Do They See Themselves As Pan Or Hook?

The Boy Lovers are back with their unique combination of self-pity and Peter Pan obsessions. I linked to them almost a year ago and joined a campaign to have their blog taken down. If you don't spew whatever meal you may have just consumed immediately upon viewing, you might want to take note of their attempts to pretty themselves up with the pedantic language of college sophomores. It's still a pig in lipstick. And I hope that phraseology doesn't turn them on.

But I have news for you fellas. No matter how many big words you use, no matter what your sparkling fantasies of Ancient Greece are, and no matter how many youth league soccer games you have been allowed to coach, no one sees you as healthy or sane. Sure, you may pick off the odd Democrat like John (my daughter's godfather touched a 14 year old) Kerry, and Jimmy (let's pardon the sexual offender) Carter, Gerry (I'm going to screw a minor on the taxpayer dime and get re-elected. Take that homophobes) Studds, and the entire Kennedy (do we really want to go there) Clan, but the rest of the world, including the most irritating, sanctimonious, soy wallowing liberal types, believe there is something wrong with you. Basically, nobody likes you, everybody hates you, and you should go eat worms. From e-coli laden dirt. And you should stop thinking about young boys. They don't want you to think about them. All the abuse that children suffer at the hands of sexual predators begins with a desire to have sex with them. That means you. So pardon the ignorant, church-going breeders for their caution.

However, I have changed my mind about wanting your blog removed. I think that when you inevitably convince yourself that a troubled boy, starved for affection, actually desires your sexual advances, law enforcement needs to be able to find you as quickly as possible. So blog away.

I'd also like to take a minute to remind you of what happens to child molesters in prison and to point out that prison inmates are the least likely individuals on the planet to make a distinction between "boy love" and "child rape."

But above all, you need to recognize that you are ill and find someone to help you. We all have burdens to carry in this life, and your burden is that you can never, EVER touch the object of your affection unless they are over 18 and consenting. The liberty of "just being yourself" does not extend to you when your desires have such great potential to harm the most innocent of human beings. It's a heavy cross to be sure, but you have no choice. We have willed it thus.

More From Ayaan Hirsi Ali

Listen to this woman. She is brilliant.

But better yet, she makes Bill Maher look like the smarmy, cheap, sophomoric little asshole that he is. And the two morons sitting on each side of her are priceless as they wallow in their complete and utter ignorance.

*Background: Ayaan Hirsi Ali was a Muslim woman who immigrated to Holland to escape an arranged marriage. She was one of the victims of female circumcision, and saw firsthand how Arab Muslims treated black Africans (Muslim or not). She apostatized from Islam once in Holland and became a vocal opponent of the intolerance and violence of Islam especially against women. This earned her a death sentence from the mullahs across the Middle East and Europe. She collaborated with Theo van Gogh (descendant of the famous painter) on a documentary detailing the abuses women suffer under this oppressive religion. He was slaughtered by a Muslim fanatic on the streets of Amsterdam. She was forced into hiding.

Our own media does its level best to ignore her, which is all the more reason we need to pay attention to what she has to say.

H/T: Little Green Footballs

I'm Not A Racist. That's What's So Insane About This.

Yeah I know it's been awhile. I've been working on my real estate classes. They are extremely boring, but now, thanks to the ethics portion, I am able to tell the difference between right and wrong. Except when a non-white person complains. Then I become automatically wrong and I need to shut the fuck up and be grateful that I'm white. This is going to make arguing with Jethro somewhat less fun than it has been in the past.

Now I'm not one to quibble, but I am really getting tired of being called white. I am pink. PINK, dammit. And red in some places. With blue and green poking through. Acknowledge.

Hey There

I've come to the conclusion that I am tired of tickling balls for nothing but debt. I'm no knock-out, but I have huge tits that can defy gravity with the right amount of sturdy, underwired encouragement, and that has to count for something.

So I've decided to whore myself in a constant, persistent, hopefully non-homicide-inducing fashion to the idea of Jethro's Practice.

We can bitch and moan all day about his boss and her inconsistencies, tirades, baffling business decisions and utter lack of fashion sense (three words: Pleated, Tapered Pants. Belted far above the waist. And when I laid that line on someone, Jethro muttered, "That's nothing. You should see her Pleated, Tapered Jeans). But when it comes right down to it, it's her business, and she can call all the shots. If she wants to alienate her employees, inconvenience her patients, soak Jethro for as much work for as little money as possible, and dress as if she drives a Delorian [updated link]; it's her incontrovertible right, and I will not dispute that.

