politcally irresponsible

In case you have nothing to do this afternoon, here’s the Logo Channel Saturday afternoon lineup. The ellipses are from the website.

My Mums Used to Be Men. Meet Louise, the 12-year old daughter of two transgender parents living in Great Britain. When Louise finds herself the subject of media frenzy surrounding her parents' lifestyle, she decides to reach out to families that are constructed similarly to her own. After meeting a boy named Jamie and a transgender mother named Claire, Louise feels less... (So this guy is probably gay. Then he gets a sex change, and hooks up with a woman. How ironic.)

The Believers. What happens when a group of trans-people want to reclaim their spirituality and start an all-trans gospel choir? Transcendence Gospel Choir, the first ever entirely transgender choir, consists of individuals who are attempting to overcome feeling "Bible burnt" by the Christian Right while at the same time trying to form a musically cohesive choir... (I am sure looking at who sings soprano and who sings bass would be rather confusing. I love the use of the label, “Christian Right” like it’s a bad thing.)

Camp Out. If it isn't hard enough being a gay teenager in the midwest, imagine being a gay Christian teen. With the derision of society, family and the church against them, ten gay Christian teenagers struggle to confront the questions of faith and their burgeoning sexuality in light of what their church and Christian society has told them. This documentary... (“Burgeoning sexuality”? Is this a soft porn piece?)

Why is the underlying theme of all of these bits so negative? Why is that worn in the sleeve so consistently and blatantly? Can’t movies be made about the gay culture that are positive and supporting? It is always so much “them versus us.”

I was driving home today and heard an old Buffalo Springfield song (“For What It’s Worth”) that struck a thought:

There's battle lines being drawn
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong

(Here’s the YouTube.)

THAT is precisely the problem with the democratic argument in politics today. The pubs say, “They [Islamic pilots and blow-up dolls] are wrong. We are right.” Libs say, “We are wrong” – and then END the commentary. They spend hours and hours droning on about how wrong W is – but they NEVER say, “Those people over there are wrong, TOO.” So the pubs gleefully call the libs “enablers.” That’s the price paid for presenting half an argument.

I am finding it so hard to stay away from politics. When such stupid stories come out, how can I? Tell me if you can in any manner believe this story:

(Confirmed voice recording of Bill Clinton): There is this whole business of the new politics. Well I got a taste of the new politics today. We need a new politics where we all love each other. You’ve heard all that. There’s a radio ad up in the northern part of Nevada telling Republicans that they ought to just register as Democrats for a day so they can beat Hillary and go out and be Republicans next week and vote in the primary. Doesn’t sound like the new politics to me.

Today when my daughter and I were wandering through the hotel, and all these culinary workers were mobbing us telling us they didn’t care what the union told them to do, they were gonna caucus for Hillary.

There was a representative of the organization following along behind us going up to everybody who said that, saying 'if you’re not gonna vote for our guy were gonna give you a schedule tomorrow so you can’t be there.' So, is this the new politics? I haven’t seen anything like that in America in 35 years. So I will say it again – they think they're better than you.

Think about this for a moment. An ex-President of the United States, complete with Secret Service protection, actually witnesses a union rep saying these things? Sees a union goon following behind taking names and numbers of defectors? Oh. My. God. And he rather sheepishly ignored this situation? Wasn’t there press around him at the time? This lie is so frickin’ blatant. Bubba is just trailer-park trash. He has lost all his personal credibility. The boy is imploding. What a shame.

Actually, I don’t look at New Hampshire as a Hillary win at all. I see it all as packaging. They set it up that if Obama didn’t win big, then Hillary was the “comeback bull.” In reality, that was just a repackaging of her 20-point lead that evaporated. Obama made up 20 points in a week. She collapsed in NH. Today, Nevada should be interesting since Hillary lost the lawsuit to block casino voters from voting at work (caucusing, whatever). It will be fun to see the teacher vote that Hillary loses. Of course, Hillary is packaging South Carolina as a no-expectations state because of the disproportionate black vote. These people are so unbelievably racist.

Let’s see … we hit gays, Quran thumpers, and liberals. What’re we missing? Let me think. The handicapped!

OK, so this mentally handicapped prostitute is waving down vehicles. Some guy being interviewed said that she had “just really poor hygiene.” Ten bucks for a little hum time. The customer is or was in law enforcement. Remarkable little vignette.



Funny thing is, I have often said that I would never pay for sex. But isn’t marriage the same thing at a higher price?

See ya …

when can i masturabte?

There are just some things that you just cannot make up. I cut nothing below – full and complete. You have all the links.

J.W. from Canada writes, “As-Salamu `alaykum. I got married four months back. I am a Muslim and try to follow Islam to the best of my ability. During the time of my wife's period (which is usually seven days) I get sexually aroused a lot (she’s had like THREE periods, pal. Get a fricking grip – oh yeah, that’s what you are going to ask. Sorry, got ahead of myself.). I would like to know if, during this time, it is permissible for me to masturbate (smile)? If not, is there any other option?” (There’s the neighbor’s sheep, a mud hole, a rotting tree by a creek bed, your sister.)

Counselor Ahmad Kutty responds:

Wa `alaykum As-Salamu wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuh. (Same to you, pal.)

In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.

All praise and thanks are due to Allah, and peace and blessings be upon His Messenger. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, cut to the chase.)

Dear brother in Islam, thank you so much for your concerns about your religion and Allah’s law even in what concerns your sexual life with your wife. (Gotcha. You get paid by the word, buddy? Talk!)

