take the high road:

the Open-handed Slap!

What could possibly be more condescending?  Maybe using a pair of casually gripped leather gloves.

The slap has long been the power move in situations requiring an appetizer of attention-getting aggression and a world of soul-crushing embarrassment.  Nothing says, I know it was you, Fredo, like a public slap to the face.

Plus, what cop or mountie could possibly keep a straight face while responding to a call from a hysterical twit bawling that he got slapped?  It's fun for everyone.

And the slap has to be delivered by a man.  A woman slapping a man certainly carries its own brand of haughtiness.  But taking into account that too many girls are raised to think fighting is icky, a significant portion of the female slapping demographic doesn't have anything else in its arsenal.

And that is the key.  For a man of average size and build to be able to throw a fairly powerful punch, the joy is in not using your strongest weapon against something that can't quite manage, despite its best efforts, to qualify as an actual villain.  It's the half-assed response to a half-assed character.  The slappee is nothing more than a mosquito that believes if it just works those wings, hovers in close and buzzes as loudly as it can, someone somewhere will take notice.

In the form of a big, work-calloused palm delivering a crushing blow heard and savored around the world.

I believe the kids call that the "bitchslap" without any trace of irony.

Jog on, flaps.

Perez Hilton.  Yeah, I don't get it, either.

Perez, or Mario, if you prefer to identify him by his given name, is a tool.  He's not funny, interesting, deep, clever or particularly literate.  He's pretty much the opposite of The Superficial writer -- a guy who knows how to take the piss out of celebrities and their shenanigans without finding anti-gay subtext in every conceivable media or needing to live in a circus-like spotlight to capture the fumes of other 15-minutes-of-fame fading stars.

The guy's a total prick and I hope BEP sues him for defamation of character after he tweeted that will.i.am punched him and made him bleed at a club in Toronto.  Trouble is, will.i.am didn't lay a hand on him.  Their tour manager did.  Socked him good.

Poor Mario took a shot to the head and cried all over twitter that he was bleeding and in need of police help.  Instead of just dialing 911, or whatever the Toronto equivalent, he tweeted a half dozen times and accused WIA of physical assault because he's a celebrity with mad cache whose mere name on Hilton's twitter thread would drive his feed numbers through the roof.

Fergie and WIA told Hilton to lay off.  He wouldn't.

Here's hoping Canadian court officials are as appalled at a nosy, vile, rude, fat, opportunistic, hideous stereotype as the Peas are, and let their man go with a very strict warning about the foolishness of punching whiny bitches with witnesses around.

Ku-fucking-dos.

The insanity of the Iranian presidential election theft is blowing my mind.  I'm astounded by the photos of demonstrators in the tens of thousands packing the streets chanting all kinds of death threats to Ahma-racisthomophobe and the Ayatollah--not of rock'n rolla, otherwise things would be way cooler over there.  And news reports yesterday said students from Tehran University are booking it home to their parents' houses because the Revolutionary Guard is rifling through their stuff and stealing computer memory cards, flash drives and anything that could potentially identify demonstrators.

Does the hypocrisy not crack you up so bad?  Oh, we won and because we're so confident of having won and totally not stolen the election, we're going to crash cell service, block Twitter and Facebook, arrest random moderate public figures and their wives, and bust through the college dorms at TU looking for intelligence contraband.  And least revealing of all, jailing up or shipping out the foreign press.

Ever notice how people who declare "divine assessment" are always the ones holding huge ass guns?  No, really, "God" said we could.  Um, that's why we're armed to the teeth.  To kill the dick out of anyone who would defy "God."  Not defy us, man.  God is all powerful, so nobody steps to him.  And if God said we could have it, do it, whatever, everyone will just fall into line.  Right?  I mean, isn't that why we've all agreed to be lead by a dude in a wonky hat who lives in a palace and claims to be the direct pipeline to El Capitan?

Y'know, the Pope.

Or Khamenei, Avigdor Lieberman or any other douchewad who thinks that his deity-infused judgement should be substituted for your own.

From about 1978 to 1985 I had trouble sleeping.  I didn't know what the hell the Russians' problem was, but they were keeping me up nights.  The Cold War, of which I had zero understanding, was keeping me up nights.  And some country called Afghanistan was getting beaten on for reasons I couldn't fathom.