As we say in blogworld, "If you don't like it, start your own."

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So everything else is going well. I am in a very upbeat, positive place. I think I might be on the cheerful side of a manically depressive mood swing. Or maybe I'm just feeling better from my kidney infection.

Dribs and Drabs

I have a kidney infection. I could probably use that as an excuse for not blogging, and in fact, I think I will. It hurts to sit up for too long and it hurts to lie down for too long. If I curl up a certain way on the couch, it doesn't hurt quite as much. I am taking antibiotics, but they make me nauseous, so I just have to suck it up (or down as the case may be).

I've also been tied up with family. I've come to the conclusion that I can't really do anything for my mom, but I can work on my relationships with my sisters. Now that we're all in the same state it should be easier. I feel as if my relationships with them have really suffered throughout the years and I see more hope in repairing those than I do in repairing my mom's life. One sister in particular is going to be a challenge. She has been severely damaged by events in the past and I am hoping she is not too bitter to help repair our family.

Anyway, none of this is life-threatening, but it does put a damper on my blogworld. So to tide you over until my next riveting post, check out this website courtesy of Jim Treacher at Blowing Smoke.

hotchickswithdouchebags.com

Methinks Gooch will particularly enjoy this concept.

Because You Need To Know

I was tagged again (in the bloglical sense) to name some more weird things about myself. Happily, I have a limitless supply.

1.) Fairly recently, I realized that I'm in the habit of holding onto my earlobe while I sleep. I sleep with my face on my hand and my earlobe between my thumb and forefinger. I don't know if this is recent or if I've been doing it for years, but I noticed it just after I posted the last list of weird.

2.) Since we're on sleeping arrangements, I must also confess to sleeping like Peter Pan, with one knee raised almost to my chest and the other leg flung outward. I'm a weird sleeper.

3.) When I was pregnant with both girls, I had a bizarre craving for foam. I didn't want to swallow it, but I would take bubble baths with a lot of soap and swish the suds around in my mouth. The foamier I got the better I liked it. Brushing my teeth was almost orgasmic. I would sit in the bathroom and scrub my teeth, making sure to generate as much foam as possible. I'd lean over the bathtub and let it drool out, but I wouldn't stop brushing. One time I brushed my teeth for over 30 minutes.

4.) I have a very hard time standing up and speaking in front of a group of people, even if they're all my friends.

5.) I used to claim I didn't like cauliflower when I was in grade-school because I thought I was weird for having almost no distaste for any kind of food. I figured I could give up cauliflower for the sake of appearing normal - a completely useless endeavor, I might add.

6.) I told my sisters an ongoing story when we were little. It was about 3 sisters and their little brother. The oldest girl was named Wendy and she was the hero. The second sister was named Clara and I made her such a priss, much to my second sister's irritation. The third sister was named Anastasia. She was kind of whacky. I didn't really have the stamina to develop her personality very well, so I made her a combination of first two to the point of schizophrenia. Three and a half days a week, she would be an adventurous tomboy just like Wendy, and precisely at 12:00 noon on Wednesdays, she would transform into a snooty little goodie-two-shoes just like Clara. The little brother was named Thomas and he was borderline psychotic. I didn't have any brothers, so I didn't really know what boys were like. I went with evil and violent.

You're Such An Idiot, Dad. God.

I never dreamed I would feel in any way badly about the death of a person such as Anna Nicole Smith. But to my utter astonishment, I do. I'm going to miss all the crazy. She made me laugh if at nothing else, then the utter inanity of the human species. Sometimes we take ourselves too seriously.

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Anyway, we finally got to have a little birthday party for Emma. Oh. My. God. This is the last birthday party I'm having for them. I'm no stickler for etiquette beyond just a general sense of politeness and tact, but I'm going to have to bitch for a second.

We had Emma's birthday at a little pastry shop close to our house. It's has a very cutesy decor with a giant inverted cupcake on the ceiling, and some very professional decorating. All the kids get to make their own cupcakes, which is cute. It's a great place for a little girl's birthday party.

A gentleman dropped off one of Emma's friends from school, then proceeded to tell me that the place was not very manly and he was going to take off and do manly things for awhile. Then he asked if he could leave his older daughter there. I wasn't terribly happy. First he insults the party and then he wants me to pay extra so he can leave his other daughter there and go pretend he's a man? He lives in the suburbs. It's not like he's going to suddenly grow a pair.

