What, Me Worry?
I woke up twice last night. Worries have a way of slipping into your dreams and saying “Wake up! Zombies are chasing you!” or “Hey, all your hair fell out. Have a nice day.” I lay in bed and looked at the clock for a while; checked my Ipod for messages. Thank God my worries can’t text. “Oh, did I wake you? Hey! You’re going to die alone! Bwahahahaha!”.
I hope I don't get eaten by a lion or taken as a sex slave. Have a nice day!
Maybe my coping mechanism is stripped from trying to tighten it with the wrong tools. Last year, my body seemed to think that it would be easier to carry this heavy burden if my ass was bigger. “Lower the center of gravity and give her a wide stance so she doesn’t fall over” it seemed to say. Maybe I need to learn how to carry the burden more effectively, like those smiling African women with 25 pounds of wet laundry on their heads.
We want your laundry!
I’ll try that after I get my car out of the shop. The car thing is particularly heavy. Sure, I don’t have to worry about death by ants or being raped by a gang of machine gun wielding ruffians in Hello Kitty shirts and Vera Wang wedding gowns (well, not today anyway). But I was enjoying flitting about the self-actualization apex of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Now I am lucky to have a grip on breathing and excretion.
Maslow's Hierarchy of Shit to Worry About
I’m not the only one with problems, but others seem to be able to carry their burdens with ease. Sometimes it’s not the weight of the burden, but the distribution of that weight; heavy on the heart or heavy on the mind. Heavy on both is particularly crushing. If I could condense my worries I’m sure that they would have the density of a black hole and others would shun me for fear of being sucked in. Maybe I need to embrace my worries; mold them into something more portable like a dung beetle. Then I wouldn’t have to carry them. They could just roll along with me and even as they dwarfed my tiny figure, people would look at my worries and say “Hey, nice pile of shit.”
This would be a lot easier if you weren't riding on it, Asshole.
Steve Jobs Action Figure Injustice
Steve Jobs action figure prototype is nerdalicious.
After immense pressure from Apple and the Steve Jobs’ family, www.inicons.com will be refunding deposits and shelving the February delivery of the Steve Jobs action figure. This is sad news for the niche group of adult action figure collectors who were willing to spend the $99 for a chance to perch Action Figure Steve on his stool next to their Star Wars screen saver.
iPad not included. Nose picking hands included.
Perhaps the Jobs family had concerns that their beloved family member would be the subject of degrading internet vignettes like so many other action figures. Who would be able to resist changing Action Figure Steve’s hands to the index finger pointing accessory and taking a picture of him picking Action Figure Spock’s nose or tauntingly poking Action Figure Chuck Norris in the solar plexus? Still, I feel that there is nerd injustice here. Why shouldn’t an action figure who is famous for the actions of his mind instead of the actions of his body be denied the chance to lay with the sultry Barbie in her pink townhouse or skinny dip in her backyard pool? Is this the message we want to send to the young and brilliant minds of socially awkward nerds?
Sex Tape Barbie wanted to meet Steve Jobs.
Barbie is 11.5 inches tall. The Steve Jobs action figure was 12 inches tall. These two were meant to be together. Barbie has been looking for a man who reads in bed, picks her nose, takes off his glasses and can prop himself on his straightened arms for an all nighter.
- Action Figure Woody looks ready to saddle up.
But who can blame the Jobs family for trying to shield their beloved father, husband or son from the degradation that can fall upon action figures on this insensitive and anonymous medium? Once a respectable human being has been condensed into a plastic, poseable, pop culture figurine he becomes an object of ridicule. Look what happened to Tom Hanks. Anyway, I still find it sad that there are no smart guy action figures. The smart guys deserve action figures more than the douchebags or the overpaid sports figures.
The Philosophy of Henry Rollins: Love Thyself?
Henry Rollins wonders if his tattoos are a turn off.