As for your question, it should be clear that masturbation is generally considered forbidden (except for the quite amazing exceptions noted at the end of this post) in Islam since it is deemed to fall under the category of sexual satisfaction outside the framework of marriage (don’t tell me that you’re about to say everything has to be with her, are you? Everything?). However, mutual masturbation between the man and his wife (here we go – so I can’t yank my pud, but she can? Where do I sign up? PBUH) is not haram; rather, it is permissible because it is a part of the enjoyment which Allah has allowed (nice guy, that Allah). Allah Almighty says: “Those who guard their chastity (i.e., private parts from illegal sexual acts). (why is there a period to the left and a capital E to the right? Your God seems to be a grammar retard.) Except from their wives or (the captives and slaves) (gotta love the fact subsumed in evidence, eh? It is perfectly fine to have captives and slaves. You people are bizarre.) that their right hands (I’m left handed; when I use my right hand it feels like someone else is doing it – is that ok?) possess,—for them, they are free from blame.” (Al-Mu’minun: 5-6)

In response to your question, Sheikh Ahmad Kutty, a senior lecturer and Islamic scholar at the Islamic Institute of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, states (oh, the above was like scripture, and now we get the sermon? I’m into it.):

“We are not allowed to engage in sexual intercourse with our wives during their menstrual period (why not? Give me a good reason. Name ONE. That’s why somebody invented soap and water.). However, there is no taboo on gaining sexual satisfaction from them through other ways (tell me more!). The Prophet (peace and blessings be upon him) (double that if he is going to elaborate on “other ways”) was once asked, “What is allowed for a husband from his wife during menstruation?” (Somebody asked him this? Where's that humungo thighed Mrs. Clinton & her Fabulous Question Planters when you need them? This dude is walking around like a fricking prophet and people asked him about banging their wives? You people hate Jews, but, c'mon, they had a bit more decorum with Jesus, right?) He replied, “Everything except sexual intercourse.” (I LOVE this guy – “everything”) Just as there is no taboo on intimate touching, fondling, caressing, et cetera, there is no prohibition on spouses masturbating each other, et cetera. (I think “et cetera” is Muslim for “yadda yadda yadda.” That Mohammed said that?!? That is so funny. The dude is walking around like he’s the Christ and talking about jacking off. So hip! Did he wear headphones and sunglasses? So, we already learned that she can take the yoyo for a walk. You mean I can just say, “This side’s bloody, flip it over”? That’s cool with you? So provided a slave isn’t available, I can just crank her up the ass and you have no problem with that? You people spent too much time in the desert with camels. Trust me on this one. I bet the etymology of “animal husbandry” is a bit further east than Greece or Rome.”)

Although you are not allowed to masturbate yourself, your wife can masturbate you without incurring any sin (You’re repeating yourself. On purpose? For emphasis? OK, ok. I’ll talk to her and said you said so. "Um, jerk me off, PBUH." That's all, right? I say that and we're cool?). So satisfy yourself through halal (lawful) (I thought "halal" was deep fried and served in a pita. Learn something new everyday.) ways; we have sufficiency in what Allah has made halal for us so that we do not need to turn to that which is considered as haram (unlawful).” (I thought "haram" was a bunch of chicks - or as you call them, "captives." Let’s summarize, she can yank it, I can flip her over, I could do a slave, I could kidnap somebody so I have a “captive.” I didn’t see any prohibition on her blowing me – I mean, “everything” is a pretty broad term. I can toe fuck her? Just can’t bang her. Got it. What an amazing religion to discuss such real issues. And you think we are too loose? Tell me, when I clip my toenails, right to left or left to right?)

Excepted, with slight modifications, from: www.muslims.ca

You can also read:

Islamic Ruling on Masturbation. Can I? Short answer: Yes (hunh? I thought you just said, no.), but only if you aren’t married (ah! So stay single and the sheep are safe.), if you think you really need to bang some married girl (so even if I am married, I can do it if that woman over there is driving me to the point of distraction. What an incredible religion you people have.), or if you are releasing sexual tension rather than achieving sexual desire (now, talk about wordsmithing. Tension not desire. Well, I get really tense sometimes – does that work? Hey, I’m tense, I took my Viagra and she’s late from work - yank yank yank. And that’s OK? Listen to me, boys, create a flow chart of your rules. See the spirals and feedbacks? There’s no flow (menstruation aside). Your rules are creating asshats. Settle down. Relax. Masturbate. Don’t be so uptight.).

My Husband Does Not Satisfy Me in Bed: Can I Masturbate? Short answer: No. So what if we Muslim men have short dicks and no sense of foreplay. Deal with it. (Figures. Always the guys with small dicks writing rules telling women to “deal with it.” How about this, bub – pull your own pud, I can’t find it! The coke bottle and tweezers must be in the slave’s room.)

If you are still in need of more information, don't hesitate to contact us. Do keep in touch. May Allah guide us all to the straight path! (Yeah, ok.)

Allah Almighty knows best. (I am speechless.)

Trip Points

I got issues. Funny, eh? Three words that set the tone. Some things are instant piss-me-off-no-matter-what-the-current-mood issues.

Broadcasting political votes. I was on some web site off the Blog Carnivals site. The post was something – forget now. But a few posts down he writes that he just voted in the local city council elections, and then proceeds to name for whom he voted. A friend of mine said once, when asked for whom he voted in a recent presidential election, “One of the beautiful things about America is that not only can we vote for our leaders, but we don’t have to tell anyone for whom we voted.” I thought the statement was elegant.

I think that people that broadcast their votes are idiots. Talk about issues all you want. Make your position on abortion or baby seals or rain forests known all you want. But to consider that some politician, who by definition sells their soul to the highest bidder, is actually an answer is incredibly naïve. They are as complex and contradictory and evolving as any other person. You work on a campaign and have sold your soul, too, then your opinion doesn’t matter.

Vote if you want to, but shut-up about it.

Stupid people that don’t know they are stupid. I cannot fathom these people. The layer that always comes with it – and it is this portion that trips me – is the arrogance. We all have limitations, physical or intellectual or spiritual or whatever. The trick in life is to know your limitations. I cannot deconstruct music. I can’t choose clothes that go together without picturing those garanimal tags. I can figure out a lot of stuff just in my mind, such as numbers, some physics, law. Other things I can conceptualize but cannot execute well until I do it and screw up – the second time is always better with household repairs, car repairs, etc. I get there; it’s just a matter of being patient with myself.

