mardi, mai 27, 2008

Top 10 Come-on Lines, (or, Scott K. Namanny in Hot Pants)

Sure I've been known to wear pants made for women from time to time, baby. But only because they cradled the buttocks just right and stretched like a dream for my patented ninja kicks. No, I'm not a black belt. But only because they don't make belts for the super secret, highly controversial Kung-Fu I studied.

These hype pants claim to have been made for a woman, but after seeing me bend over suggestively to pick up the piece of paper, or something, which I may or may not have dropped on purpose, I know what you'll be thinking: those pants were made for him, and he was made for those pants.

I'm gonna dance real smooth, sidling up to you so subtly that you'll think we've been dancing together all night. Yeah. And when you can't take your eyes off the South, I won't be gauche. I won't point to my eyes and say anything like: "I'm up here, girlfriend." No. I'll simply grab hold of your mind with my silky come-ons.

Which may include but will not be limited to something like the following.

*Baby, if we hook up we can share these pants.

*Just so you don't think this is all about looks, let me just assure you: you're so hot I don't even care if you're stupid.

*Your make-up looks even better up close. But don't think you didn't look equally hot in my high powered binoculars.

*Take it easy on me. I haven't been in love with a woman among the living since high school.

*Kiss me quick! I just made accidental eye contact with a fat chick, and I don't want her to get any ideas.

*Don't speak. For some moments in life, there are no words beyond mine.

*I never thought I'd meet someone like you--and I'm not just saying that. Because, having never met you before, and knowing almost nothing about you, I honestly have no idea what you're really like and technically can't conceive of something totally unknown to me. You understand.

*[insert hair color here] is my favorite shade of sexy. [POW!]

*I'm not really this tall, I'm wearing heels.

*Are you as hot as I think, or have I been married so long that I'm just attracted to anyone with a jaw line?

Don't worry baby, I won't take your total lack of anything resembling resistance to mean that you're slutty or anything.

lundi, mai 26, 2008

Everybody Wants the Nazi

My good friend, Internet and comedy sensation Keith Lowell Jensen (who's Coexist Comedy Tour--Google it!--is sweeping the nation) is rather fond of using Hitler's defunct political juggernaut to make his point that religious people are without exception dangerous, brainless (or brainwashed) maniacs who must be rounded up and exterminated. He says (on his blog, in his movie, in his book--all of which I highly recommend--Google them!) that religion is what facilitated, encouraged, and generally inspired the Nazi atrocities. Without religious types, he implies with his inimitable (and genuinely infectious) enthusiasm, there may have been no holocaust, and there would certainly have been a greater abundance of religious Jewish people for him to mock and deride.

I thought his argument might be a little unfair, but it always gets a good cheer from a crowd of downtown hipsters, so I never thought of blogging about it. And really, I've talked about it with Keith and he has a heart of gold the size of Alaska. Finally, as everyone knows, I prefer to spend my blogging time making fun of fat people (come to think of it, why couldn't Hitler have--holy crap. Please forget I almost thought that.)

Then one night at work, I'm randomly clicking through sundry blogs and Youtube garbage (as I am unfortunately wont to do), and come across some mad (in both senses of the word) right-wing-preacher-freak's indictment of atheists, wherein he actually uses a version of what we were all starting to think of as the Keith Lowell Jensen Postulate. According to this man (and, we may assume, his ilk) the Nazis and their Holocaust were made possible by Godlessness--by the squelching of religion. His face was no doubt redder, but in a completely neutral rhetorical examination, his argument was AT LEAST as compelling as Keith's. And he actually cited evidence beyond the punchline.

But I still wasn't going to write about it here.

Then, that same morning, whether by complete random chance (Keith's very plausible explanation) or under the direction of some higher power or unity or harmonic convergence (the Dalai Lama's explanation), I was driving home, and two guys on the radio are expounding The Godwin Rule. This has, unbeknownst to me, been around since the mid-nineties, as chat rooms expanded exponentially, and people from all over began discussing "issues."

The Godwin Rule stipulates that in any discussion, debate, or argument, on any subject, the first person to bring up the Nazis LOSES IMMEDIATELY.