“….. I don’t want another mother. I want a woman. I want to rise to the occasion. I want to learn and bask in your glow. I want to protect you and do whatever I can to give you strength. There is no twist to this. I am not about to blow my brains out. You have not cut me up like others have. It’s just this. I want to love you with everything in me. I need your help because I don’t know anything about it. I am suspicious and ready to leave and hit the cold road for the frozen dawn. I am just going to trust you with everything in me. I see now that it’s the only reason to be here. After kissing you, I cannot remember what it was like to kiss any other woman. At this point I am not sure if I ever have.”
henry rollins, Solipsist
These are beautiful words from an unlikely source. Henry Rollins fronted the band, Black Flag. I don’t know him, but I’ve met my share of peyote button philosophers. They’re the kind that, if not for the last sticky bud in the bag, would be on stage at Open Mic Night proselytizing fatalism or absurdism or any number of “isms” that look good with a black turtle neck and a fake revolver pointed at their temple. I’m no philosopher and anyone looking for answers about the human condition would not come to me. I offer only a warm embrace coupled with a sympathetic pat. At my best, I offer cherry pie. But Henry Rollins is a recovering solipsist, much like Stephen Hawking who realizes he is not just a brain in a jar every time he needs his pants changed. I will give him the benefit of the doubt because he leaves his egocentric ideology behind for love as “~ I see now it is the only reason to be here.”
As for philosophy, I will have to take a refresher course:
McCain Helps Romney In S.C.
I’m looking at the CNN Homepage and as I read the headlines for the Election Center, I am wondering when Mitt Romney will push John McCain into a wheelchair and set him up in front of a blank wall for the day.
"Are you my nephew?"
Ticker: McCain Blasts Santorum
Oops! McCain Calls Romney ‘Obama’
DNC Highlights Old Romney-McCain Tension
I do realize that it’s customary to trot out the old birds; the icons of the party, if you will; at a time like this, but I’m wondering how long it will take before Romney’s campaign notices that John McCain is doing more harm than good. The Dems could wheel out Ted Kennedy’s corpse on a hand truck and get a better bump.
The polling results of John McCain making headlines denouncing Santorum’s record on earmarks and having it loudly echo the exact same denunciation McCain laid out in 2002 towards Romney himself could have been accomplished by holding up a poster of Santorum & Romney wearing matching sweater vests.
But the moment that should have sent Romney’s campaign running for the McCain sized butterfly net was when he accidentally called Romney ‘Obama’ at a South Carolina rally yesterday. “I am confident that with the leadership and backing of the American people, President Obama can turn this country around…..er… President Romney.” Which was followed by some guttural sounds that only those over 75 could translate into something equivalent to “Are you my nephew?”
I have an idea. Let’s see a Ron Paul/John McCain ticket. “You can Depend on us.”
Here are the links:
http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2012/01/05/dnc-highlights-old-romney-mccain-tension/
http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2012/01/05/mccain-takes-aim-at-santorum-in-south-carolina/
http://www.cnn.com/video/?hpt=hp_t2#/video/politics/2012/01/06/sot-mccain-romney-obama-flub.cnn
Horoscopes ~ January 2012
Aquarius ~ You finally figure out the meaning behind that recurring dream you’ve had for years. Unfortunately, you wake up because the kid in the train seat next to you just threw up a Chinatown of color on your lucky pants and now the epiphany has faded like yesterday’s affection for your girlfriend’s dog, Tiny Roy. Your lucky fashion accessory is the ingrown hair.
Pisces ~ You are a water sign with tendencies to play in the bathtub. Lock the bathroom door today or your roommate catches you wearing a shaving cream bra while playing “Sink the Bismark”. Your lucky cocktail is the Skinned Wiener. Straight up.
Aries ~ Someone keeps calling your house and insulting your wife. You finally decide you’ve had enough and tell your mother to stop it. Now she’s playing the martyr and refuses to use the toilet. Today is a good day to look for a nursing home. Your lucky breakfast cereal is Orson Welles.