I'm not one to be rude in front of children so I smiled and said that I thought we had an extra place for his daughter and if we didn't she could share with her sister. He eventually ended up taking his daughter, but not after saying that the party wasn't really her thing. No duh, brain surgeon. She was in 4th grade and the party was for Kindergarteners. But what a thing to say.

I saw him again today while we were picking our kids up from another birthday party for another kid in Emma's class. He had managed to dump his older daughter off successfully at this one. I noted with a sense of smug satisfaction that he had food all over his face.

Good manners aren't for ladies and little girls. It doesn't make your dick shrink to act like a gentleman. And just because fathers/husbands are portrayed as fat, slow, simpletons in pop culture, it doesn't mean you are required to enforce that particular stereotype.

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Anyway, that's about all. There is something wrong with my computer, so I have to use Jethro's laptop and I'm still congested from my cold, so it's difficult to give him the blow jobs that are required to use it.

Back In The Saddle

Okay, Phlemfatale beat me to all the funny observations, but this has to be the best story to come down the pipes in years. I mean it has it all: love, obsession, attempted murder, travel .....diapers?! I mean, if I was going to murder the lover of my obsession, I'd want to do it after I'd soiled myself. I'm just sayin'...

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I've been sick again, so I haven't felt like doing anything except feeling sorry for myself lately. I still have a bad case of laringitis. Even Bobcat Goldwaithe has abandoned me to dulcet tones of a dying seal. It makes for an intersting love-making experience. I sounded like a badly dubbed anime porn character - male.

Perversely, I've needed my voice more than ever these last few days.

Jethro's job situation is looking tentative. I refuse to see this in a negative light. He needs to go out on his own. It is time.

My family situation, to which I have been alluding, but haven't actually blogged about, came to a head also. My mom, after many agonizing months and mind-numbingly excruciating thought processes (sparing me exposure to not the minutest detail), has finally filed for divorce from my Stepdad. Whether she will go through with it remains to be seen.

I have a million things to blog about, not the least of which is a little gift I received in the mail from a total pervert and his total pervert fiancee. But I outperved them. Oh yes I did. The details will have to remain forthcoming until I find the time to do them justice.

If Anyone Wants Me To Tell Them Where They Stand, Let Me Know

I've been working on this list for awhile. The various subspecies of man have been in dire need of classification. Men try in their unsophisticated ways to classify women all the time, but what usually emerges are overgeneralizations about shoes and maternal instinct. I was going to do women too, but I'm too close to the issue, and I know I would end up trying to make the coolest women sound like me which wouldn't be honest. Men are easier in every sense of the word.

Just a quick note before reading: It is possible and even likely that most men fall between classifications. For example, somewhere between an Asshole and a Real Man is a Real Asshole.

And I would dearly love some feedback.


Asshole: Universally hated, but doesn't realize it. Has a way with damaged women. Uses any means at his disposal to get laid. Thinks this makes him a stud. Likes manly things to the point of obsession, but is not terribly proficient in their use. Thinks sympathy is for pussies. Has a bad temper due to feelings of inadequacy. Chronically broke. No one will hire him long enough for him to make any money. Very stingy except when he's trying to derive power; then he's grandiose. If you are unlucky enough to be obligated to him in any way, look to have your life made miserable for it's duration.

Real Man: Not mean-spirited, but sometimes insensitive. Usually good-looking, but not always. The ugly ones make it seem tough. They are good at business and comprise the Good Old Boy Network. They like women in general, but often mistake high-maintenance for confidence. They go for trophy chicks, but will slop a pig if that's what's available. Usually has quite a few to choose from. They like guns and dogs and working out and steak and beer. Usually pretty even-tempered as long as he can play with all his toys in relative peace. He sows his wild oats, but usually settles down in the end because women in general confuse him and one is less confusing than many.

Gentleman: Smart, good manners, well dressed, always polite, generally good-looking. They usually have quite a panty collection. They're probably total perverts and if they're rich enough, have whole rooms dedicated to nasty sex. They are good at business because of their smooth moves, so they have money too. They have to fight off gold-diggers, but unless they're very unlucky, they don't end up with them. They like calm, smart, sophisticated women - someone who can challenge them without taking advantage. But they still like to win. They like taking trips into the outdoors and buying the latest equipment to facilitate their sojourns into nature, but they use it to enhance their urban existences as opposed to actually enjoying it for anything more than a week. They get along well with other men, but are not immediately trusted.