I thought: Beautiful! (I mean, we kind of already knew that--but it's beautiful.) Because it means that when Rush Limbaugh calls radical feminists "Feminazis," he has given the argument to the opposition, (thereby erasing whatever chance he may have had to make a point about the abhorrent nature of strident political activism! Thanks for nothing, Fatso!) Because it means that when people justify war as a concept, they have to do it purely philosophically, without the Hitler Crutch. Because it means that when a crowd of downtown hitlers--I mean, hipsters--huzzah the belittling, demeaning, and stereotyping of a diversified group of good hearted individuals, they are cheering the demise of their own half brained point of view.

So on the one hand: Let us at last put the Nazi to bed as a rhetorical device.
On the other: Keep up, dummies! The world could use a little simplification.

mardi, mai 20, 2008


It will not come as a surprise to anyone who has any idea what they are talking about that evolution, though still relegated to the status of a theory (as opposed to a law, such as the laws of thermodynamics, which state that all systems of matter always progress from a more to a less organized state), nevertheless exhibits several incontrovertible claims. Such as diversification within a species though adaptation, as evidenced by Darwin's finches. Such as the unpleasant--and undeniable--economic malaise caused by the foolishness of preserving people like diabetics, cancer "survivors," the mentally challenged, and other people Nature is trying desperately to select out of the gene pool. Such as the possibility, explored and proven beyond any doubt in illustrated literature and film, that someday a beneficial genetic mutation will occur (you honestly cannot argue with possibility, unless it is the possibility that there might be a God.)
I believe we are at present observing just such a mutation. In numbers that not even Science could have predicted, an entire generation of humans has been born with an inexplicable mutation in their breathing apparatus. For reasons that Nature will no doubt explain to us later, teenagers have evolved to breathe through their butt cracks. Unfortunately, the oppressive bounds of what the rest of haughtily refer to as good taste forced them into near suffocation for years. But today, though many continue to suffer, the majority, perhaps inspired by the mythical mutant pride of Charles Xavier's X-Men, have boldly lowered their pants and are breathing freely.
Now, before you make what seems to be the natural jump of using this undeniable and easily observed mutation as proof that there is no God, consider for a moment that no belief system that relies on proving another belief system wrong can possibly be right. A teenager walking around with his/her pants halfway down the butt-crack is merely a piece of a larger puzzle, a missing link, if you will, in the unfolding tapestry of human evolution.

What's next? Only several billion more years of careful observations will tell.

lundi, mai 12, 2008

the more things change . . . (nambla through the ages)

Ancient Greece: "He'll do. Oh yes, he'll do quite nicely."

Medieval Europe: "Just don't tell His Holiness the Pope. Oh wait, I am the Pope."

Victorian England: "This is the love that dare not speak its name."

WWII: "Do you ever think you like girls just 'cause yer supposed ta?"

Backwoods, circa 1975: "You got a real pretty mouth." (beating to follow)

Mid 80's: (through lipstick and eyeshadow) "Girls, girls, girls!"

Today: Boys. Boys! Where are the boys? (all hail Wienbach!)

Tomorrow: We have rights like everyone else. It's just another sexual preference. Thank you for lowering the age of consent!

dimanche, mai 11, 2008

Perfect Evening

Let's make one thing very clear: the perfect evening would obviously involve transportation to a parallel dimension where intimate relations with multiple hot hot Hollywood starlets would be a) possible; and b) free of any moral quandaries. And where eating copious amounts of sushi was a) affordable; and b) free of any dietary quandaries.

Until such is possible (or until I am transported to the parallel dimension where I am mature enough not to fantasize about scenarios as ridiculous as they are reprehensible) the following perfect evening is hereby proposed:

Meeting at a friend's house for Boggle (or Scrabble) with the people I love, with moderate amounts of Sushi (and/or a fine cheese on crackers, or fine dark chocolate). And then, instead of work, home to sleep in my own bed with my delicious wife.

If you're thinking you can top this, then you have never a) played word games with my friends; or b) slept with my wife. In which case you have no way of knowing and should excuse yourself from the debate permanently, given that you are a) never going to sleep with my wife; and b) not invited to our word games.

jeudi, mai 08, 2008


Iron Man--Still bearing the scars of Daredevil, and after the debacle that was Spiderman III, I was leery, and weary, of comic book superhero movies. But I did not hate Iron Man. Maybe it was the cast (Robert Downey Jr. has never disappointed me, and everyone else is on my list of favorite Hollywoodians), and maybe it was that my expectations had been lowered to such an extreme that anything passable would have been a pleasant surprise, but I walked out of there with that old "money well spent" feeling, which I haven't had for a summer fluff movie since the first Pirates of the Caribbean.
PS. If you hated the movie, don't bother commenting. I'm not interested in disputes over summer blockbusters, which either suck or don't. That's it. If you like the ones that suck (e.g. the so-bad-I-wanted-to-strangle-Johnny-Depp-with-his-damn-dreads sequels to the aforementioned Pirates movie), then you suck--but who cares? They're fluff! However, if you think they suck because of what they are (see fluff) then you suck even more, because pretension is worse than bad taste.

Carbon Credits--If you've been fooled into thinking these indulgences from the Holy Mother Church of Mindless Overwrought Guilt Ridden Environmental Activism are somehow OK, then you need to do a little research into where the funds go and what actual good they, in fact, do. (Careful though, you might end up hating Pope Gore just a little bit, just like I did when I researched--hoping, in fact, to bolster the claims in his infamous power point presentation . . . suffice it to say there were facts to the contrary). If you have, in fact, purchased a carbon credit or two, then all that can be said is: at least your overwrought, guilt ridden conscience won't bother you in activist hell, where you will be forced to debate the netherworldly warming trend with the opposite (though equally idiotic) types who spent the last decade arguing that our lifestyle doesn't have to change because our contribution to undeniable terrestrial warming was, in fact, scientifically negligible. Good luck winning that debate with the "I didn't have to change, I PURCHASED forgiveness from Mother Earth" argument.

Election Fatigue--a friend of mine called and reported that he was, at long last, tired of the election coverage. Forget the fact that his nick-name is "Mr. Attention Span." He was right. This election coverage has been over the top for what feels like an eternity. What with everyone so desperate to get onto the next disappointing regime and all. But I firmly believe that anything designed to test the dwindling national attention span is a good thing. Challenge people to pay attention. Or maybe not: I already have election fatigue fatigue.

Nougat--what is it? I know this sounds like a bad comedy bit from the eighties. But what is that stuff? A frustrated candy bar advocate tried to tell me it was whipped sugar and butter. But that can't be right. Man, I HATE candy bars. Almost all of them, but the popular ones in especial. Snickers, Milky Way, Baby Ruth, ALL OF THEM. Holy Crap they are bad. Disgusting blobs of sugary goo, sometimes accented by stale crunchy crud, all covered in the cheapest excuse for chocolate they could scrape off the works. An occasional Kitt-Katt I can understand, because people wouldn't flee from it screaming if you threw it in a pool. But otherwise, give me solid, unfettered, DARK chocolate. You might say I like my chocolate like I like my women: Solid, dark, and on the edge of bitterness.

See you next time. I have to stop now or this Jumble will go on forever.

mardi, mai 06, 2008

warning: serious

I'm calling out Dave Brown. In case he ever googles himself, this might come up, and he can hear what should have been said--save for the fact that when you work for the government in a facility, (as you observe whiners, complainers and dullards who make the work environment an absolute hell, and bitter washed up people who seem desperate to show us all that there is something worse than hell), keeping the peace becomes the priority. Once again pushing Honesty into the back seat.

So David Brown, I hope you read this one day, and take in the loving spirit it was intended.

There we were in the office one morning. Dave Brown comes in and, once the snob coffee is either in the works or in his hand, is ready to start the day, which he spends as one of the county's finer social workers. I mean that. He's good, he cares about the clients. I respect him and usually enjoy his company.
He has spent the last few weeks praising the work ethic and general skills of a certain female co-worker, who just joined the ranks. He had made a point, it seemed, to point out the exceptional performance of this dedicated woman, who was a full time mom until recently when she decided her kids were old enough for her to go to work part time. In fact, everyone on staff has spent the last few weeks doing the same thing. This woman is good and she is in demand. Everyone wants her on their shift.
On this particular morning, however, shift change included something that might have surprised someone new to the field, and had indeed been a new experience for the woman in question. Dave got inexplicably smug.

"Boy, she's getting a real education here, isn't she?" I didn't quite know what he meant, and so I simply smiled. "I mean, her biggest concern before was [here he adopted a mocking falsetto] 'Oh, I burned the muffins!'"

At this point, I had four options:

1) Punch him in the face.

2) Pretend he never said it and fall back on his long history of NOT sticking his foot so far down his throat that everyone in the room gags.

3) Pause, and squint upwards as if contemplating the mountain of condescension from which he was delivering his small minded screed, and then, in a calm deliberate tone, say: I want you to listen close, because I'm only going to say this once. The person of whom you speak has spent the best years of her life dedicated to the world's most important, and most difficult profession. The very reason she is so good at her work here, is because of her dedication to her work as a full time mother. Her job here is NOT an education. It is, by comparison, so inconsequential as to be laughable. Although I can see how you might miss that, since you don't have children. To be sure, this job has some rewarding aspects, but compared to an effective, loving, full time parent, a social worker of any ilk is a pointless, lazy, grumbling, pencil pushing pack mule. So you can take your nose out of the air, and shove your sneering, leftist, childless beuraucrat condescension deep into the orifice from which you seem to think the sun shines. In other words, I love you but SHUT UP.

4) Remain in silence and save the little speech for this most useless of fora.

vendredi, mai 02, 2008


One of the most efficient ways to pay yourself a gross disservice is to set yourself up, in the blogosphere or anywhere else, as a funny person, or worse, gloss yourself as insightful. The best results are from mere honesty. Just be honest. It really is our only hope.

The problem for some--and by some I mean me--is that honesty does not come easy. Because we are, deep in the heart of our bottom, horrible people. Cruel, judgmental, acerbic, ultrasexual obsessive compulsive, passive aggressive jerks. There isn't a positive gloss to slather over that particular set of traits. So it just doesn't occur, as often as it should, to simply speak the simple truth.

Like at my good friend K-Diggity's birthday party. There was drunkenness, and I don't drink, so I started to get that old high school feeling. The one I got when I realized that M*A*S*H, (the show to which I had dedicated my early years), had betrayed me. Because of the 4077th's flashy, hilarious portrayal of drinking people (who I had only ever seen on TV), I was ill prepared for the rather off-putting realization that drunk people are, in fact, loud, obnoxious, sloppily affectionate blowhards. By the time the bacchanal migrated to the backyard pool, I was on the couch playing a hand held Yahtzee game. (Supplemental honesty: this is what a huge nerd I am. No matter what the occasion, my fervent hope is that a word game will break out.)

So there I was on the couch, when chatter on the deck indicated that the pool contingent had exercised the Naked Option. Being on the verge of a large straight, I was content to listen to the commentary of the deck observers. Did I mention this was K-Diggity's 40th birthday? It therefore rankled one of the middle aged women present when birthday girl exited the pool in her birthday suit. "Just look at her little 20 year-old body. Don't you just hate her?" It was one of those catty, back handed insult/compliments that women pay each other every day. I've learned, like everyone else who wants to retain their sanity, to tune out that crap. But she chose to repeat the comment, almost as if she wanted someone to respond. I'd had enough: the bile rose to the top of my throat; I put down the game and prepared to give into the urge to charge out onto the deck, point my honest finger into her displayed, artificially tanned cleavage and say:

"You can shut your fat middle aged mouth. You act like she woke up one day and found that body in her closet, or won it in some raffle. You know what? She works hard. She mountain bikes twice a week. She runs. She goes to the gym. She watches what she eats. If you have to comment, why not just admit to how jealous you are, or lament how your sloth and the subsequent fat on your hips depresses you, or better yet, congratulate her for the way her HARD WORK has paid off and emulate her example? It's either that or shut it, Chubby. Because I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE!"

I was so close. But in the end, I was too cowardly, too entrenched in the old high school exclusion-by-sobriety, to muster up the honesty. I realize now that my silence constituted tacit approval of her comments.

Sorry everybody. I know honesty is the best policy. I'm working on it.