Taurus ~ Testing every mattress at the Bed Barnyard sounds like a good way to spend your lunch hour until you wake up in a pool of your own drool with a 7 year old yelling “He’s farting too!” Your lucky involuntary movement is the hard blink. You wish it was the rectal pinch.
Gemini ~ A girl can’t stop looking at you in the checkout line. She says you look familiar. Tell her that you invented peanuts, lick her face and start reciting limericks. It’s that or marry her in 3 years and live the rest of your life as a castrated meal ticket. Your lucky has-been is Rick Perry. No, Herman Cain. No, Michelle Bachman. No, Newt Gingrich… wait…
Cancer ~ Don’t forget to call your mother today, but this time don’t tell her you’re busy visiting Hitler, thinking about having your arms removed, or dropping spores. Just because she won’t remember anything you said 10 minutes later doesn’t make it right. Your lucky hair product is the static balloon.
Leo ~ A man with fish eyes who dresses like he just walked out of a ragtag 19th-century theatrical troupe follows you around the Whole Foods mumbling song lyrics and juggling clementines. Drop a bag of marbles and run. Your lucky pathetic old person is Albert Finney.
Virgo ~ Don’t sleep with any Republicans. Ever. Your lucky direction is subliminal.
Libra ~ You contemplate losing weight today for a brief moment when you realize that folding over to tie your shoes squeezes every whisper of breath from your diaphragm, leaving it as shriveled and deflated as Michelle Bachman’s campaign headquarters after the corn dog incident. You buy some slip-ons and the moment passes. Your lucky garnish is the cigarette butt.
Scorpio ~ Survival Kit: A pointy stick, a toe separator, a paper airplane and 3 yards of Gorilla Tape. Your lucky portmanteau is “bacne”.
Sagittarius ~ The Oracle has warned you in advance that you will find out as you take the cat to the vet that there is a mouse in your car. You try to avoid an insurance claim by covering the floor with sticky traps. It costs you $200 to buy a wig and have the cat/mouse cluster removed from the side of your head. Your lucky smell is wet-blanket-in-the-trunk.
Capricorn ~ You’ve got a spring in your step today as you leave the house until you get stopped behind a school bus and get mooned by the high school wrestling team. Have your camera ready and post it on your son’s Facebook page after you Photoshop in some elephantitis. Your lucky Indian customer service rep is Gerald.
TSA
Next time you buy grannie and poppie air fare to join you for the holidays, you might prepare them for airport security.
August Horoscopes
Aquarius ~ Don’t let your friends talk you into horseback riding. You show up late and get saddled with “Crazy Gorgon” who tries to mount the horse in front of him and then takes you through a series of tree branch clothes lines and tick infested brush until you throw your arms around his neck and finish looking like a Brillo pad covered in scrambled eggs and pubic hair. Your lucky noodle is rigaTony.
Pisces ~ Be aware. A woman will pass you in the grocery store and you will deeply inhale “old lady smell”; a mixture of Estee Lauder Youth Dew and used Poise pads. She has a secret that can set you free. Call her “Mommy?” and follow her through the store until she spills her guts or the security guard beats you into submission with a baton and a can of pepper spray that he last used to haze a new coworker. Your lucky hard candy is Nipple.
Aries ~ Water your plants and fill the cat’s bowl before you leave because you’re not coming straight home tonight. One of two things will happen. You will board a plane to Singapore and join an Asian crime syndicate, OR… you will spend the night with a hooker named Sheila and get crabs. Of course, I could be wrong. Your lucky infomercial is the Bagel Guillotine.
Taurus ~ Familiarity breeds contempt and that’s what you get when you abuse the open-door-policy and do the “knock-walk-in” to your bosses office. You didn’t know anyone wore sock garters anymore and who plays Mayor McCheese and the Hamburglar plastic puppet theater with their pants around their ankles? I’ll tell you who… people with Master’s Degrees. Your lucky poultry is the left wing. Do NOT eat any right wings. Right wings don’t like that.
