Sen. Al Franken

Al Franken was finally declared the winner of the Minnesota Senate seat by the state Supreme Court.

Eight months later.

(Facepalm)

And Now Billy Mays?

What the fuck? If Twitter is to be believed, Billy Mays died this morning. His son said he didn’t wake up and people are reporting that Fox News is reporting that he died.

Billy Mays was the television “pitch man” who was known for his iconic blue shirt and loud voice. He was best known for his commercials for OxyClean and products from the Mighty brand. He had just begun a show the the Discovery Channel Pitchmen.

This was completely unexpected.

Update: Confirmed!  This has to be a celebrity-specific strain of Swine Flu!  Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Billy Mays… who’s next?

Jizz, Coffee, Stale Cigarettes and Gin

I got back from seeing a play which starred my wonderful friends Kris and Gina, and the last thing I expected to happen happened.

Someone designed a perfume for me.

Mr. Braden,

I’m sure you know now that Richard Dawkins and Hemant Mehta have their own fragrances.  Even Jenny McCarthy has her own! Bullshit! lol Well I read your blog and (SORRY!) imagined what you smell like, and, well, see attached.

In good fun!

Jackson

First, don’t call me Mr. Braden.  The name’s Reed.  Second, that is NOT what I smell like!

(Sniffs self)

You forgot cat hair.

Anyhoo, links to Hemant Mehta, Richard Dawkins and Jenny McCarthy’s stink sprays are here, here and here, respectively.

I like that my fragrance looks like they peeled the label off the Jenny McCarthy fragrance and stuck a new one on.  I guess it’s what they do with all the bottles that won’t move off the shelf.  Jenny, you can’t sell too many cosmetics when your target audience is dying of measles.

Well, I’m off to the store to buy 300 sticks of deodorant.  I hope CVS sells Right Guard in bulk.

Response from Richard Stevens

Richard Stevens responded via email to a post I wrote about a cartoon of his that offended me.

Your first commenter is dead-on correct!

My first commenter suggested that, “The better value joke is not a negative view on gay people, it’s the joke that being Bi gets you laid more than anyone else.”

Okay.  I thought too hard about the comic, trying to figure out the meaning behind the specific word choice in the last panel.  I would just suggest that Richard Stevens be a bit more careful with the word value when used in jokes pertaining to gay people.  We’re still licking our wounds (and others gays’ wounds… sorry…) over damage inflicted by other meanings of that word.

I was wrong.  To the stocks with me.

Now, Back to Important Things

An update on the gay exorcism story: CNN scored an interview with the pastor of the church that performed an exorcism on an allegedly gay member who looked like a teenager or a young adult.

This looks long and outrageous, so I’m going to semi-liveblog my reaction.

The beginning of the video.  The host said the video shows, “a young man being ministered to, I suppose.”  No you do not suppose!  You see a young man being held down, beaten and yelled at by a delusional cult of retards!  If that’s what we call the ministry these days, no wonder why the Christian church is in trouble with keeping asses in seats!

First question was when it happened.  Patricia McKinney, the pastor, wasn’t sure when she held down the homosexual, beat him and screamed that he was possessed by a demon.  Funny… that seems like an event you would remember clearly if it was a one-time deal.

She is whoring and advertising for her church rather than answering the question of if the man wanted to be beaten, shout at and sexually harassed.

Now she answers:  “All of a sudden, he hits the floor.”  THEN CALL A MOTHERFUCKING AMBULANCE YOU IGNORANT CHRISTTARD!  Falling to the ground and shaking violently does not mean, “I’m gay. Heal me.”  It means, “I’m having a SEIZURE!  Call the fucking paramedics!”

Now she says he came into the church (doesn’t put it on the timeline with the filmed incident) and said he didn’t want to live the life of a gay man.  Why the sudden change of story?

The next saying I hear echoed a lot from family and those who surround me where I live and it really boils my blood:  “Manifested Glory is not against homosexuality.  We do not hate them.  We don’t come up against them.  We just don’t believe in their lifestyle.”

Pause.

Let’s replace some words to make a point.  The following does not reflect what I actually believe.

I am not against the nigger community.  I don’t hate them.  I don’t come out against them.  I just don’t believe in the niggers’ lifestyle.

Anyone who can explain how my statement is any different from hers gets a cookie.