So then you get people who are convinced of their intellectual superiority. They have the world by the balls. Then they do something stupid, and other people are materially changed through their arrogance which is followed by lies. Then you talk to them to try to understand, and they sputter, and lie more. Then the arrogance comes into full bloom like a rancid flower next to a thick green pond. Then the fake supplication. Then the continued fake supplication – and words mean nothing, only actions. So watch carefully, and you see the continued stupidity. And what pisses me off (yes, I am referring to a very specific situation in my life right now) is the continued collateral damage of which the person is too stupid to see. Telling them is pointless. I work incredibly hard not to turn full barrel and leave behind a charred hole. Humorously, the cranially vacant one thinks I already have. It is to laugh ruefully.

Liars. I detest liars on every level. I never forgive (that’s not a problem, is it?) and always filter every subsequent transaction for decades through those putrid waters. Ironically, I act spitefully, lying, too. I dwell in the brackish waters. I never trust again. Never. If you lie to me, then they are no longer any rules. Yes, the foundational lie needs to be fundamental. But once that floor has been compromised, the hole created is as if a claw-foot tub dropped through it from an upper floor, followed by my specious carpentry skills. The hole is, at best, repaired with a jumble of boards, overlapping haphazardly with darkness appearing through the many gaps. One cannot walk past the hole without consciously avoiding the space or tripping over a jutted-out board; to walk on those same boards is folly for now and evermore. I gather information slowly and patiently for years if necessary. I suspect the worst in every transaction, particularly when older paths are tread again. It is, perhaps, a deep character flaw in me. It is, equally, something I will never devote even a micron of effort to resolve. Never lie to me. I will never forgive you. Not in the ensuing hours, days, or decades. Until the day I die, I will never believe you, and will always assume the very worst in you. Always and, as they say, in all ways. The seed of distrust spawns a seed of hate. Regardless of subsequent interactions, those seeds are cherished and nurtured by me. Always and in all ways. It will never change, and I will gladly die a lonely and miserable death to maintain my own variant of arrogance. It requires no effort on my part – that’s the humorous aspect. It simply is as it is, like a drawing with a crooked line: drawings are not changed, merely observed; I am not the artist, just the patron; the artist’s portfolio will always contain that drawing, whether they claim it to be destroyed or not – it was within them at one time, and will always reside as a part of their talent set. Always and in all ways.

Loudmouth anything. Guess what? Illegal aliens are here illegally. They have violated the law the same as a thief. People die in wars. When folks join the military, they do so knowing and accepting the risks in return for remuneration – be it cash in hand, educational benefits, or lifelong healthcare. They are in a war theatre because they offered to go there and were trained to be there. You support the military – as long as they are not doing what they are trained to do? An abortion is either murder or the cessation of the autonomous subdivision of a mass of cells. I have my opinions; you are encouraged to have yours. Mine are informed to the level that is comfortable for me; I hope yours are the same. Mine are not printed on a sign that is carried in public, nor screamed at passersby, nor is my body interfering with the stream of commerce to get my point heard. I do not need your sign, voice, or body telling what your opinion is. I just don’t care. I bailed on news reporting because all they cover are idiots like you. It may be just my concentric world, but I have observed a direct and negative-slope relationship between your {ahem} “forceful” presence and your intelligence. Just – shut – up, and keep your face out of my face, your body off the bridge I am crossing (unless you’re a jumper), and your poor grammar to your home-bound scribblings. Don’t even get me started on actors and actresses that have a proclivity to memorize words written by someone else and to delivery those words with a proper range of affect provided someone is off-camera telling them what to do and, based upon the sharing of copyright royalties, think that somehow they possess opinions worthy of educating the masses. The only reason that they are not complete assholes is because there are obviously a few missing pieces. And this includes rock musicians, too. You made your money in music. We never paid you to tell us what you thought. So now that you don’t need our money any more doesn’t give you the right to use the stage we paid for to voice your opinion. Get out the guitar and perform, monkey boy – the rest is of no interest and just makes you look stupid.

Liars. Did I mention liars? Lemme check … oh yes, I did. Well, double it.

Sportcasters. How many times can they misapply the word “brilliant”? Look, pal, these athletes practice a lot. What they do on the field is muscle memory, with the rare exception of some quarterbacks and pitchers – but even they are mostly muscles remembering previous motions. It is all trained auto-pilot. Brilliant? Ever hear them talk? You associate “brilliance” with that? They make rap stars sound like accountants. I love sports, so I ordinarily mute the telecast and listen to music or silence. The overwhelming majority of athletes would be in prison if they didn’t meet the “physical freak” criteria. Most retired guys sell insurance or cars. Brilliant? C’mon. Just shut up and call the plays as they happen. And the very worst thing these clowns do is point out “celebrities” in the audience. Just frigging shoot me.

The list can go on … gonna bail for now. Probably to be continued …

watering holes

I like to wander in and through data sometimes. It’s like a digital skinny-dipping session.

To show you how much my mind is going, I couldn’t come up with “skinny dipping,” although it was a very common term growing up in the country. Lots of people did it, or so they claimed. I never did. Too vivid an imagination, I guess. I always envisioned everything turning into some teenage orgy all asses and elbows and neighbors with flashlights and pregnancies and repentance and girls going to nun factories and boys to boot camp (none of which happened); or night sea creatures no bigger than four- or five-foot eels or water moccasins snatching innocent feet, wrapping around legs, performing colonoscopies, boys crying for help, girls giggling, dead bodies found the following day, sleepless nights, and prolonged silences followed by memorizing books from Tibet, shaving all body hair, and moving to LA to sell flowers at the airport (none of which, to my knowledge, happened). No, nothing good could come from skinny dipping.

To grasp the term within my present mind again (and all the horrors of yesteryear), I googled “swimming nude night.” There it was up top. But also lurking at about 3d, I learned that Hibiscus Coast Sun Club has such fun events as nude volleyball, nude swimming, and nude pizza.

