Tuesday, February 24, 2009

No Reason At All

I was enjoying my copy A People’s History of the United States when I read an excerpt of an excerpt from a popular 1700s “pocket book” and suddenly enjoyed it more. It was a guideline for the subjugation of women called Advice to a Daughter, and it reads as follows:

"You must first lay it down for a Foundation in general, That there is Inequality in Sexes and that for the better Oeconomy of the World; the Men, who were to be the Law-givers, had the larger share of Reason bestow’d upon them; by which means your Sex is better prepar’d for the Compliance that is necessary for the performance of those Duties which seem’d to be most properly assign’d to it...Your Sex wanteth our Reason for your Conduct, and our Strength for your Protection: Ours wanteth your Gentleness to soften, and to entertain us."

Folks, what’s happened to our colonial values? I mean, we were nearly stuck with a woman president for Heaven’s sake. What ever would my superior sex have done when for 84 days of the year (give or take viscosity) our “larger share of Reason” became evident? What if she had, for “wanteth [of] our Reason,” turned to a man like Ahmad Dinejad for “Conduct”? She could have brought the entire free market to its knees! And where would we be then? Without the greater reasoning of men, people would lose their jobs and homes and savings and hopes and dreams. Banks would fail because it’s reasonable to stop lending when people have good credit, just like it’s reasonable to lend when people don’t have good credit. In a woman’s adorable hands, headless wars would be fought into consecutive quagmires and trillions of taxpayer dollars would be pulverized and perfumed into hair products before being rejected and shipped as MMR vaccinations to Third World countries. This could still happen, people because that’s the path this country has taken since ignoring the wisdom of Advice to a Daughter. I know this because I'm a man, and I reasoned my way through it.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Capitol Concern

Folks, here's all 407 pages of wonderfully unread American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009. I'm in the slow process of reading it, but to be honest, I'd rather be mauled by a chimpanzee. It's boring. It's also obviously wasteful, and if half the idiots we call Representatives had taken the time to read it and actually vote based on what they think is best for their constituency and not their ridiculous party affiliation, perhaps, I wouldn't be bitching right now. Of course I'm generalizing as I haven't read even remotely close to the whole thing, but anyone who devotes even half the brain power that I did will see the potential for excessive pet spending. Don't mistake this posting as a hail to the Grand Old Party. The GOP's just as stupid as the Democrats for stonewalling the whole thing.

On an impressive note, you can see Obama's mug on recovery.gov and track spending on the stimulus package. I hope that's actually true. Right now, it's just simple graphs that wave billions of dollars in general directions, but it promises to detail every aspect of our tax dinero once said money starts burning. We shall see. Meanwhile, I'll continue to hate enough for all of us.

The only reason I'm even troubling my precious heart over this thing is because for the first time in most of our lives, our system of government, our way of life, is on the verge of total collapse (think the Soviet Union), and if you think things are bad now, wait until Americans begin starving to death.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Die octuplets. Problem solved.

Dear Campbell,

I caught a bit of your show, "No Bias, No Bull," tonight, and since I haven’t written you in a while, I thought I’d do that. I’ve gotta say, Cam, you’re looking rather mammothy these days, especially in that brown sweater you had sagging around your necks. Now before you get all weepy on me, understand this is tough love, I assure you. I have no desire to upset a woman of your magnitude. I only wish for a little resistance if I were to, say, push your mid section with a probing finger or graphite pencil.

On a brighter note, you’re no longer competing with Rachel Maddow for my affections. Between her and Keith Olbermann, MSNBC has turned so far to the left that it’s caught up with its own backside and corked its head right into its retentive asshole. Now that network irritates me almost as much as Fox News. But to be fair, all the major news networks make me want to raise my TV into the air and, with surrendered tranquility, smash it down on my own head whenever I see “news” coverage of that freak in California who had a litter of bastard children. But I digress. Bottom line, put down the Snickers bar, Campbell, and be my sexy MILF again. I beg you.

 At arm’s length,


Friday, February 13, 2009


Whenever I post something on here, it's usually viewed as it is on the first page, and then forgotten into my archives, usually. My Dejeuner du matin vs. Breakfast posting is the sole exception. That one has been linked to by so many people from around the world (Germany is a big one for some reason), that it’s one of the first four listings on Google when the phrase "Dejeuner du matin translation" is searched. I take a small pride in that, but my little pride quickly turns to self deprecation for standing on the shoulders of geniuses and analyzing their enduring literature instead of effectively producing my own (even "standing on the shoulders of geniuses" is lifted from Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park *sob*). But taking elements from many and assembling them into my own monster is a crafty thing called innovation, right? Regardless, I intend on digging around some old school notes I have, both French and English, and posting my conclusions, so I'll enjoy the same small celebration I experienced when I received the following message earlier this week:

Subject: I'm using your translation for French class...