Being gay is not a lifestyle, any more than being black is.  Yes, there is a stereotypical lifestyle that some gay men participate in that involves fashion, pride parades and celebrity trash news, but that is not what it means to be gay.  And that’s not what she is talking about either.

Whenever you hear someone saying that they don’t agree with, “the homosexual lifestyle,” they are saying that they hate homosexuality.  If you dosed this bitch with sodium thiopental and interrogated her, you’d come out with the truth, that she is disgusted by gay people and she shares the same virulent hatred that her parents and grandparents faced from white racists.  Her hatred is just targeted at gay people instead of black people.

They use the word lifestyle because it sounds like something you choose.  And the irony is this:  The people who say that homosexuality is a choice are often the best evidence against that idea.  Why would I choose to be gay if the world is full of Pat Robertsons, George Bushes and Patricia McKinneys who will hate and discriminate against me for that choice?  Their very existence disproves their own argument.

Patricia McKinney may not hate certain gay people, but she hates them in general.

Carrying on.

If you are gay, “You can come in our church, but you can not live that lifestyle in our church.”  Remember, “live that lifestyle” means “be gay.”  You can not join the church if you are gay.  It’s discriminatory.  It loses tax exemption.  Call the IRS.

The host asks for further clarification and she states that the only way a gay person can be a member is if they are “cured” first.

“We do not like the lifestyle of a man with a man or a woman with a woman, and that’s our beliefs[sic].”  Funny.  My sister told me the same thing when I asked her why she voted to ban me from getting married.

All people, even gays, are allowed to come into the church, but they have to, “get delivered.”  As we saw in the video, the “delivery” of a gay man looks just like a lynch mob.

The fat bitch is comparing homosexuality with alcoholism, crack cocaine and adultery.

She just said that she’s a prophet who, “declares the word of the lord.”  The word of the lord has gone down the tubes a loooooooooong way since the Old Testament.  She hasn’t uttered a single sentence so far that would pass a 1st grade grammar test.

Oh… she’s a recovering crack and heroine addict.  That explains everything.  I’m done with her.  I don’t waste my time refuting the delusions and spiritual hallucinations of drug users.  When half of your brain cells are dead, I have nothing rational to discuss with you.

(Via The Gay Atheist)

Farrah Fawcett and The Creature That Used to be Black and Adorable Died

There are certain people who have died that I could not find it in me to mourn.  Those are people like Saddam Hussein and Timothy McVeigh who made me kick the dust at me feet and mumble, “good riddance.”  I think all humans, at least those who are honest with themselves, have moments like that.

Only a few of us chosen people (not to be confused with Chosen People®) can admit that there are a few deaths that, either because of the timing or because of the person, caused them to laugh relentlessly and unashamedly.  My list is short:  Jerry Falwell, because he died on my 18th birthday as God’s present to me; Anna Nicole Smith, because she was Anna Nicole Smith; and Michael Jackson, who several sources (TMZ, Perez, LA Times) are reporting has just died from the rare and fatal face-sliding-off-in-chunks disease cardiac arrest.

I was in mourning for the great actress and sex goddess Farrah Fawcett who was reported dead this morning when Jack-O appeared out of nowhere to brighten my day.

Does this make me a bad person?  In all probability, yes.  Will calling me a bad person for laughing at the 75% freakshow make me laugh even harder and direct some of that laughter toward you, his fans?  Abso-friggin-lutely.  Laugh away, my friends.  The biggest joke in the world has reached its punchline.

Now that the 80’s are officially dead, can we go back to good music now?

Okay… now that we’ve got all the laughs out of our system…

Today is a day to mourn the loss of the brilliant, attractive and wonderful entertainer Farrah Fawcett, whose loss will overshadow any of today’s other media jokes in my book.

@Accostherwilde Rides the Snake

Several people have asked me about my recent #hashtag on Twitter, #ridethesnake.  The term has no real definition and let this image of @accostherwilde be all the explanation you’ll ever get:

If you have never ridden the snake, this is not you.  But is it FOR you?

Probably.

Riding the snake is the most awesome thing in the world.

Gay Exorcism

I knew these things actually happened in the US, but this is the first time I’ve seen video evidence.

The video is from a church in Connecticut called Manifested Glory Ministries.  They put it n their website, obviously proud that they could muster the audacity to put their knowingly fraudulent and psychotic practices to work as a tool for homophobia.  I wonder if the shysters made any money off of scaring this possibly gay child for life.