Gemini ~ That tic in your eye just won’t go away today and the cashier at Walgreens thinks that intermittent wink means you want her. Wear sunglasses and avoid months of stalking phone calls and an Order of Protection. On a related note, that twenty bucks you accused your roommate of stealing is in the pocket of a hoodie in your closet. He posted an ad on Craigs List in your name announcing your free prostate milking service. Be ready to take a few hundred calls today. Your lucky condiment is Dijon, as is your lucky transvestite prostitute.
Cancer ~ You can’t help but feel like you are being watched. You are being watched. Don’t pick your nose. Don’t pull your thong out of your butt. Don’t squeeze a zit in the rear view mirror. Don’t sit down and bend over to tie your shoe… because your under wire is going to pop and your breasts will look like Marty Feldman’s eyes as one will point southeast for the rest of the day. Your lucky utensil is the pointy stick.
Leo ~ Your fear of traffic will not get in the way of your thirst for PBR longnecks as you push your motorized wheelchair to the limits and make your way to the Cap’n Cork. Resist the urge to buy a Take 5 candy bar as it contains the same ingredients that you saw a businessman throw up in the St. James waiting room last week. Your magic number is super glue, and your lucky animal is that smashed squirrel that is being eaten by a hawk at a truck route roadside.
Virgo ~ A boy with a Kool Aid smile, a dirty t-shirt and a colorful vocabulary will try to befriend you at the store and ask for help in finding his mother. You pick him up and he waggles his eyebrows and catches a feel. Throw him down like a bag of spiders, then go burn your clothes, but lift his wallet first. He’s loaded and he’s 25.
Libra ~ You wish you had learned to swim after a homeless man pushes you into the river. Fortunately, you listened to the Oracle and wore a swim ring to work. You lose your job for wearing a swim ring to work. Such is the cruelty of fates. Your lucky chewing gum is Behmans.
Scorpio ~ Survival Kit: A bottle of Chivas, a balloon animal, clean underwear, a squirt bottle, a Chinese menu, three ping pong balls and a goldfish in a Ziploc bag. Don’t question the Oracle. You’ll thank me later. Your lucky interactive tactile experience is scratch and sniff.
Sagittarius ~ Stop playing those ridiculous self help CDs in your car. You can not think your way to prosperity while you suck on your 48 oz. Mountain Dew and text your girlfriend in the line at Taco Bell. The winning pick three lottery numbers are the measurements of a woman sitting next to a huge biker at your local watering hole. Good luck. Your lucky destination is Astroglide.
Capricorn ~ You are feeling alone and abandoned, because you are alone and abandoned. Even the mosquitos are taking a pass. Is it the garlic you ate yesterday or the mouth full of f*ck you? Only you know the answer, and the guy who got in the elevator with you. Your lucky pie filling is Jerry Lewis. Pet your kitten.
The Death of Middle Class Sex, or Act Like a Man and Your Wife Will Feel Like a Woman
Who has the power?
My friend Kevin Terpstra recently posted an Op-Ed piece by Camille Paglia from the New York Times lamenting the death of middle class sexuality. Like the New York Times Crossword Puzzle, I found myself skimming over half of it as my public school intellect was too lazy to decipher some of the finer points; however, this topic is something I have considered recently in a previous blog post and I think it can be oiled up and massaged a bit more.
Camille takes us on a short walk through the history of puritanism and promiscuity in America, pointing out the sexual revolution of the 1960′s and the feminists movement of the 1970′s where braless hermaphrodites followed Gloria Steinem and Helen Reddy into the battlefield for equality. Only problem was, decades later women wonder what they’ve won: a chance to work a 50 hour week and change her own oil? Universal acceptance of sleeping in an oversized softball shirt and torn sweatpants? I remember when my mom read “Fear of Flying” by Erica Jong in 1973. A tale of sexual liberation in the form of the zipless fuck. I think it changed her life, and when my dad left her for a woman 17 years his junior she drew on Isadora’s courage to find her sexuality again in her 40′s.