"...just to let you know. I had to have two English translations of an original French bit--poem or prose paragraph--and I settled on "Dejeuner du Matin" by Prevert. I'm using the Ferlinghetti for the other. I credited you, so your name will be spoken about tomorrow in my graduate translation workshop. I don't even know who you are! I think these "internets" are really going to catch on! Thank you!

--Emily in Arkansas"

Thank you, Emily in Arkansas.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009


So, because I'm a glutton for misery, I've been considering developing a new situation comedy, aka sitcom, with Roger. Unlike some of my other writing projects (I'd like to reiterate "some" because some of them are pretty damn good), this one has serious commercial potential. I won't go into great detail 'cause it's a very innovative concept, and I'd rather not get ahead of myself, but trust me, folks, it's a good one. The only problem is its potential to to turn to shit in my beautiful, and Roger's stumpy sausage, fingers. How might it change into greasy stool, you ask? Well first, I'm the only one writing. Roger, the great articulator, spins a fine yarn but only aloud and only after gargling a quart of Turkey 101, the second way this might turn to shit. While I enjoy a fine American spirit, Roger's creative conditions require its constant consumption, and I can't do that all the time, or I'll become what my childhood loteria cards called "El Borracho." But admittedly, our best ideas are birthed and recorded between hoppy belches and gut-holding hysteria. That's the only time we both become excessive small talkers, busy bees, if you will of base and socially foul subject matter, which leads me to my most troubling concern. The theme of this golden goose is something I am wholly unfamiliar with. Roger, on the other hand, is a sound expert. His primitive brain is an uncharted paradise of information that is ripe for exploitation, but filling my literary picnic basket with his golden apples will, I foresee, be a challenge.

Chris, don't try guessing.
Roger, don't tell people.

Monday, February 9, 2009

A Blagorious New Feature

I would like to take a short moment to introduce you, my adoring readership, to the amazing new widget I’ve added to this blagorious (*something so gloriously ridiculous that it reaches beauty) blog. It’s an excessive listing of labels, and it’s located directly beneath my profile picture. For those of you anonymous maniacs who check my blog 30-300 times a day (you know who you are...and I love you) and find no new postings, you now have the wonderful opportunity to peruse my labels and read old posts. Do it.

*Ripped off from a comedic guest on MSNBC, who commented on Rod Blagojevich’s appearance on The Late Show. It was, in fact, blagorious.

Friday, February 6, 2009

Wednesday Night Trouble

I was on my way to Roger’s last Wednesday night with a DVD and a comic book to barter for illegal things when my car stopped working at the intersection of Great Hills and Research. I cried out as I depressed the car’s hazard button and set its lights to flashing yellow. Roger eventually showed up, smiling a broad unaffected grin and blinking hurricane eyes with the black centers dilated to dinner plates. He left to bring me gasoline, and then we left together to buy oil, and then he left when cops came, and then he came back with jumper cables when the cops left. Good man.
It’s the cops I mostly want to talk about. Roger’s 5-0 radar, honed by juvenile and adult delinquencies, had blipped three times with each slow squad car pass, and on the fourth, it roared with urgency as the first cruiser dazzled its blue and red lights and u-turned into oncoming traffic. He was a young militaristic fellow, this cop. Very procedural, not rude but not friendly either. All the same, the contents of my front pants pocket heated and seemed to shine in such proximity to an APD shield, and as the cop ran my license and plate numbers, I casually thanked and dismissed Roger from the scene, so he wouldn’t be ticketed for his expired tags or for being publically intoxicated.
“What were you going to do?” asked Mr. Policeman.
“Well, officer, the plan was to sit here until my car worked again,” said I.
His face twitched with conflict, and he offered to push my car with his when another cruiser arrived to block traffic. I agreed, and Roger screeched away as the second policeman arrived. He turned out to be a 5’ nothin’ chica with a tight bun and wide smile that revealed a mouthful of metal wires and rubber bands squeezing her promiscuous teeth closer together. She quickly pointed out that my bumper would damage both cars, so together, they flashed their blues and reds again, reversed about 100 feet away, trotted back, and hunched over the front of my car to push it into the Truluck’s parking lot. As they bobbed over the hood of my car, I enjoyed a brief notion that they were inverted slaves, more dangerous than their master, using the opposites of inertia to pull my coach the opposite of forward, and I, the signer of their checks, wickedly controlled the direction of their energies. The woman vanished before I could thank her, and when I stepped like royalty from my carriage, the man was trying hard to stand straight and control his breathing, but his exertion forced him to lean on his knees and gasp for air. Between breaths, he smiled for what I can only assume was his small athletic feat and the good Samaritanness that disrupted his regular patrol. I shook his hand with gushing gratitude and silently praised Allah, baby Jesus, and the Jewish one that I didn’t have any outstanding deviations that would have required a pat down and cuff-clinking restraint. He left.
Roger materialized as though he’d been watching behind a safe and shrubby cover, and we connected our automobiles by their positively and negatively charged nipples and gave up when the battery was clearly not the issue. He drove me home, and I lost myself in an eventual cloud of wonder over the History Channel’s blissfully distracting study of the Sun.
Thank you, Roger. Thank you, policeman and policewoman.