The FDA needs to crack down hard on these dangerous and bogus blowhards for offering (and perhaps selling) a dangerous medieval “therapy” that claims, and consistently fails, to cure ailments.  They might get away with it if the conditions they claim to cure are imaginary (Our Name is Legion. Your mother sucks cocks in Hell!), but since homosexuality is a real thing, and they claim to cure it, the FDA needs to bring the hammer down hard.  And they can.  The same goes for Benny Hinn and the other lunatics who think that pushing old ladies in the head and knocking them down will cure cancer.

After seeing this, I have no doubt that what you are seeing in this video is violating at least a dozen laws relating to advertising, medicine, child abuse, harassment (could the gay person walk away or stop the hazing at any time?), physical abuse, emotional abuse, slander, discrimination, etc.

If I don’t start hearing about some very strong legal cases brought against the psychos, I’m going to be extremely angry.  This is not something that is or should be protected by the First Amendment.  Freedom of religion is not the freedom to abuse.

Or are we going to wait until this kid is older, and, as churches are known to do, he is intimidated with everlasting flame to stay in such an environment where he eventually kills himself?  Press charges, State of Connecticut.  Put these errant frauds in jail.

Smokeless Day #2

I went 24 hours without a cigarette and smoked one.  Next goal:  48 hours.

The tremours and tics have mostly gone back down to normal (at least normal for me) levels.

Last night’s dreams were awful though.  I dreamed that I had a romantic relationship with my ex Nigel–not the bloody motherfucking asshole who recently broke my heart, but an old high school boyfriend I haven’t even thought about in months.  We were walking hand-in-hand from my apartment to Pop’s, an ice cream bar on my street in Roanoke, when a man leaving Spike’s, the bar next to it, pulled a gun on us, shouting, “Faggots!  Queers!  Everywhere I go; these fucking queers!” and shot us both, wounding me and killing him.  I woke up screaming and crying.

After I went back to sleep, it was the same story line—which was odd—but I was in court testifying over what happened and wept on the bench.  After I couldn’t stop crying the judge called me a, “blithering faggot,” and held me in contempt of court.  He then dropped the murderer’s charge to “voluntary manslaughter.”  Then I led a million-man march on Richmond to urge the inclusion of the LGBT community into Virginia hate crimes law.

This was the first dream I’ve had on the patch that wasn’t patently absurd—although the thought of me dating Nigel again is personally absurd, even though I do consider him a friend.  It could have only been made less horrifying if there was something absurdist about the dream… I don’t know… Sarah Palin shooting an octopus cannon at the march from a zeppelin or something.  And now that I wrote that, I guarantee she will at least have a balloon-oriented cameo in tonight’s 3-D IMAX mindfuck.

Nothing too interesting or entertaining to report, I’m afraid.  My last few posts garnered enough attention that I almost didn’t post an update today out of fear of boring/depressing my readers today… but liveblogging my recovery from addiction is something that helps me and I hope helps other quitters as well, so I’ll continue doing this as often as possible.

One helpful tip to fellow quitters:  As tempting as it may be, never sniff the back of a NicoDerm patch.  Shit stung my nose for five minutes after one short sniff.  The smell is comparable to a paper mill and the stinging comparable to a jellyfish… a jellyfish the size of Rhode Island who is currently PMSing inside of your nostril.  Don’t sniff the patch.

Richard Stevens Has Some ‘Splainin to Do

I’m a big fan of the webcomic Diesel Sweeties by Richard Stevens, but today’s comic made me cringe.

Here’s the final panel of the comic:

I’m not one to decry an artist’s entire collected works over one bad or tasteless moment. (What do I look like?  The Vatican?)  Diesel Sweeties is usually a very tolerant and progressive—not to mention hilarious—comic, but this comic brought up a serious question:

Does Richard Stevens really think that being bisexual is really, as his character Indie Rock Pete says, “a much better value,” than being gay?  I’ve heard some unpleasant dialogue in the South that was much like this, usually along the lines of, “Well, at least he likes pussy too,” or, “It’s only half as bad,” but to see that sentiment echoed in a progressive webcomic as the punch line of a joke is just tacky.