Nude pizza. D’ja’ever get hot cheese or sauce on a body part? Why for a split second would I expose my ankle spanker to hot food? Makes no sense. And think about it – we’re all sitting around here naked, “hey, nice tits,” “yeah, you said that ten times already,” sex has got to crop into it somewhere. So how do we build up sexual tension? With pizza? Tomato sauce? WTF, that’s gross! Although I can just hear the naturalists – “It isn’t sex, you pervert, it’s all about freedom” – freedom, my ass, Nat-boy, you’re either gay or pounding as many women as you can (for real or through your right hand alone in your bed at night).

Oh, I get it! Maybe the pizza is like a designed “turn off” thingey. Like a decompression chamber. You fear getting bobo scalded with hot cheese, she drips sauce and looks like instant menstruation. I get it. OK, makes sense.

So I back the URL away from the calendar of events to the HBSC homepage. I’ve got this picture in my head of teenage-years venues: lakes with beaches, moonlight shimmering on rippling water, dark woods with defined paths. Man, was I wrong. This pic is not a joke. Just go to the link above.

WTF? Your “nude swimming” nights are in rather close quarters, eh Nat-boy? So Nat-girl rips one and everyone giggles? You with your quick wit and care-to-wind attitude add, “Somebody had pizza!”

Go to the “About Us” page. It reads, in part, “There are bush walks and glow worms at night.” I think its code. Perverts. Put your pants on. No, animals are not nude – they got body hair. You don’t. Get dressed. Your mother know you’re doing this? That’s her over there? Oh, gross. “Ma’am, excuse me, you should be ashamed of yourself … OMG! Lady! You’re an octogenarian – matching nipple and clit rings?!? I’m gonna throw up.”

How’d I get on this topic? Let me backtrack in my mind … ah, somehow or another I was City-Data.com for Lutherville-Timonium, MD. I found it to be an odd name and was curious. Must be a merger of two towns, but, c’mon, no one could come up with a better name than stitching together the old ones like some Bride of Frankenstein?

So anyway, the map was a bit misleading on scale. Seemed to be further away from Baltimore than it actually is. Quite close, actually. Towson right there. Lots of higher ed. Older population. Maybe a nice bedroom community. Then to my initial shock and horror, I see this entry:

Likely homosexual households (counted as self-reported same-sex unmarried-partner households). Lesbian couples: 0.4% of all households; Gay men: 0.2% of all households.

I was struck because the first thing I thought of was Nazis and Communists and lions and tigers and bears, oh no! The word “likely” really threw me. Felt like “round up the usual suspects.” Had I wandered onto some secret webpage being used by deep-cover algore types who preach tolerance and inclusion by day but target for torture and assassination social nonconformists by night? I had to test my theory. First, in Lutherville-Timonium, MD, having twice as many dykes as stick-boys just didn’t ring true; also, collectively 0.6% on a population of 15,814 is 95 “alternative people.” Ninety-five sounds made up – afterall, being the paranoid social defect that I am, it is not lost upon me that Interstate 95 is amazingly close to the target area. Maybe Lu-Tim is just flying under the RADAR of the Social Deviance Police. Let’s go to a place we know is replete with gay men and see if the SDP has it in its sights …

San Francisco: Lesbians, 0.7%; Gay men, 2.0%. Now that’s funny! I knew more gay men in SF than the 2.0%, and I never even went to the bath houses! Well, except that one time … to pick up a friend … I don’t mean “pick up” like that … gee, it’s not like I’m gay or anything like that … he needed a ride, a-hole, that’s all … IN MY CAR! A RIDE IN MY CAR! … well, yeah, I stayed for a while … NO! I did NOT lay down in a little room with a jar of Vaseline next to me! … well, yeah, I saw the glory holes – NO! I did not! This conversation is OVER!

safe and unsafe things to do in your home

I was strolling through the Gallery of Regrettable Food and found a gem: a 1959 recipe booklet from Knudsen Dairy Products.

Yummy! How fun to see what they were eating as I was experiencing my first months post-partum. Let’s turn the pages (I’ll put the pics here – but you can read the source’s commentary, too. He’s pretty funny).

The first item is, um, green, like a stagnant-pond green but without the promise of teeming life beneath. Oh my. It’s called, “Fruit Ring Mold with Dressing.” “Dressing”? Looks like ranch salad dressing. You put dressing on jell-o? OK, so the first one isn’t too appetiz---. Wait! What’s that underneath? Tell me isn’t a … oh, barf, it is! A Cottage Cheese Log. Gag reflex! I need some Tums to settle my stomach. brb.

Alright, look. One page. No problem. Can only go up from here.

AH, what do we have here! Looks like a salad. Um, “Chicken Curry Salad”! OK. I don’t eat meat, but that’s remotely digestible if you like dead farm animals. What’s that on the bottom? The orangy square thing .. well, jell-o mold, yes. Sign of the times. Let’s just accept that. What’s in it? Oh no. You must be kidding! Please, no. Please. “Corned Beef Salad Loaf.”


Production Step One: Take a cut of beef (usually brisket, but sometimes round or silverside) and cure or pickle it in a seasoned brine. The "corn" in "corned beef" refers to the "corn" or grains of coarse salts used to cure it.

Production Step Two: Make gelatin. The production of gelatin starts with the boiling of cattle bones or pig skins; contrary to popular perception, horns and hooves are not used. This material is then soaked with acid or alkali in large vats to extract and hydrolyse the protein collagen. The extract is then dried and ground to form a powder.

Cut the corned beef in tiny pieces, then suspend in a water, sugar, and gelatin mixture.

Garnish. Serve cold..

Bowels loosening. Need Kaopectate. brb. Let’s see … dosing, dosing, dosing. Ah, there it is! “Adults and children 12 years of age and older—The usual dose is 1200 to 1500 milligrams (mg) taken after each loose bowel movement. No more than 9000 mg should be taken in twenty-four hours.” What the hell is 1200 milligrams? Here. Two swigs.

Turn page.

“Creamed lobster.” Remove lobster from shell, diced, mix with cream cheese, return to shell, and broil. That’s a stretch. No intestinal reaction, so let’s move on before something kicks in. Page!