On a completely irrelevant note, I’m tagging “The Wife of Bath’s Tale” in the posting. If anyone knows why, I’ll offer you my intellectual respect...but nothing more.

Oh, yeah, and my fuel pump was shot, for anyone interested.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

You Talking To Me?

So, because of my last posting, I decided to watch Taxi Driver again. I saw it about 10 years ago, before I was filled with contempt for humanity, and it didn’t impress me too much. As an adult, mostly disgusted with the amoral majority of Earth’s most successful primate, I found the movie to be brilliant. The fact that I can identify with the tragic antihero of the film doesn’t say a hell of a lot of constructive things about my disposition, but I’ve cultivated and condensed my attitude into a sticky dystopian venom that, I believe, I will one day be able to actually spit at degenerate idiots. I know this is counter to my January 22nd posting about rainbows and lollipops, but I am what I am.
I do feel it relevant to admit that while I think people would eat each other if given the chance, there are genuinely good people around. Two such examples are my friends Heather and Beth. I haven’t seen or spoken to either of them in almost two years, but due to the magic of social networking, their unfaltering cheer and optimism have, on more than a few occasions, squeezed a smile from my perpetual scowl. I like believing people are happy and not just pretending for the sake of their own sanity. And, I believe them. Another example is my angelic girlfriend, Gilda (pronounced Hilda). In short, while everything bothers me, nothing bothers her, and in the face of my railing negativity toward all things, her heavily accented response is always a final, “Shut up, pumpkin,” and I love her for that.
I guess things could be worse. I could drive a taxi, stalk Cybil Sheppard (something I was planning on doing anyway), or arm myself to the gills and attempt political assassination. I won’t though. I’m too snooty to drive a cab, and I'm not that interested in politics.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Gay or Nay: that is the question

Since the beginning of this semester, I’ve noticed a big Marine-looking student eyeballing me with sex in his eyes. At first, I thought he was just an observant kid who was caught staring by another observer. Then, I concluded that he was an imposingly large gay man. Last Friday, he needed help with Comp. I, and I was like, “Hey, dude, you see this beard? I’m totally about boobies,” internally of course. But by the end of our session, I had revised my earlier homo-hypothesis and decided he was just studious and nervous about asking for help; that is until he asked for my phone number "in case he had a question" over the weekend. Now, I can understand wanting to get to know someone, but to sneak in my defense through the back door, so to speak, offends me. That’s like saying, “Can I get your number in case I need someone to talk me out of suicide this weekend? Maybe I’m lying, but maybe I need your help.” I was so completely sure of his heterosexually that his abrupt request left me responding with a long “uuuuuuuuhhhhhhh…” as I tried to figure a reason to say no. He turned red, averted his eyes and started to blubber understanding as I grumbled guiltily. If you don’t know shit and are under deadline, you panic and ask men for their phone numbers, right? So I gave him mine and sternly told him not to call me unless he had no other choice. Poor kid. I wouldn’t have minded giving a fiery tranny my number if I truly thought s/he really needed help, but as I said, this fellow was much bigger and musclier than me, and he seemed very insecure and unsure of himself. Those elements combine to create danger (think Taxi Driver), and I don’t like such unpredictability in potential stalking rapists. I prefer knowing exactly what kind of situation I’ve unwittingly bunny-hopped into. Gilda’s machinegun laughter filled my ear when I called her after work and expressed my immediate regret and irrational worry.

For those of you shrugging off this story as homophobia, here is my pathetic* retort:
Ladies, imagine the largest, most awkward man who’s ever advanced himself upon you. Now, think of his advance, Ted Bundy style. Maybe his leg really is gimpy, and he needs your help carrying his books into his windowless van. Or, maybe he just wants to rape and kill you. You’ll never know until he calls you on Saturday for help in his composition class.
Gentlemen, imagine the same thing.

*Aristotle’s persuasive “pathos,” not “pathetic pity”
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