Good Guy: Sensitive, unselfish, and indecisive. Tougher women like to keep them as pets. They aren't terribly exciting, but they're kind and simple and reliable. They are highly employable, but tend to get passed over for promotion. They do regular boy things, but usually aren't very good at them. They are fairly intelligent and make better artists. They probably draw comic books and design video games in their heads. The ones who play guitar get laid more. They're good at the supportive aspect of relationships, but not very good at romance. They usually get along well with everyone.

Dandy: They are completely intimidated by other men, but try to hide it by insisting they are sophisticated as opposed to weak. Their voices are usually a little higher-pitched and softer than most other guys. They get under people's skin because they brag in those effeminate little voices almost without stopping. They drive complicated cars, get manicures, like fancy drinks and club music, and live far beyond their means. Gold-diggers will clean them out and leave them to die, strangled with their own gold chains and wallowing in vomit and blow.

Mama's Boy: Thinks he is a Good Guy, but he's not. He's slovenly, bad with money, probably grossly overweight. He whines a whole lot about women only liking assholes, and how good guys never get a break, but it usually falls on deaf ears. Usually gets taken advantage of by extremely large, brazen women who degrade him to anyone who will listen. Always begging for loans or handouts and always has a beautifully thought out hard-luck story to go along with it. When he works, it's usually in movie rentals or pizza delivery.

Nancy: Gay/Bi. This would involve a whole other set of classifications and I have neither the time nor the knowledge.

Slice of Life

I don't think I am a good person to have sex with if I'm in a certain humorous-type mood.

Over the weekend, I was dicking around on the internet while Jethro lounged in bed. He awoke in a state of excitement, and requested some alleviation. Sex was the farthest thing from my mind since I had been looking at coat racks on ebay (come to think of it, sex should not have been very far from my mind), but being the kind, acquiescent wife that I am, I agreed to the suggestion.

I got nekkid and said, "Proceed, sir" which is a line from Tombstone. It was funny and made me laugh. It didn't help tremendously with the proceedings. Jethro asked me if I wanted my vibrator. Now this part is accidental. I said, "Do you want me to have my vibrator?" which unintentionally came out like The 40 Year Old Virgin saying, "Do you want me to be retarded?"

I started laughing. Jethro grinned and rolled his eyes. I asked him if he minded if I blogged about it, and he said "Anything. Just shut the fuck up already."

Caffeine/Advil PM Induced Mania. Buckle Up

I'm currently working on a post categorizing men. There are plenty of lists that categorize women (because women are fond of analysis), but very few for the male gender. It should be fun.

But I can't concentrate because first off, I'm terribly busy at work, I have a massive headache, and I have an enormous erection which is weird because I don't have a penis.*

I am also worried about Jethro's and my financial situation. I have very little job security and I am beginning to think his boss is somewhat unwell in the emotional sense. I hate like the devil being dependent on others for an income. It is bullshit, especially when I know that Jethro can do better on his own.

So right about now I want to bash my head into a wall, except that it would hurt and I don't much care for pain except in certain controlled circumstances involving neckties, a couple of hair clips, some mentholated petroleum jelly, and an insistant verbalization of 'LEGITIMATE' (highlight the entire linked post for explanations) when things go a little too well.


*I don't actually have anything resembling an erection. I'm too sick to even be horny. But I've always wanted to say it, so I did. Like I care what anyone thinks.

Swing Low

The Lord hath apparently stricken me with Plague, and cursed me with a voice that blends the melodious tones of James Earl Jones with Bobcat Goldwaithe, which, to combine the gratutious insults of two dear friends, would be sexy if you were into elderly black men and harbored secret prison fantasies.

The upside is that I am now able to sing Swing Low Sweet Chariot as never before.

On Loaves and Fishes

I was reading my FFNH's (friend from New Hampshire) blog today. I wish I'd been able to put it that way a year ago. (But then again, if I was registering no suprise at Emma shitting diapers at 5 years of age, it would indicate that I had somewhat more severe psychological problems than originally suspected).

I wish I could properly explain my feelings on religion and faith. I have faith. I am even pretty sure I'm a Christian. But I don't go to church anymore. I get nothing out of it. Nothing. I sit there and I think, "even if this is the actual, literal body and blood of Christ, what is the point?"

Streamline things for me. Please. I used to think the ritualistic aspect of Catholicism was cool. I thought it was a connection to the Ancients with the Answers. But really it's just the World's Largest Secret Handshake Club (not my own phrasing, unfortunately). I know every trick of the trade. The True Believers will tell me that The Devil is putting those thoughts into my head to keep me from partaking of the Divine Grace of Our Lord, blah blah blah blah blah. More likely, it's The Devil convincing Them that it's okay to lie as long as there is one more ass in the pew guiltily handing over their money.