I understand that this joke would be killed if the punch line was replaced with, “It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re gay, Clango, but if you discover that you are gay, bisexual or transgendered, that would be just fine with me!”  But sometimes if you can’t change a joke to make it less offensive or divisive, it’s probably best to not do the joke at all.

Also, I’m not going to argue that I was offended by Clango’s subtle fear that he might have had (GASP!) a gay thought about Indie Rock Pete’s exposed nether-regions, but it really doesn’t help people who are struggling to find their sexual identity to see moments like this as something to be feared or ashamed of instead of the start of a journey into honest exploration of one’s self.

I would like to state, for the record, that I’m not easily offended and I usually groan when I hear news stories about some gay group getting up in arms over a tiny gay joke in a TV show… but this was just unexpected and unappreciated.

Richard Stevens, I really want to know if you feel that bisexuals have “a better value” than gay people, and if not, why would you use such a commonly-held and poisonous belief as the punch line (rather than the butt of) a joke?  If this was the first comic I ever saw of yours, I wouldn’t read on.

Buzz Aldrin: Astronaut, First Man on the Moon, Rapper

Wikipedia has a short list of people who have died from laughing too hard on their article about death from laughter.  I almost needed to be added to the list after watching this:

Buzz Aldrin: Rocket Experience

The “making of” video is even funnier.  It features Snoop Dogg.

(Via Susan Lendroth, Planetary Society Blog)

Mark, Dear, Learn to Plan Your Lies in Advance

Not that you’re going to have very many more opportunities to lie to the public again…

SC Governor Mark Sanford (R, no matter what Fox calls him) went missing from his wife and children (and, you know, that whole state he was in control of) over Father’s Day.  He didn’t tell anyone where he was going.  Not even his family.

First, his wife lied for him, saying he “often” takes these trips because he likes solitude when he’s writing.

Then his staffers came up with another reason why no one, not even law enforcement, can find him and why he is unreachable on his cell phone:  He’s hiking the Appalachian Trail!  Duh! … Wait… what do you mean the 21st, when Gov. Sanford went on his hiking trip, is the day when avid hikers hike on the AT completely naked?  What?  And the stimulus money goes to trail upkeep?  Oh dear, this looks very, very bad.  Can we retract that last excuse please?

So with the media (with the exception of Fox “News,” who claimed of the Republican Governor that they don’t care where that lousy Democrat is), law enforcement and his family trying to reconcile the myriad different stories and getting stuck with, “Well, he was lugging his writing desk up the Appalachian Trail so he could write, alone and naked in the woods, as Democrats are oft wont to do, when he accidentally threw his cell phone off a mountain… as Gov. Sanford is ‘often’ prone to do,” Gov. Sanford (R!) exits his plane with a nice golden tan and an Argentinean woman’s hickies all down his neck.  And, as we all know, Argentineans are second only to Brazilians in terms of rape beauty and the Gov.’s wife looks like Susan Boyle.

Quick, Team Sanford, come up with another lie!  Your jobs are at stake!

As the Gov grabbed his whore, as he started to grope,
He heard his whole state, as they all tried to cope.

He turned around fast and he saw all the press.
CNN, MSNBC, Fox and the rest.

They stared at the Gov and said, “Governor, why?”
As his wife, Susan Boyle, and his children all cried.

But you know, that old Gov was so smart and so slick,
That he thought up a lie and he thought it up quick.

“Why my sweet little press,” the Republicrat lied,
“There’s a dick ‘twixt my legs that won’t cum for my wife.

“So I’m taking it to South America, my dear.
I’ll get it up there, then I’ll bring it back here.”

One Step Closer to a Cure?

This came out today from the CBC:

HIV, chemo therapies combine for new AIDS-fighting approach

Treating HIV/AIDS with a combination of antiviral drugs and chemotherapy seems to destroy both the circulating virus and immune cells in which the virus hides, a team of Canadian and U.S. researchers has found.

Read more.

Smokeless Afternoon #1

I finally got some sleep.  My dreams were incredibly fuck-all real and I woke up after each one, pissed off that they didn’t really happen.  I remember them all in excruciating detail.

In one, I was trying to operate an crazy steam-punked DC Metro train that had to be continuously fed quarters and my friend Kyle Moir was there, kicking a vending machine.  Every time he kicked it, a different brand of Reese’s candy came out, but not the Reese’s FastBreak which is what he wanted.  Even in the world of dream steam punk, coin-operated machines never work how you want them to.  In the first car of the train an ensemble piece of pitchy, creepily enthusiatic, racially diverse vocalists performed a version of The Threepenny Opera accompanied by a small brass band with four trumpets, two trombones, a picolo trumpet and a tuba; an old family friend Becky Wallenborn with a full grand piano, a grand harpsichord and an old Hammond B-3 organ and Colin Meloy from the Decemberists with a whole slew of old antique string instruments including an old steel guitar, a banjo, a massive sitar whick he never played and a beat-up acoustic guitar signed by John Coltraine, who, as far as I and Colin knew, never actually played guitar.  There was a clarinet part, but it was played on the Hammond organ.  Both the car and my memory of the dream were uncomfortably cluttered with the musicians.  It didn’t seem unusual since we were on a steam punk Metro train.  At one point, I helped improve the Balladeer’s choreography on “The Ballad of Mack the Knife.”

In another, I was sitting in a garden, not unlike the garden where the newt-enthusiast Gussie Fink-Nottle proposed to Madeline Bassett in one of P. G. Wodehouse’s novels, with my friend Heather Creel, baring my soul and weeping.  She was wearing a top hat.  At the end of the dream, and completely out-of-character for Heather, she beats me about the head with a banjo taken from a polka musician who was serenading us with a small, lederhosened polka band near our bench in the garden.

The last one was so bizzare that I still feel like it should be Groundhog Day again.  My phone rang and I woke up, ignored the call, and saw it was 11:58 PM and that I had slept for the whole day.  I waited, and when the clock on my phone switched over, the date stayed the same.  So I went back to bed.  I actually woke up at 3:10 PM when my mom called me, ignored the call and lay in bed extremely confused that the sun was back up.

As an added bonus, the nicotine patch fell off while I was asleep.  I just applied a new one, but until this fucking thing kicks in, fuck you all.  I hope all of you are in a North Korean death camp being tortured with bamboo chutes up your urethras!

That’s about it.  I hope you’re enjoying my misery.

Smokeless Morning #1

Last night began my attempt to quit smoking via transdermal nicotine patches.

Since applying the patch at 9 PM, I’ve already noticed several intense effects:

• My usual tics and tremours have intensified to the those expected of a chipmunk with cerebral palsy trying to do an impression of Michael J. Fox, no offense to palsy-suffering chipmunks or Michael J. Fox.  Walking is a laughable and whimsical goal.  I should give up on that one.
• Sleep is simultaneously the most hateful, unattainable and coveted thing on the planet.
• My attempt at sleep may or may not have worked.  I’m not really sure.  It was less what I would call “sleep,” and more of what I would call, “Whoa!  Where did that hour between 5:00 AM and 6:30 AM go?  Did my clock (and the sun) mysteriously jump ahead without my permission?”  Experts have informed me that there is actually an hour and a half between 5 and 6:30 in the morning, but since I was not there to witness this phenomenon, I am inclined to doubt their claims.
• My mouth tastes like I have been sucking on copper pennies—as if there was any other kind of penny.  And not clean, freshly-minted pennies, either, but the kind of pennies you find coated in greenish-brown sludge at the bottom of a drawer in a second-hand armoire that may or may not have previously belonged to an old woman who allowed her multitude of cats to use its moulding drawers as a litter box.
• Okay. Poop is decidedly not coming out now.
• My pulse is no longer keeping a steady beat.  It is instead pulsing the syncopated 7/8 rhythm of “And The Money Kept Rolling In” from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Evita.  The Mandy Patinkin version, not the terrible Antonio Banderas travesty.
• I am actually deeply offended that my spell-check did not recognise the surname Patinkin, but amused and overjoyed that it did not recognise the surname Banderas, which is only given to talentless prettyboys.  I know that the instantaneousness and intensity with which these emotions overcame me is not normal.
• Food smiles at me in the most repulsive Cheshire Cat way.  I wish to eat the food, but it constantly evades the sharp stab of my fork and I know that eating it will not make that sickening grin disappear.
• My skin itches and burns as if a thousand tiny larvae, not unlike those who are currently munching on the least of the Baldwin Brothers, are burrowing under my skin.  Scratching the itch is impossible as the moment my fingers touch my skin, the itch moves ever-so-slightly out of the way of my fingers and intensifies, giggling inaudibly at my futile efforts to achieve the ridiculous and fabled result of “comfort”.
• There is a tightening in my throat, not noticeable enough to cause serious medical concern but noticeable enough to make me want to perform corrective surgery on it myself with a hatchet and my severely shaky and unstable hands.
• Okay.  Poop is coming out now, but never in my life has poop wanted to leave me so quickly and urgently.  I’m interpreting its hasty and hateful exodus from my body as a personal insult to my gracious hospitality that allowed it to stay in for longer than I had anticipated it would.
• The remaining cigarettes in what should be my last pack ever have actually and literally turned into menthol-infused maggots.  I want nothing more than to burn them and punish them for the personalised Guantanamo Bay they have forced me into, but the very idea of inhaling their fumes as they blister and crackle to their painful death is less appealing to me than having prolonged sexual intercourse with this very NSFW individual.  You have just been StankVagRolled™. Pass it on.

I can safely and unequivocally say that Nicoderm CQ is a dreadful product that is almost certainly comprised of crystal meth and Post-It note glue.  Lung cancer is looking pretty good right about now.  Is this how being a non-smoker feels?  How do you people put up with this madness?

Fuck You, Lily Allen

No… I’m not telling Lily Allen to fuck herself… that’s the name of the song.

If you ever are under the misconception that when I’m trashing people on my blog, I’m doing so with malice and hate, just remember that this melody is constantly running through my head.  I’m never more cheerful than when I’m telling Republicans, Libertarians, Democrats, Anarchists, Communists, Socialists, Christians, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, New-Agers, conspiracy theorists, Jennifer-McCarthyists, Oprah, Humanists, Agnostics, white supremacists, black supremacists, Splendid Elles, Robert Pattinson, patriots, ex-patriots, nationalists, traitors, Brian “Sapient” Cutler, conservatives, liberals, myself, anyone who isn’t Lily Allen and people who like Rocky Road ice cream to fuck themselves.

As you might have already guessed, the lyrics aren’t work-appropriate.  But if you’re coming here for work-appropriateness you’re in the very, very wrong place.

Hate Crime by Banjo

I was going through my RSS reader, trying to knock out the rest of this morning’s news before I head to my mom’s house to raid the pantry.  I was not expecting an emotional rollercoaster.

Perhaps it was because the background strings had just picked up on Sinatra’s “It Was a Very Good Year” when I saw the headline, but tears started to well up when I read this:

US census to count married gay couples

US Census Bureau officials have said that the 2010 census will count married gay couples, despite previous statements that they would not be recognised.

I know… I know… I’m such a big pussy that my nose bleeds every 28 days.

But then I came across this headline:

Gay New Zealand man beaten to death with banjo

The trial of a Hungarian tourist who allegedly killed a 69-year-old gay man with a banjo has begun today in the Auckland High Court.

The man on trial, Ferdinand Ambach, is accused of beating Ronald James Brown around the head with a 2.7kg banjo, before shoving the neck repeatedly down his throat.

And one of the buttery and soy-saucy noodles I was munching on shot out of my left nostril like a floppy SCUD missile.  I can’t stop laughing.

Is that wrong?

I Feel Awkward

The US House of Representatives voted overwhelmingly to pass a short resolution decrying the recent violence in Iran.  The resolution passed 405 to 1.

Expressing support for all Iranian citizens who embrace the values of freedom, human rights, civil liberties, and rule of law, and for other purposes.
Resolved, That the House of Representatives-
(1) expresses its support for all Iranian citizens who embrace the values of freedom, human rights, civil liberties, and rule of law;
(2) condemns the ongoing violence against demonstrators by the Government of Iran and pro-government militias, as well as the ongoing government suppression of independent electronic communication through interference with the Internet and cellphones; and
(3) affirms the universality of individual rights and the importance of democratic and fair elections.

Glory Hallelujah! God bless America!  Sign me up!

And the single nay vote:  Dr. Rep. Ron Paul PhD MD BS.  That BASTARD!

Why would Rep. Ron Dr. Paul support violence, oppression and voter suppression?  You know… aside from being a Texan?