In 1979, I remember my parents watching television in horror at seeing Iranian militants leading an American hostage with bound wrists and a cloth bag over his head to the railing of the American Embassy, presenting him to the press as a symbol of the lengths to which they'd go to get their hands on the west-loving Ayatollah, in the United States for cancer treatment as the story went.

A redneck neighbor of ours had a t-shirt of a terrible likeness of Mickey Mouse giving the finger over the words "Fuck Iran." 

That scared me to death.  Who wears a t-shirt with a curse word on it?  Who puts curse words into the mouth and hands of Mickey Mouse?  How bad must those people be that somebody had to recruit a twisted version of a most-beloved Disney character to get his foul words across.

Couldn't tell you.  I was 7 years old.  And frightened.

I watched the U.S. Olympic Hockey team take down the Soviet team in 1980.  As a hockey fan, I knew what it meant to have benched Tretiak, arguably the greatest goalie in the world.  While the U.S. team didn't win the gold until beating Finland in the finals, the victory over the Soviets was the big ticket.  It wasn't about hockey anymore, it was about knocking government egos off their pedestals and destroying something a country held dear.

By '85, I'd officially snapped.  I went to school, played sports and did homework like every other kid, but when I was alone I was convinced it was only a matter of time til we were all vaporized in a war that was so obviously coming. On a ski trip to Colorado with my family, I mouthed the words to Sting's Russians over and over.  My Walkman had warped the tape by the time we left.   "Mr. Khruschev said, 'We will bury you'" became a hypnotic mantra for me.  I'd lull myself into fitful sleep with those words and wake up convinced a part of the U.S. had been levelled by Russian bombs while I slept.

So I was wrong.  At the time, the threat seemed so real.  The part when my house, in particular, would be turned into flames and rubble.  I liken my response to the fear as practically the same irrational horseshit neocon hate-vendors in this country capitalize on in adults to try and keep garbage like waterboarding part of our war arsenal.

Fear is awesome.  If you are a total cock whose power and wealth depend on keeping idiots paralyzed with terror, it's your best friend.  I was 13 the last time I fell for that shit.  I'm not saying the Cold War wasn't real, but that is the last time I let the words and threats of politicians scare me into submission.

Doesn't look like moderates in Iran are falling for it either, and those poor bastards are getting shot at..

Seven dead, murdered in cold blood not by the Revolutionary Guard, but Revolutionary Guard volunteer militia members.  Can't get much creepier than firing live rounds into crowds of rock throwers, can it?  I mean aside from ransacking college kids' rooms, disseminating false statements from Mousavi, and claiming that Ahmadinejad won 60% of the vote in each of the opposition's home towns.

 

Hang in there, people.  I think he's a lying, stealing, cheating piece of murderous shit, too.  And you deserve better.

If you haven't read it, check out the statement released by the son of the Holocaust Museum shooter: abcnews.go.com/US/story

I can't imagine what it must feel like for it to be a foregone conclusion in a child's head that his father is a complete and utter piece of shit.  Not like, Sometimes he's OK, sometimes not.  But flat out, Dad is a piece of shit, why won't he just die, god I'm embarrassed to be related to that fucking shinebox.

How weird that must be.

But nowhere near as planet bizarro in-fucking-sane as it must be to sit down and write a public letter of apology to the family of the man your father murdered.

How do you even proceed?  I'm thinking Google: racist + sexist + Jesus freak + museum shooting + ass clown, or some variation on that, and see what comes up.  Maybe there's a Hollywood screenplay addressing a similar topic that you could use as makeshift instructions for surviving your dad being a Jew-hating, murderous, uneducated knot of unwashed ass hair.

I don't know.  And I am 100% sure I'll never know because my Dad would consider it highly uncool to stage any kind of shootout around innocent people and priceless artifacts.  Killing is the pussy play for people too weak to think.  Fucking up ancient cultural relics in the mix is just low class.

But for me, the weirdest thing to have come out of this idiotic and pointless murder and subsequent letter is the reminder.  The clear-as-day declaration of Erik the son's iron stand against his father and for which everything said POS stands. 