And don't any Protestants think they're off the hook because they've "streamlined" things. You haven't. If anything you've made it worse. Don't like what the peacher said? Start a new church. Don't like the new one? Start a new one. The phrase "Are you a Baptist?" is a trick question.

Jesus gave up the carpentry business, so I don't see any reason to force him into a building every Sunday.

I'm going to do something different on Sundays. I'm going to make dinner and have some conversation. It's an ambitious project for someone such as myself for whom sloth is almost an art. But why not? Take a seat. Have some loaves and fishes. Drink some wine. Talk about God. That's old school, baby.

I don't know if I'm going to Heaven or Hell. I honestly don't. And frankly, I don't see how it is any of my business anyway. I didn't ask to be here. I am the sole responsibility of the Great Intellect.

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad to be here and I'm not out killing anyone yet. But what comes next is Their decision.

If You Can't Be With The One You Love, Bash In Their Skull And Hope They Only Remember The Good Times

I'm not one to leave loose ends. I wish I was because it would make me far more interesting and sexy. But I like things wrapped up in tidy little packages, tied with tidy little bows. Or maybe knots. So for anyone who thought my last post was too cryptic (*cough* Trashman), allow me to clarify.

Two lovely people who are married and with whom I am rather closely acquainted, have decided to part ways. This did not come as a huge shock to me because a few years ago I was at their house staring in rather horrified surprise at the songs the husband had downloaded from Kazaa.

There was only one song on their list.

The refrain has a certain charm, to be sure. But if you're just loving "the one you're with" I can assure you that "the one you're with" will be the appendage attached to your wrist (barring any unfortunate harvesting accidents) in fairly short order.

Human beings just don't settle. We'll construct any number of intricate delusions in order to convince ourselves that the ones we love are indeed the ones we're with. And if you aren't doing that, then you are kind of scummy. Slightly more honest perhaps, but still scummy.

Lest anyone get the idea that this is a reflection of a personal nature, it isn't. Well it is, but it has nothing to do with Jethro or me. I have to put that out there just in case there are lurkers who are concocting fantasies that they have a shot with either of us. Because as you all know, people are just beating down our door.

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I went to an Asian business networking association "mixer" with Jethro last night. Big mistake. Jethro is great at that kind of thing. Me not so much. He's the James Bond to my Old Elvis.

Anyway, there were quite a few young Asian professionals looking to make some business contacts. And since I don't do anything more professional than fluffing my husband when I want to eat, I was a bit out of my element. So I started drinking. I only had three, but I hadn't eaten much and they were pretty strong.

It's a bad thing when I drink alone. I'm not meant for it. I get tunnel vision and I only see the glass. I sip the cranberry juice and vodka through the straw to watch it wind it's way in rivulets, against gravity, through the ice cubes,. This does not make one's drinks last as long as one might think. So I end up dispatching with them pretty rapidly.

I was finishing my second one when the bartender came up to me and asked how I was doing. I told him I thought I was being discriminated against. He humored me.

So I think I'll leave that kind of thing to Jethro from now on. He's far more likeable and has far fewer disorders.

Quite Possibly The Most Dangerous Song Ever Written

Stills, 1970

Love the One You're With

If you're down and confused
And you don't remember who you're talkin' to
Concentration slip away
Cause your baby is so far away.
Well, there's a rose in a fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love
Love the one you're with
Love the one you're with

Don't be angry, don't be sad,
Don't sit cryin' over good things you've had,
There's a girl right next to you
And she's just waiting for something you do.
Well, there's a rose in a fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love
Love the one you're with
Love the one you're with

Turn your heartache right into joy
She's a girl, you're a boy,
Get it together make it nice
Ain't gonna need anymore advice.
Well, there's a rose in a fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love
Love the one you're with
Love the one you're with

I Think I Have Pretty Small Nipples

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H/T: Angi who exhorts me to count my blessings.

Emma Funny

Emma just told me (in reverential tones) that "Martha Lutin King Junior turned the whole world gray."

Fluffer

I hurt my lower back after having had some intercourse last night. My head and shoulders were off the bed and I thought my stomach muscles were getting the workout since I held the position for more than 10 minutes. I guess I'm not in good enough shape for those kinds of antics. It was worth it though.

I am having family problems which I would like to blog about, but it's a little bit of hush hush. Never a dull moment. Ever. And it seems that everyone would be miserable if there were.

And some winter weather is moving through The Great State. It should be fun. I'm going to lay in provisions because I don't like driving even in nice weather. Ice just may kill me.

To prepare for 3 days of frigid temperatures, I bought a hat. Gwennie told me I looked like a Mommy burglar. Lately nothing has made her and Emma happier than putting on hats and pretending to be burglars. That and breakdancing.

RIWherever Saddam

This is probably going to come as somewhat of a surprise.

I was not pleased with Saddam Hussein's hanging. He deserved it, no question. But the manner in which it was preformed was not, in my opinion, optimal. From the taunts and the jeers behind cowardly masks, to preforming it on a holiday, it was not a carrying out of justice, but a bloodthirsty act of vengeance. There were a few things about it I didn't realize, since I didn't understand the language being spoken. I didn't realize that they didn't allow Saddam to finish his recitation of faith. And I didn't realize that right after the drop, they were shouting Muqtada al Sadr's name. Please read the following post by The Sandmonkey. He completely nailed down my misgivings about the entire event.

If you haven't been following the happenings in that part of the world, Muqtada al Sadr is a radical Shiite cleric. He hated Saddam (a Sunni), but he is also allied with the Iranians who hate the U.S. and are behind most of the sectarian violence in Iraq right now. Their goal is simple. Take advantage of the U.S. removal of Saddam and extend the Islamic revolution to Iraq.

I remember the old argument for not removing Saddam during the first Gulf War: If we had removed Saddam, someone worse would have taken his place.

No truer words were ever spoken if we're talking about al Sadr. Saddam was bad. There was no reason to leave him in power, especially when Iraq is so valuable to us strategically. And he got the death he so richly deserved. But there is no time or reason to revel in his death. al Sadr and the rest of the nuts over there are just a different side to the same evil coin. Al Sadr will be worse than Saddam if he is left unchecked because he will have more followers with the Shiites, plus he will have allies in Iran and Syria.

Knowing the psychosis brewing in Iran, it bothers me to no end that we let al Sadr's people hang him. We shouldn't have done that.

An Interesting Dichotomy

I live in a very Republican town. Think of the most irritating stereotypes of Republicans and you will have an idea of what 90% of the population which surrounds me is like. The only difference is that 50% of the population is non-white. But they're still Republican.

I must digress briefly. There is one thing I may not make entirely clear in my political ramblings. I detest stereotypical "conservatives." I tolerate them simply because I find stereotypical "liberals" infinitely more obnoxious. Incidentally, I don't understand why "liberals" call themselves liberal. The true believers subscribe to the most crippling, nonsensical, hypocritical, irrational brand of austere morality, which they then try to impose on everyone else. It's like a new, unnatural, and even more joyless religion - one where (at it's most extreme) eating meat, driving cars, and working is violently opposed, but where killing your unborn children is a new baptism. And having finally shed the last vestiges of the morbidly apocalyptic morality of my parents, I am not about fall over that precipice again.

Religious conservatives are almost as odious. But luckily for me (as opposed to most self-proclaimed liberals) I don't give a shit what either camp thinks. Or at least I don't when it comes to living every day life.

But back to the original topic. I pass by the city tax office every day after work. There is no parking and it's on a one-way street, so mostly I just try to get past it without crashing into elderly Asian women. But today, in my obnoxiously Republican city, a few unhygenic men had set up a rickety card table on the lawn of the tax office replete with typical leftist slogans and accompanying caricatures of different members of the Bush administration, including Condoleeza Rice wearing a head rag.

Why is it they insist upon forcing their cartoons on everyone? They can't possibly think that anyone with even a minimal ability for critical thinking is going to say: "Oooo! Someone drew Bush as a Retard with Big Ears. He must be the evil genius mastermind of 9/11 because when it comes right down to it, Muslims are really such a peaceful and loving people."

I mean if I carried around a sign depicting President Clinton getting sucked into a Giant Felching Cunt, while al Qaida plotted in the background, would anyone take me seriously?


I watched them idly while I waited for the light to turn green. They were pretty soundly ignored by everyone. I didn't even have the energy to give them the finger.

Which brings me to my point. Here we have a lone hippie, surrounded and outnumbered by evil, capitalist, war-mongering Republicans. He is left unmolested. Yet when I was surrounded by wholesome, peaceful, anti-war Meat Snobs, I was screamed at through a bullhorn, clobbered with a sign, and pushed into traffic. It can't just be because I smelled better.