Then I reluctantly read his ignorant, putrid statement on the vote, seething as I did so:

I rise in reluctant opposition to H Res 560, which condemns the Iranian government for its recent actions during the unrest in that country. While I never condone violence, much less the violence that governments are only too willing to mete out to their own citizens, I am always very cautious about “condemning” the actions of governments overseas. As an elected member of the United States House of Representatives, I have always questioned our constitutional authority to sit in judgment of the actions of foreign governments of which we are not representatives. I have always hesitated when my colleagues rush to pronounce final judgment on events thousands of miles away about which we know very little. And we know very little beyond limited press reports about what is happening in Iran.

What a coward!  What a traitor!  What an ignorant baboon!  How dare he speak out against freedom and justice, and how dare–

Wait. What?

Oh dear.

[Quickly re-reads Rep. Paul’s statment.]

Mr. Dr. Rep. Ron Paul PhD MD Esq. XVI is… umm… hmm… what I mean to say is… he must have… err… goddammit, he’s right.

I… agree… with something… Ron Paul did.

[Waits for the gasps, muffled screams and hysterical sobbing to die down.]

Eww… now I need to go take a shower.

Obama v. Hodgman: Battle for the Funny

Barack Obama warms up the stage for John Hodgman.

On Love (Or: Acts of Unforgivable Asshattery and the Douchebags Who Commit Them)

I often write posts while I’m angry.  A lot of bloggers I talk to have a personal rule that they don’t blog when they’re strongly emotional.  I tried to follow that rule but the stats showed me that my most angry posts were often the most well-received and always the most read.  So I came up with a simpler rule:  I won’t blog if I’m sitting in a pool of my own vomit or tears or someone else’s blood.  It’s worked so far.

Interesting side note:  I did once write a post while sitting atop of a large pile of dead male prostitutes, but I mopped up the blood first so I still haven’t technically broken my rule.  I’ll leave it up to you to figure out what post it was.  Hint:  It’s this one.  But that’s beside the point.

However, I’m about to break my rule.  I’ve been a sobbing, emotional wreck for the past couple days and I’m writing this post now.  I promise it has something to do with Atheism/naturalism.materialism/whatever.  Hang on.

Long story short without too much personal information:  My ex-boyfriend, who I, as of a couple of days ago, still loved, asked me to drive an hour out of my way and back to pick him up and take him to the bus station in Roanoke so he could go “visit some friends” in New York.  I did so happily.  While we were killing time before the bus arrived, I discovered that the main reason why he wanted to go to New York was to have sex with a guy he was talking to online and had never met.  Knowing that I still had feelings for him, he asked me to take him to the bus station for this.  As you can probably tell, if I didn’t have the strange habit/fetish of running a catheter from my tear ducts to my mouth during times of great distress so I can constantly taste the sweet aroma of misery, I would be so dehydrated that Lot’s wife would look like Arial from Disney’s The Little Mermaid in comparison.

Another interesting side note:  This chaotic experience brought up the memory of me to another old friend who is cuter than my ex and he offered up some snuggle time, so it’s not an entirely traumatic situation.  It’s still fairly shitty though.  But that’s also beside the point.

Now that we have the background out of the way, the point:  I’m a cold and analytical bitch.  I’m friendly in person (@accosterwilde, if you laugh at that, I’ll smother you in your sleep.  In a friendly manner.), but I over-analyse emotions and see them as either unnecessary pleasant or uncomfortable chemical imbalances.  The impotent theist argument that science can’t prove that love exists or that Atheists are incapable of feeling love, since God is Love and all that tripe has had no effect on me whatsoever.

Love, to me, has always been just a chemical imbalance that was left over the evolutionary necessity of keeping children with their mothers until they were old enough to go out alone.  And I still hold that outlook.  But for the first time in my life, I actually felt more of the human aspect of love when I met this man.  In fact, that strengthened my resolve that science completely explains the phenomenon.  No one will do something as foolish as driving two hours to deliver a person from point A to point B or annoy his readers with a long personal rant without being at least marginally chemically imbalanced.

See?  That was sort-of on topic enough for the blog.  Anyway, it was on topic enough to justify ranting here.

To any prospective dates out there:  I’m rarely this vitriolic to ex-boyfriends.  I’m on good speaking terms with all of my exes (except this one now).  Don’t judge me by this post.  I’ll only seethe about you like this if you do something so outrageous as to take advantage of my love for you to get a free ride to the bus station to go fuck some Internet guy you’ve never met before.