That's right.  Every so often, a racist, sexist, religious bigot begets children who run in the opposite direction of his footsteps.  There are legions of kids out there who hang their heads in shame at their parents' proud strut in their Klanware and torches.  Kids doubled over with stomach cramps after hearing dad after a few beers yell across the street for your Asian neighbors to turn off their chinky music.  And the zillions of kids cringing at the tirades of their hard-werkin' Amurrican parents who hate them Jews for done controllin' the bankin' industry.

Oh, Larry the Cable Guy.  Where is your wisdom now that we need it most, Daniel Lawrence Whitney of the affected redneck twang and purity of heart?  Surely you will tell your ocean of followers that trying to fuck up octogenarian tourists and random school children in a museum dedicated to a group who has survived more hate per capita than any since the Native Americans is mighty wrong.  Surely.

And Sarah Palin, you beacon of understanding and deep thinking.  Won't you shed a little mercy on the "entire American" public and call off your minions of "real America" before they act out their very real racial hate attacks honed in the crowds of your stump speeches?

Perhaps I worship false idols.  I do that, y'know.  I'm agnostic.  The closest I get to genuflecting is trying to hold the chair pose in yoga.

As far as Sorry My Dad Killed Your Son and Your Husband letters go, Erik von Brunn's is real.  If his father played any part in making Erik a man, it was by showing him who not to be.  Because when your family can sustain a blow like your dad turning out to be a murderer, and you turn and face the family of his victim with dignity, respect and all the power of remorse you can muster, you're quite a thing.

 

Peace to the family of Stephen Tyrone Johns.

And peace to Erik von Brunn.

1.)  What dumb Bangkok hooker let Caine strangle? 

People look at me like I'm some kind of mental case for carrying a pocket knife. 

Know what's never happened on my watch?  Somebody dying from a length of rope around his neck.  'Cause I'd take the three seconds necessary to cut it free.

I've never been on a boat crippled by lobster pot lines for the same reason.

Good job, as-yet-undiscovered whore.  Way to kill my favorite tv kicker of asses, righter of wrongs, and brewer of healing teas.

 

2.)  Remember the rules to V-neck weather.

I don't wear V-necks in cool weather 'cause I get cold easily.  Spring and summer are V-neck seasons.  And I always forget, until I see "the look," that your movement under less casual circumstances cannot include bending all willy nilly like your shit's covered with a crew neck.

Boob ya.

 

3.)  Great article on Slate about a Harvard study done on Twitter participant statistics.  Namely that 60% of users tweet once and bail.

Hooray for quitters like me!

 

4.)  Can we agree that neither a balloon nor a zeppelin made of lunchmeat could rise off the ground with a hippy riding sidecar?

That commercial is seriously offputting.  I think it's the cartoon beard.  Ick.

 

5.)  David Tennant is awesome.

 

6.)  Seasonal Bug Bite Count as of Monday, 8 June 2009:

2 - tick

1- deer tick

0 - bull's eye

7 - spider

cluster -- no-see-ums

 

7.)  Enjoying the complete and utter lack of irony that following Dr. George Tiller's murder, local cable channels run The Cider House Rules.

 

 

Whoopee!  Monday!!

Don't name them after perpetrators of genocide.

The fact that that never occurred to Heath and Debra -- the Jersey white trash poster children of poor kid-naming -- kinda screams "take our kids away," no?

Nobody gives a shit when you can pack a good school lunch if you name your kid after the architect of the Holocaust.

Stranger still, to me at least, is why the parents continue to deny they're neo-Nazis or white supremacists.  I mean, you name your kid with words of precious meaning to you.  Don't you?

So, wouldn't that make your daughter, Aryan Nation, in some measure a tribute to something you hold dear?  Like white people killing the dick out of everybody who can't be framed by the same milquetoast retardation in which you joyfully tread?

Hush.  You're fools, you made it obvious.  And if you're whining now that the attention you so desperately sought by hanging such ugly words around your children's necks is not working in your favor, too bad.

While other people step up and raise your kids, why not do something crazy like see a barber and a dentist in the downtime.  Nobody's mistaking your raggedy hair and receding gums as shabby chic.  Face it, you deserve to lose those kids and they will excel and succeed as soon as they get away from you.

And if you really are any kind of parent, you'll let them go.