So what’s happening NOW? College kids seem to be enjoying their sexuality. Friends with Benefits. Fuck Buddies. But once the reality of career, marriage and children catch up to her, the co-ed bed monkey becomes a ruthless matriarch with her husband’s balls in a mason jar under the sink. She didn’t want them. He gave them up over time and didn’t even notice they were missing.
In a world where women are “equal”, men have let their protective instincts (read “balls”) shrink to the point of nonexistence. Men stand back and let other men say dreadful things to a woman they think they claim. I don’t care if you have met the woman 10 minutes ago. A woman responds to being championed. It’s as old as the hills and a concept repeated in countless romance novels and it flies in the face of feminism. Personally, I don’t want to hear “She can take care of herself” from a man to whom I am under his care. Yes “under his care”. That’s what they used to say. A woman was under a man’s care and this man exercised his husbandly rights on her. That means he took care of her and therefore he could expect to be pleased in the marriage bed. It’s not about money. It’s about power. A woman doesn’t want to pick the restaurant, make the reservation and pick out your clothes for you for 15 years. She doesn’t want to climb in the bed 30 minutes after you because she had to lock up the house, take out the smelly garbage and get the mail in her house slippers while you laid in bed touching yourself and wondered if she would say “yes” tonight. Why can’t men see how unsexy that is? They give us all the power and then wonder why they don’t have any. We don’t want the power. We want to be put first by the man with the power, and when that happens, a loving sexual reciprocation can occur. Instead, the bedroom becomes a weigh station. A woman weighs her burden and decides if it’s fair and equal before she will relinquish her body. She is oblivious to her own potential pleasure because her animosity hangs over her like a cloud. She doesn’t make an effort to please him because he either doesn’t deserve it or is as sexually incompetent as a 14 year old boy, because after all these years he doesn’t have to try. It’s all about the finish and the only time he tries to kiss her is when he is positioning himself for entry.
If men want sex they have to try. They have to look powerful and in control. They have to look like a man, not a boy. Act like a man and your wife will feel like a woman. That’s my advice.
Arizona Governor Jan Brewer Wants to See What’s in Your Taco
Arizona Governor Jan Brewer wants to help exploited illegal immigrants. In a recent debate of Republican gubernatorial candidates, she charged that most illegal immigrants are drug mules. Next month, Arizona’s new immigration bill will take effect and Governor Brewer wants suspected Illegals to know that full cavity body searches are not out of the question.
A suspected "illegal drug mule" selected for a cavity search while waiting for a table in front of the IHOP
“I feel bad for those people who are forced to carry drugs in their rectum. If we have to strip search every Latino in Arizona to help them, we will.” Brewer said the “human rights violations that have taken place (by the cartels) victimizing immigrants and their families are abhorrent.”
In a related story, Governor Brewer signed a bill ( skipping that pesky and arcane public statement formality) banning elementary or secondary schools from teaching classes that are “designed primarily for pupils of a particular ethnic group” and advocate “the overthrow of the United States government” or “resentment toward a race or class of people.”