What the hell is that thing with the green olives? Chicken and sour cream. Oh, that explains it. But wait. It seems the way this book is unfolding, that they expected the recipes here to mix with and sit on top of … the … cor-- … gurgle … the corned be-- … gloop! … that mold thing! {unmentionable}.

Excuse me. I need to go wipe myself. Where’s the Kao? Two more --- fuck it --- half a bottle! brb.

Lookey what’s on top! Why, it “Tomato Steaks in Sour Cream”! How about – “Lycopene Suspended in Heart Failure”? My word! Did you know that life expectancy for a white male born in 1930 (my dad) – the target audience for booklets like this – was almost 63 years, and that a white male born now is over 80 years? Don’t let them kid you – it has nothing to do with advances in medical diagnosis and treatment. It is 100% due to recipes like this one going the route of the USSR. In fact, this whole booklet feels like a communist plot. “Ve hav vays uf dealink vef ze Amerikans. Zay shal die by zer uwn hahns. Glutinouz fuls! Zest hav patienz, Comrade. Ze Knudsen Prozet zall suczede!”

Well, the good news is my anger at our Cold War foes has seemed to firm up my stool. That’s a good thing!

OK, I can’t risk anymore “recipes” (boy, is that term used loosely … ut oh! Bad word … brb. Kao! gulp, gulp, gulp!). I need something, um, firming, if you know what I mean.

Let’s see, hey! Here we go! It seems that adding Viagra to cut flowers makes them last twice as long!.


Each pill is 50 mg; all the flowers need is 1 mg. So very cool. There’s a real economic benefit here. Lots of places, like B&Bs, constantly replenish their cut flowers. New ones needed each week. The researchers found that flowers last two weeks instead of one. At $3.00 a pill – and 1/50th of that – that’s 6 cents to double the life of your cut flowers. Money in the bank.

It reminds me, I had a guy google ”what is safe household product to masturbate with”. I came in 20th. The guy was focused enough to go to the 2d page. Man. Here you go, you sick prick! Shave a corner off that little blue pill, mix in water, feed it to your cut flowers, take the rest yourself – and you have yourself a masturbation party! Get up close and rub some pollen on your face, you societal reject.

So, like, if you put all male flowers in the vase, do they become gay? If you have mixed gender, do they keep your guests awake and propagate overnight? If you get a closed bud and jerk it off, does the pollen shoot onto the wall? Ah, the telltale yellow stains on the B&B breakfast room wall. Be warned! If you see them, don’t ask – just check out. Worse yet, if you walk in and the proprietor has a jaundiced look, don’t even check in!

If we take it, and the Spanker doesn’t go half-mast within four hours, we’re supposed to seek medical attention. Do the male flowers, as they crank into their 2d week, get all, “hey WTF?!? We need a doctor here!” The little signs they made up so jovially and placed in front of the gay vase during the first few days that read, “Parking in Rear,” are now a mess of pollen that seems to read, “Help!”

Alright, colon stabilized. Quit while I am ahead.

stage diving into frog execrement

For those of you keeping score, I come up BIG – Number 8 out of 1.02 million – when you google “jock panties.” I have written so many words that I am not disturbed at the ranking. Turns out my position is from the crack I made about “lunatics with bunched panties and jock itch” running for president. What does disturb me is someone sitting in Melrose Park, Illinois, USA, at 11:20 PM, and searching the net for such a thing. Melrose Park claims to be a “village,” and it sits just west of Chicago. Every village has its idiot, I guess. Look at the mayor on their website, Ronald Serpico. Looks like the panty type, eh? Bushy eyebrows, head like a thumb. Probably looks nice in pink or a very light shade of purple. Not that much different from J. Edgar Hoover in his dress. Sorry, Ron, no offense meant. I am sure your butt is way nicer than J. Edgar’s. Brrrrr, eh? That boy just didn’t exercise enough. Nasty rice pudding thighs leading up to rotten-grapefruits-in-a-plastic-bag cheeks. Packing all of that into queen-size tummy-tucker pantyho-- I’m gonna throw up. brb.

Let’s see what other sick f*cks we have out there scraping through the bowels of the internet … ah, here we go. Google Number 6 of 47,100 for some puke that searched “pictures frog excrement.” Um, WTF? Was it a scientific inquiry? Maybe since the sun was set in Jacksonville, Florida, USA, at 11:12 PM it was just not possible to walk around and find some. But one would think a flashlight and a little diligence would yield an abundance of specimens. Although, why go looking when you can surf the net and find high quality pics from other vermin such as you. You know, pal, when you google something, hit the “images” top left and you will get your pics. Your way just yields narrative. You wanted narrative? You wanted to read about people and frogs and excrement and … just go away. Now. Dry heaves. brb.

One search made me sad. Ask.com was queried, “what is the meaning of three crosses on the side of interstate 81?”. I came up on the second page. The searcher routed through LA, but Route 81 is a local interstate that ends in the south, nowhere near SoCal. I hope he found the link to the Bible on the right. How can someone be, presumably, old enough to drive and not know the story of Christ in even the most fundamental of ways? I may be a real dick sometimes, an incredible sinner, but I know where my salvation lies. I know where I push the limit and where I cross the line. At least the guy is searching for answers. I hope he finds them. God has a funny way of reaching back when you reach for Him.

Reminds me of when I was 15 or so. I wanted to read the Bible. I was living in a home with other people, but was truly alone. I figured you started to read it like any other book – so I opened to page one. A few days into reading, I got mail. I never got mail. This letter was mass-printed, but addressed to me. It read, “We understand you are just beginning to read the Bible. Might we suggest you start with the Gospels.” I hadn’t told a soul, and did my reading alone at night.

Yeah, reach out to God, and He reaches back. Remarkable.

I took my daughter to see Blindside at the Knitting Factory in NYC a week ago. In the video below, you may be able to see the back of my head. We were at the stage, right side, directly in front of the bassist. Nuf said. Hurts to watch this. Back left side of my side begins to twitch.



See the clown on stage? Christian, the lead singer, pushed him off. Kinda funny. I think it was the same guy another time that got back on stage and didn’t survey the crowd very well. He “stage dove” to our side. Everyone just moved out of his way. Thump! Smile.

You can view nine videos if you like. Have fun.

Although, to be honest, we met the band afterward. Genuinely nice guys.

Alright, enough procrastination. Gotta focus.

living in the shadow

Twenty years ago this week I made a mistake. I am still paying for it.

As with all mistakes, the aftermath is mixed. Certainly some good has come of it. And good beyond the flippant, “even a blind squirrel finds a nut every once in a while.” But I wonder if the good could have been achieved without the mistake. The purest of conjecture. It is also clear that the very best of what came from that train wreck of which I am still entangled could not have happened but for the carnage.

Oh well.

I think Barry Bonds is refusing to hit the next couple of home runs on purpose, so that the putz Commissioner Bud Seling has to follow him around the country for a week or two.

That was my op-ed piece on the news. Hope you enjoyed it. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming, joined in progress.

Twenty years ago my father told me he had colon cancer. He’s been dead five or six years now. Twenty years ago I was just starting to think about law school. I’ve since practiced for a decade and moved into education. Twenty years ago was the relative fast pace of Northern Cal. Today, I sit in Bumfoq, Pennsylvania, writing to no one in cyberspace listening to my twin’s favorite, Billie Holiday.

Twenty years is a long time. I aged. I can’t tell if I hardened or am too jaded to discern. I still hold my optimism, but now I expect to be kicked and don’t get terribly upset when I do. My focus is rather narrow these days – give me enough money to pay my bills, land leave me alone. That’s not being cranky or anti-social. But I seek to engage society when I want to engage. I have grown weary of societal dictates.

Alright, enough cranky – although I am not cranky.

I recently discovered the music of Blind Willie Johnson. The first song I heard was, “Dark was the Night.” I thought of a New Orleans funeral procession. Remarkable song. I learned in the article (yes, that bastion of peerless-reviewed writings, WikiPedia) that the song was about Christ’s crucifixion.

Three of his songs are available on the Internet Archive (which, btw, has a lot of old blues free for the taking without having to worry about liberals asking for royalties).

Let’s roam the Internet Archive, shall we?

Today on Gender Talk (if today were February 12, 2001), “Zantui Rose has been a contributor to the trans community for 7 years as a writer, workshop facilitator, therapist and visionary. She co-mothered the Bodhi Tree House, a trans-sacred retreat space, and last year delivered the keynote address the Southern Comfort conference. She has been partnered with a transperson for 4 years, and speaks with us about transcending gender as a spiritual imperative, and about transcending the gender paradigm. She also talks about the various workshops and retreats that are conducted by she and her partner Holly Boswell, as well as Mrak Eden, in beautiful mountain settings of North Carolina. For more information about BodhiTree House retreats, email: BTH395@juno.com

“Ethan St. Pierre is a transgender man whose aunt, Debra Forte, was murdered for being a transperson. We met Ethan when he participated in the National Gender Lobby Days effort in Washington, DC. Ethan's partner, Karen Martin, is a transsexual woman and they have been in a committed relationship for a couple of years. Ethan talks about his relationship with Karen through his own change in identity and gender.”

You can’t make this stuff up. Ethan is a dude that was girl; he’s with Karen, who’s a girl that was a dude. Does that make them gay? Like some special classification – not bisexual, but like hetero-gay. I wonder if Ethan helps Karen with her make-up. Who has the prostrate?

Speaking of prostrates, I gotta get mine checked on Friday. I am whining big fucking time about it. If I’m going to stick something up my ass, it had better be connected to or somehow controlled by that one special loved one. A stranger just doesn’t do it for me. Medical exam or not. And they use so much of that goop that you fart it out later. I hate that.

Back to diversions. Let’s see, what else?

You gotta love this – the original 1928 Orson Welles War of the Worlds Broadcast. Runs about 51 minutes. Less than an hour to throw the country into a panic. Based on a book. People, get a grip.

Remember the old radio show, “The Shadow”? No, neither do I. That was years before me. But my dad used to do the laugh – something like, “The Shadow knows (insert dad laughing).” He seemed to enjoy doing it. I tried to look something other than impassive. Here are 98 episodes of The Shadow! “The Shadow knows! A-ha-ha (cough!) ha-ugg- (wheez!) ha-ha .. mmm.”

Not sure if these are good, but I presume they are. I used to love to listen to the suspense stories on the radio. WGBI in Scranton used to play them late at night when anyone who knew how to change records every three minutes was long gone to bed. This is a link to hundreds of these suspense stories.

Enough. I went back up and read about the prostrate intrusion. Can’t get past it. Gotta walk around.

Deviance vs. Nonconformity

There is a difference between nonconformity and deviance. Nonconformity = cartoons, freedom of expression; deviance = criminal behavior. (Yeah, I teach criminal justice – I know, cut me a break, I’m making a point here. See the post or two below this one.) Below is a collection of deviance. Way beyond nonconformity. We learning anything yet? Pay attention. There will be a quiz.

Dude kills a 15 year old for walking on his lawn. Seems a little extreme.

The guy’s just a harmless panty sniffer. But, pal, 1,300 pairs! What’re thinking, buddy? Like to wear things that make you feel pretty? Somebody had to count these. Do you get hazard pay for that? Bet the cop union missed that potential when they negotiated the contract.

This is the true menace in society: men posting as sick boys on the net to get girls to send sexually explicit pics. 12 to 14 year olds? Dude, they are way cuter at 18 and up. C’mon, you’re 31! What is wrong with you?

He shot the cable guy? And it wasn’t even because he violated the, “I’ll be there between 8 and 12” rule by showing up at 2. He shot him because his own television set wasn’t cable-ready. Man. We need a little love here, people.

“I got an idea, honey, let’s fake our daughter’s kidnapping and get back at my sister and ex-girlfriend.” “Yeah, good plan.” “Yeah, I know we don’t live together, you and me, but we can make this work. We’ll put some of her school papers in their yard. Nobody’ll suspect anything.” Unspoken in the story, it seems, that maybe the dude’s girlfriend became an ex- by taking up with the guy’s sister. Small world.

What do you get a couple that has millions of dollars, a mansion, and everything else money can buy? How about a couple of slaves? Wow. Just frickin’ wow.

The neighbor’s front door kept slamming. Door goes slam Slam SLAM! That’s IT! The partially blind, one-legged diabetic guy grabs a 10-inch knife and “terrified” his neighbors. Which part terrified them?

Dude goes to the trouble of stealing an entire tractor-trailer with a full load. It’s like a big treasure box! I wonder what is inside? Something really, really good, I bet! How about $250,000 of Skittles? Ouch, my colon knotted up at just the thought of it.

Fifty year-old guy lives with mom. OK, you already know we have a problem. He rents a working girl and brings her home. He brought his ho home? Oh, this is going to get bad. Ah, new problem: seems the dude only looked like a lady. Working girl was actually working guy dressed like a girl. 50 year-old mom’s boy didn’t quit know how to take the slight. So he took a garden hoe to the ho and killed him/her. Here’s a good test: talk dirty to your ho – if her pants gets tighter, it’s best to move on.

Thirty-two counts of sexual assault and domestic violence for Silly the Clown. Never liked clowns. See what happens when you presume the surface of someone reflects their inside? Sublimation …

Mom gets fed up with daughter being picked on. So she gets on the school bus and tells her 9 year-old to smack the kid. Um, I don’t understand. Where’s the crime?

OK, Quiz time!

1. When a deviant loves his lawn and a kid insists on crossing it, the deviant shoots him dead. Given the same facts, a nonconformist would:

A. Politely ask the youth to stay off the lawn, and proceed to explain the deleterious effect of repeated ingress and egress on the grass.
B. Place signs that read, “Please stay off the grass!” (adorned with smiley faces) at strategic locations around the perimeter of the property.
C. Sit in a lawn chair in the middle of the lawn 24/7 on the assumption that his presence would deter the casual trespass.
D. Track the path usually walked by the youth, and populate said area with all manner of foul material including itching powder, bovine fecal stuff, horse urine, and athlete’s-foot-in-a-can.

2. When a deviant brings a prostitute home to meet his mom, and the mom says, “Tommy, why are you wearing a dress?” the deviant takes a hoe to the ho. Given the same facts, a nonconformist would:

A. Do the same thing. Contractual breach, according to the Code of Hammurabi, is punishable by death.
B. Break down in tears, beg his mother to love him anyway, and commence with his nightly cold vinegar enema even though it is two hours before nighty-nighty time.
C. Ask mommy to go to bed, then realize the sexual fantasy he’s been nursing since he was 12.
D. Break out a bottle of Jack Daniels, ask as many questions as he could think of, and proceed to write a short story about an incredibly interesting life he was lucky enough to cross paths with an evening.

3. When a pair of deviants has everything money can buy, they add to their possessions by getting a couple of slaves. Given the same facts, a nonconformist would:

A. Also buy a cotton farm.
B. Learn southern gospel songs and have sing-alongs after the dinner dishes were cleaned.
C. Write scripts for plays, make the slaves perform, and sit in the audience wearing blackface.
D. Sign everything of value over to the enslaved, and ask the former slaves to hire them as their cleaning staff.

4. When a partially blind, one-legged diabetic deviant hears the door slam once too often, he grabs a big knife and threatens the offenders. Given the same facts, a nonconformist would:

A. Bounce up and down on his one leg on their front yard, sans knife, singing Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” until the neighbors made the connection of one annoying behavior for another.
B. Set up a lemonade stand on his front yard with a sign that reads, “Charity to buy weather striping for a-hole neighbor’s front door.”
C. Slip next door in the middle of the night and Gorilla glue their door shut.
D. All of the above.

(Answer key: If you answered “D” to all of the questions, then you are a nonconformist. If you answered any other letter to any question, then you’re a deviant and should do us all a favor by advancing your expiration date.)

MasterBait Company Newsletter

MasterBait Company Newsletter
Vol. 4, No. 1

MasterBait Brand Fishing Lures – Home of the World-Famous PocketRocket, TrouserTrout, and the all new Cyclopes! Fishing ain’t fishing unless you’re MasterBaiting!

Welcome to the latest issue of the MasterBait Newsletter. Ever round the bend of a stream and see a fisherman fumbling in his pocket with a big grin on his face? You know he’s reaching for that TrouserTrout and is getting ready to MasterBait! Walk over and say, Hello! For good measure, whip out your PocketRocket and show your new friend your MasterBaiting technique! You’ll have a new friend for a long, long time.

ANNOUNCEMENT! ANNOUCEMENT! New line – Cyclops. We’re pleased to announce the availability of a new line of MasterBait lures – the Cyclops. Based upon our patent-pending WINK technology, the Cyclops funnels water back through its body and shoots it in front of itself, creating a pulsating rhythm that fish can’t help but gobble up. Be sure to order several! You haven’t MasterBaited until you’ve been WINKed at by the One-Eyed Guy!

Sad News. We are saddened to share the passing of one of our founders, Don Pheeler, inventor of our best-selling line, the PocketRocket. As a recipient of the industry’s distinguished Honored Among Regulars award, he adopted the acronym and was known as HAR Don Pheeler.

HAR Don taught in our schools during every session. “Don’t yank on that thing so hard, you’ll pull it off!” was a common refrain to new students.

At 81 years old, he spoke last year about his eventual death: “When I die, I’ll be happy if only I die MasterBaiting.” He got his wish. He passed with his PocketRocket in hand. In accordance with his final instructions, he was interred in a seated position with both hands firmly grasping his PocketRocket. Wherever he is now, we are comforted to known that he is surrounded by legions of MasterBaiters. Godspeed, friend.

Customer Profile. Richard Johnson has been MasterBaiting for 40 years. He taught his son how to MasterBait, and four of his grandchildren – three boys and one girl. “She was a real challenge,” Dick shared with us as we sat at his MasterBaition Station next to his pond. “Couldn’t seem to focus enough. Very bright girl. Very energenic. But her mind would wander during lessons. The boys took right to it! My, I get up with the sun and they’d be in the backyard – that early! Standing in a circle, Wonder Worms in hand, MasterBaiting like it was their last chance. It was glorious to see.”

Dick showed us his den where he has his equipment laid out. It was easy to tell his love for the sport: his eyes misted over as he showed us his Captain Slappy. “This is how I used to do it,” and he proceeded to share his early MasterBaition technique. We all laughed at his feigned clumsiness.

Back at the Station, Dick began to work with his granddaughter again. “Your hand goes here …” His voice trailed out of range for us to hear, but his dedication to teaching was easy enough to see. She’ll be fine. She’ll be MasterBaiting like a pro in no time.

Dick Johnson. A MasterBaiter for the record books.

MasterBaition Nation in the News.

“I should have stuck to MasterBaiting! Good rule: An intern walks into the office – grab your Schlong and run!” Former President Bill Clinton, commenting upon the Monica Lewinsky Scandal.

“Women Don’t MasterBait!” Sen. Hillary Clinton (D-NY). Over 43% of our customers beg to differ, Senator! Maybe if you MasterBaited regularly, that angry look on your face would soften. Go ahead, give it a try!

“Well, Dick, I’m right-handed. When it gets real bad, I MasterBait with my left hand and I don’t feel so all alone.” Former Sen. Tom Daschle (D-SD) on how he passes his time now that he’s been unemployed for a few years.

Dear Yanker – Our readers share their stories and ask for advice.

Dear Yanker, just wanted to share a great memory. My wife was telling me the coffee was tasting bland and wanted a change. Well, I like my coffee just the way it is! So, the next morning I got up and told her I would make the coffee. I did it the usual way – but then I pulled out my TouserTrout and MasterBaited right in her cup! She loved it! Now, I MasterBait every morning! Thank you for my memories and her tastes! Jesse.

Dear Jesse, way to go! There’s nothing like the taste of TrouserTrout first thing in the morning! Your wife is one lucky girl. A little suggestion, if I may. Don’t limit the TrouserTrout to her coffee! Spread it over everything she eats! She’ll love you for it! Have a great time MasterBaiting! Yanker.

Dear Yanker, I need some advice. I try and try to MasterBait, but can’t seem to do it well. Little help? (Name withheld by request), age 14.

Dear Name Withheld, no need to be embarrassed! We all had to learn through trial and error. I suggest that you start with the PockerRocket – it’s the only model that comes with a head so your grip won’t slip! This is important if you adopt the “new-bee” technique suggested by some of our old timers – put a little soap on that stick! Once you develop your own technique for yanking, the soap will no longer be necessary. Soap up, yank, and enjoy! Yanker.

Employee Profile. Richard Charles Hertz, Jr. “Who’s Dick Hertz?” you ask. We wish everyone could raise their hand! Dick is our quality assurance manager. Next time you touch your Elastic Warrior and it feels so good, or your Mayonnaise Cannon shoots its load with pinpoint accuracy, you have Dick to thank! He MasterBaits eight hours a day, five days a week, just to please you, our devoted MasterBaition Nation. Next time you visit our offices, be sure to rub his bald head for good luck, and don’t be surprised if he stands at attention in appreciation! Way to go, Dick!

Contest. Send us pictures of you MasterBaiting in public! We are looking for unique technique and a curious environment. Everyone who enters will receive a suitable-for-framing “Grant of Membership in the MasterBaition Nation” certificate. Grand prize is a trip to our company headquarters where you can MasterBait along with us at the company pond!

Last Month’s Contest Winners. Remember, we asked you – the members of the MasterBaition Nation – to send in your ideas for taglines to be used in our advertising. The response was overwhelming! Thank you to everyone that submitted an entry.

Although the choice was difficult, our judges went for the simple, direct approach. Our winner was yanker John Thomas of Worcester, Mass. His winning entry is elegant in its simplicity: “I MasterBait.”

A whole bunch of taglines deserve honorable mention: “MasterBait with a friend,” “I’ll stop MasterBaiting when you pry my TrouserTrout from my cold, dead fingers,” “Serial MasterBaiter,” “I’d Rather be MasterBaiting!” “Women MasterBait, Too!” “It’s not a Choice – It’s MasterBaition!” and our in-house favorite, “I MasterBait and I Vote.”

Special Mention goes out to this entry. We’re not quit sure how effective it is in catching fish, but we applaud the effort: “I MasterBait in the Shower!”

Order a Catalogue! It’s Free! Our lures are known around the world! Our best sellers include: the Angry Samoan, Ankle Spanker, Beaver Cleaver, Beef Bayonet, Blue-Veined Custard Chucker, Captain Candy, Captain Slappy, The Cheese Farm, Chromosome Snake, Devirginator, Denture Cleaner, Elastic Warrior, Eleventh Finger, Giggle Stick, Gherkin, Gut Wrench, Hanging Johnny, Hog’s Leg, Kickstand, Kidney Sweeper, Knee Knocker, Little Elvis, Love Club, Main Vein, Mayonnaise Cannon, Meat Thermometer, One-Eyed Cave Explorer, Pork Flute, Pork Sword, Pump-Action Yogurt Rifle, Russle the One-Eyed Muscle, Schlong, Tallywacker, Wonder Weasel, and the Wonder Worm.

Don’t forget a tackle box to hold all your MasterBait lures! Choose from our most popular models including the Bean Bag, Chin Ornament Sack, and the Mud Flap!

Hey Ladies, going on a sausage run? Aren’t you tired of the bar scene? Gather a few friends and stay home with our MasterBaition Party Kit! You won’t be disappointed and the fun will come in wave after wave of excitement all night long.

Job Opportunity. We are looking for a Master MasterBaiter! Do you MasterBait well enough to teach others? Drop us a line and describe your experience and technique. A video might be helpful. Consider including a session of you showing others how to MasterBait.

MasterBait for profit – become a dealer of our products. Need a fundraiser? Sell our LapTaffy! Call the home office for more details and an information package.

Changing America into a MasterBaition Nation one yanker at a time!