Required reading for elementary school Latinos in Arizona
The bill was pushed by state school Superintendent Tom Horne, who has spent two years trying to get Tucson schools to drop a Mexican-American studies program he said teaches Latino students they are an oppressed minority. “I don’t see why we should pay our teachers to educate Mexican kids about civil rights. ” said Horne. “It just makes them think EVERYONE should have them.” Governor Brewer added “We will not print up Mexican-American text books (entitled “The Final Solution”) outlining Arizona’s new immigration laws for posterity. “
Here’s the links:
http://www.cnn.com/2010/US/06/25/arizona.immigrants.drugs/index.html
http://www.cnn.com/2010/POLITICS/05/12/arizona.ethnic.studies/index.html
F.D.A. Decides Flibanserin Does Not Make Women Happy or Horny
Last Friday, the F.D.A. did not approve Flibanserin, a drug manufactured by Germany’s Boehringer Ingelheim (God that’s a catchy name) as the “female Viagra”. Why? Well, there are several reasons. First of all, the DAILY pill causes dizziness, nausea and fatigue and honestly, those have to be categorized as negative side effects because if Bearwanger Inglenook is trying to get women laid by making them dizzy and tired so they are easy prey laying in a bed, they’ve goofed up on the nausea part because that is totally not sexy. They were all bragging last fall at a medical conference in Europe that Flibanserin was found to increase self-reported “sexually satisfying events” to 4.5 a month on average. Wow. Sex machine. Oh, wait…. The event did not have to include orgasm. What? Okay, now tell me exactly what a sexually satisfying event is if it does not include orgasm and I’ll tell you about a guy who always finishes first and has had his nose broken five times by his wife. Well, okay… maybe she got some sort of satisfaction out of that, but I don’t think that’s what Boomhauer Inglemime had in mind.
Another reason this previously released anti-depressant drug that didn’t really work on depression has not gained approval is because no one is really sure if there is actually a medical condition to treat. Oh, Beelzebub Ignatzmouse is really TRYING to sell a malady the insurance companies will swallow and females across the globe can identify with. They even hired Lisa Rinna, liver lipped soap opera star and former Playboy model to convince
Lisa Rinna demonstrates why she is the spokesperson for low libido.
women they aren’t horny enough and their lips are too thin. What they really SHOULD have done is hired all the Sex in the City girls for the promotional campaign because if Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda tell the women of America that they can get that kind of action if they take the little pink pill…. You’ve got LINES at the Doctor’s office. Stupid Germans. Lisa Rinna, right. She could convince me that if my lips looked like hers I could be a grouper.
Yeah, Leonore Tiefer, a psychologist at New York University says women don’t need medication for low libido and should accept it because “Women’s sex lives are often a struggle, a disappointment, an archipelago of regret”…. Wow, I wonder how long it took to come up with “archipelago of regret”. How about a “peninsula of penisless purgatory”. Hehe… this is fun. Anyhow, Bumringer Instantbrine tried to help doctors diagnose the disorder by sponsoring medical education classes. In one course, a quiz asked doctors to diagnose the condition of a 42-year-old working mother who takes care of three children and her own sick mother, and who had no desire for sex. (Her husband was mentioned only in passing.) The correct answer was to schedule a follow up visit to evaluate whether she has diagnosable hypoactive sexual desire disorder. See, all this woman needs is a pill she can take every day for the rest of her life, that makes her dizzy, tired and nauseous so she can participate in “sexually satisfying events” that do not include her own orgasm. Then, she can add changing the sheets and throwing her husbands belongings on the front lawn to her list of “things to do”.
Look, I’m not against women finding time to relax and enjoy the benefits of good sex. It’s one of those things people don’t realize they’re missing until they have it… like buying precooked bacon. “Why do I only do this on holidays?” But I don’t want to see the ad campaigns where drug companies try to convince women they are sexually cold. The men in our lives are already ringing that bell. We know, we know…. How about this: We’ll invite all the girls over to watch three hours of chick flicks every Sunday afternoon. Before they arrive, you men clean the house, grocery shop, and prepare a selection of hors d’oeuvres. Refill our drinks when they are low and clean off the paper plates as we dirty them. When the ladies leave, clean up the kitchen and the t.v. room, put the kids to bed, lock up the house, take the garbage out, and meet me in the bed….You’re on top and there BETTER be at least one female orgasm at the end of the ride. That’s at least 4.0 sexually satisfying events a month and I think we’re onto something.
Here’s the link:
