Dogs in Costumes

So, Niece Ratchet thinks we are turning into those creepy kind of people who dress up their dogs for each season and parade them around the shopping malls and such.

She adds, "Well, at least it's not cats."

Steve Klein is my new best friend

From the Raleigh-Durham News & Observer:

Homosexuality is very complex behavior; it appears in every generation, in every culture and in many species besides our own. It can't be a product of evolution because homosexuals don't reproduce. Homosexuality must be a product of Intelligent Design.

Steve Klein
Raleigh

Grill of my dreams, part 2

For those keeping breathless track of these sorts of things, LSBB has successfully completed "Phase 1" of her oral reconstruction, which apparently involves filing her teeth down into pointy nubs so that a wax representation of her eventual new teeth can be fitted over. Something like this:



More horror stories from the dentist's chair to come!

Phil 'er up

My prayers have been answered at last: idiotic hayseed blowhard Dr. Phil is finally going to get his comeuppance. Seems his “ultimate weight-loss solution”, which involves not only diet and exercise, but $120/month worth of pills, DOESN’T WORK.

Which should have been patently obvious to everyone, since he and his moon-faced not-a-teen son are STILL FAT.

Well, at least he has berating the psychologically weak, offering them no solutions, and terrorizing his wife to fall back on.

Oh, and speaking of terrorizing, I suppose I’m behind the times in announcing that mumbly-mouthed actor Nicholas Cage has successfully ruined his infant son’s life by naming him Kal-El, which is as many of you will know, Superman’s Kryptonian name.

Incidentally, Mr. Cage Senior speaks fluent Klingon, but failed high school French.

Okay, I made that last part up. The only benefit I see for Mr. Cage Junior is that Apple Paltrow will have someone to hang out with on the playground.

As I write (October 5, 2005, 9:55 am) a mysterious package has been found at the White House. What’s the mystery? I could have told them – it’s a rolled up sock.

You've HAD it, Noxley

Ned Noxley, who walks by my desk at least five times a day, yet has never smiled, made eye contact or said hello even though I have worked here for A YEAR AND A HALF, has waited until I start a diet to reveal that his "roommate" works at a bakery, and is apparently compelled to bring home all the leftover baked goods at the end of every day, which Noxley then brings to work (as it's patently obvious that he, himself, hasn't eaten a baked good in about 25 years).

He then sends out cheery e-mails with the subject line "Baked goods for all in the Meetings Dept!", meaning that to AVOID the temptation of sweet, delicious baked goods, I have to take the LONG way to get to the restroom or the elevators or anywhere else I need to go!

And then, today, the last straw: sending NO email warning, and simply placing the sweet, delicious baked goods in the kitchen, where I HAVE to go to get my sugar-free Jell-o cups and calorie-free water.

Damn you, Noxley.

Well, a word to the wise: if you're going to mess with me, and prance around not being friendly, maybe you should make sure there are no pictures floating around the internet of you being sold at a gay bachelor auction.




Oh, and PS - I know how old you are. You may think you've cheated the reaper by casting off all your free baked goods, but you're not fooling ME.

Oh, and PPS - you have the same name as my DOG, dude.

Grill of my dreams

So, LSBB, who has been complaining about her teeth for years (thinking they make her look ugly, which they DON'T) is finally to have them all shined up and/or replaced. I'm not exactly clear on the precise procedure, but I'm sure it involves needles and plaster, so I'm keeping myself ignorant of the details. She's certain her problems stem from our childhood visits to Dr. Eldritch, the Nazi orthodontist, who would clasp his hands together in glee when she would arrive for her check-up and say "Its time to tighten zee braces!", and then there would be a thunder clap in the distance (of course, I never had any problem, as my teeth straightened into textbook perfection with only eight months in braces and have remained perfect to this very day). At any rate, LSBB's teeth, in a few short days, will be transformed from this:




to THIS....





In other news, the National Enquirer is reporting that President Bush is drinking again. Thank God. Maybe things'll start to look up.

Can I get a little Aqua-Love?

Have you ever been next to someone who smelled so strongly of being unwashed that the smell stayed with you long after the person was gone? Well, if not, you should be sure and go to a comic book convention next time one rolls through your town, as I did last Saturday.

Lest you mock, be aware that I will brook no jesting, and have been looking forward to said event for two years, since I had to skip last year. So there.

The first time I went, I had a pitiful little twenty dollars to spend, and so bought my first black-market bootleg DVD, Song of the South. This time around, I came armed with plenty of dough, as well as a carefully-researched list of things I wanted and how much they cost on eBay, so I didn’t overspend in the heady rush of seeing real items in front of my eyes.

So, first to the bootleg DVDs, which I’m now careful to limit to things I’m certain will NEVER be released commercially:

• The Banana Splits (the complete 1968 series)
• Jason of Star Command
• Supergrass (a British movie with Jennifer Saunders and Dawn French)
• Pufnstuf, the Movie (with special guest star Mama Cass as Witch Hazel)
• Three unreleased super-hero tv pilots (Aquaman, Power Pack, and the Human Target starring Rick Springfield)
• And, for Jet: Captain Eo, the special edition

Then, on over to the comics side of the hall to pick up a ton of Adventure and Aquaman comics, bringing me ever closer to my lifelong goal of owning every 1970’s appearance of Aquaman ever.

Pardon?

Because 1970’s Aquaman rules, punk, and I won’t hear anything against him.

Now, if by “1970’s Aquaman” you think I’m talking about the lame-ass, emasculated fool on Superfriends who’s primary skill seemed to be riding a jet ski and sending small schools of perch to attack nuclear subs and the like, then you’ve got another think coming. Unfortunately, the powers-that-be (also know as Time-Life-Warner-AOL, or whatever the hell it’s called now), who seem to own every cartoon character EVER, have done little to correct this impression of Aquaman. Rather, they seem to have bought into it themselves, and have struggled fruitlessly to re-invent Aquaman for a cool, hip audience, instead of just going back to what worked just fine for, oh, about 35 years.

Don’t get me wrong - by “worked”, I don’t mean that Aquaman was ever a sales dynamo, nor is he ever likely to be. He is, after all, sort of limited by his environment (as LSBB remarks, “How much crime could there be underwater?”) nonetheless, he was a good, solid, dependable secondary character, who headlined his own feature through the “dark ages” of the early 1950’s (when Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, and fellow second-stringer Green Arrow were then only other survivors), he had his own pre-Superfriends cartoon show, and his wife even had her own "Super-Queen Posin' Doll".


Yes, wife, for Aquaman was the first of the super-hero set to marry his long-time girlfriend, Mera. Mera was the queen of an inter-dimensional water world who forsook her throne in order to marry Aquaman and help him fight crime. She had the ability to make water hard (among other things, one would presume - rrrrrrowl!) and shape it into giant fists and battering rams and....well, yeah, that's pretty much it.


My presumption is that Aquaman hurried the wedding along to quell rumors about he and Aqualad, a purple-eyed Atlantean orphan that Aquaman had taken in years earlier. Poor kid always looked a little fey to me, despite the presence of his “girlfriend”, Aquagirl



Mera and Big A had a baby (wait for it…….Aquababy) who was later killed by Aquaman’s arch-foe Black Manta (a family death...another first!) Once Aquababy died, all bets were off. The powers-that-be set off on their ill-advised coarse of making Aquaman “hip” and “relevant” by:

• Driving Mera crazy, having her try and kill Aquaman, and then sending her back to her own dimension
• Having Aquagirl drown to death in a toxic chemical spill
• Having Aqualad grow up, become a sorcerer, and change his name to “Tempest”, and get a new costume that still made him look like a fag
• 
  
• Revealing that Aquaman had an illegitimate Eskimo son who inexplicably has Mera’s hard-water powers
• Having Aquaman get his hand chewed off by a school of piranhas, replace his lost hand with a harpoon, grow a beard (and sometimes chest hair, depending on the artist - a bright spot in a sea of bad ideas) and wear armor
• 
  
• Having Aquaman have an affair with a human-dolphin hybrid, who then had an affair with Tempest, who impregnated her
• Having Aquaman get a new hand made of water, and wear some of Abba's old stage outfits
• 
  

Currently on the comics scene, Aquaman has put his orange shirt back on, and protects the city of Sub Diego (previously San Diego, only now it’s submerged in the Pacific Ocean. Yeah, I think it sounds stupid, too.)

But, I have my seventies’ comics, and that’s just fine.

The wonderful world of Nature

Well, I'm not sure how wonderful it is. If this had fallen onto my head, instead of into our water feature, I might be dead now, or at least in the nuthouse:



What the hell kind of butterfly is THAT going to turn into? Mothra?

And just because I can, here are Dino and Frito Joe (photos courtesy Floozy Flingland, whose shapely gams can be seen if you look hard)





So, I guess Jet and I are high-falutin' bourgeoisie now, as we have a private trainer coming to the cave tonight to knock some sense into Frito Joe. Not that he's all THAT bad - but, when he was found chewing on the new area rug, that had been bought to replace the area rug he had ALREADY destroyed, we thought maybe something should be done. Oh, and I guess I'd prefer my underwear not be taken out of the laundry basket and drug around the backyard. Every day. Sometimes more than once.

Gee, Dubya

So, Bush's National Day of Prayer, and a Presidential service at the National Cathedral. I had to get up at o-dark-thirty to be at the Cathedral in plenty of time to sit around and wait for two hours til I could be escorted through security.

As for the service itself, once it finally started, I must grudgingly admit it was actually nice, and appropriate. I've been trying to think of something to be catty and bitchy about, but I'm having trouble.

Okay, I'll be a little catty - I sang a solo, and while I was singing, the only person in the Presidential party (Dubya and Pickles, Dick and Lynn, Condi, Rummy and Gonzo) that looked like he was enjoying himself was RUMMY.

Dubya looked up and smirked, I'm not sure if that meant he liked what he heard or not.

Condi, throughout, looked like she was absorbing everything for later regurgitation on an exam.

Dick, as always, looked like he crapped his pants and has been sitting in it for about an hour.

Laura has fresh blond highlights, and looks like she's had her face pulled back and stapled from behind.

Lynn, also, looked a little pinched. But I suppose I can't blame her, if she has to wake up next to Dick every morning.

Gonzo - well, he's short, and he was behind Lynn, so I couodn't see too much of him. I WILL report that he was the only one to cross humself at the end of the service.

Anyway, I digress... Bush spoke and sounded almost like a Democrat. One memorable line: "As we clear away the debris of a hurricane, let us also clear away the legacy of inequality." This, after a sermon (I can't remember the guy's name, but certainly he must have been hand-picked by Bush) that dealt with the story of the Good Samaritan, and spent a long time talking about how we, as Americans, must reach out to those less advantaged and raise them up to a level where they have a fighting chance.

I was seated behind Bush during his remarks, so I couldn't see him, but I was struck that his delivery sounded uncharacteristically natural and un-stilted...he didn't stammer, and only once did he say "drowned" when he meant "drown". If I believed that his policies would be in accordance with the words he spoke today (I don't), I would ALMOST be tempted to vote for him.

Geez, I feel dirty for saying that.

Well, pigs DO fly after all

So, after two weeks of doing everything possible to shift blame, and scolding others for trying to assign blame, President Bush finally takes responsibility for something.

Too bad his empty words mean nothing to dead people, and very little to those who know he's a pathological liar, a puppet of his handlers, and a dry drunk.

I'm just sayin'.

See you in church on Friday, Dubya!

If you get Raptured, can I have your car?

Right on schedule, the Baptists are falling all over themselves to blame Katrina on the gays.

This, despite the fact that the only area of New Orleans left relatively untouched is the French Quarter - WHICH IS WHERE ALL THE GAYS ARE.

Speaking of, I'll be singing at the President's Katrina Prayer Service next Friday. I'll have a full, snarky report. Watch this space!

Nero Fiddling, part II

President Bush "surveys hurricane damage in New Orleans" from the antiseptic confines of Air Force One.

Frito Joe-Iraq explained!

See, Frito Joe is Iraq, and I'm the United States, and.....ummmm......well, it made sense to me when I was half-asleep, shuffling down the hallway.

Natural Disaster? Check. Dumbass Fundamentalist Explanation? Check.

The following comes from Salon.com. Words fail.

We knew this was coming. Two days after 9/11, Jerry Falwell took to the airwaves to proclaim that God had allowed the United States to be attacked because "the pagans and the abortionists and the feminists and the gays and the lesbians" had tried to transform America into a secular society. Just this weekend, wingnuts from the Westboro Baptist Church turned out at the funerals of two fallen soldiers to say that God is punishing the United States in Iraq for its tolerance of homosexuality back home. So when Hurricane Katrina hit land yesterday, we knew it was only a matter of time before we'd be hearing from the lunatic fringe again. And now, here it is. In an e-mail message we just received, a group calling itself Columbia Christians for Life alerts us to the fact that a satellite image of Hurricane Katrina as it hit the Gulf Coast Monday looks just like a six-week-old fetus.

"The image of the hurricane ... with its eye already ashore at 12:32 p.m. Monday, August 29, looks like a fetus (unborn human baby) facing to the left (west) in the womb, in the early weeks of gestation (approx. 6 weeks)," the e-mail message says. "Even the orange color of the image is reminiscent of a commonly used pro-life picture of early prenatal development." And in case you're not getting the point, the e-mail message spells it out in black and white: "Louisiana has 10 child-murder-by-abortion centers," the groups says, and "five are in New Orleans."

But why would God single out Louisiana? Other states have many more abortion clinics, and Louisiana and the other states hit hardest by Katrina all voted for the pro-life president of the United States. It didn't add up for us at first, but the Columbia Christians for Life have an answer for everything. God has already punished California with earthquakes, forest fires and mudslides; New York with 9/11; and Florida with Hurricanes Bonnie, Charley, Frances, Ivan, Jeanne and the early version of Katrina.




Umm....maybe my weather nerd roots are showing, but....doesn't EVERY hurricane pretty much look like a fetus?

Nero Fiddling While the Big Easy Drowns

He can't meet with the mother of a fallen soldier....

...but he has time to fucking call a cartoon character?!?

Thanks for the comments, assh*oles

Well, that's it. The blogosphere is ruined.

Click on the "Comments" to "The Ballad of Frito Joe: Part II". I'll wait.

Spam Comments!!! What the *!&@%?

The Ballad of Frito Joe, Part II: An Iraq Analogy

Our beagle puppy dog, Frito Joe, is a bundle of trouble. Has a mind of his own. Wild. We got him, and insisted on keeping him, against our own and others’ better judgment. But now, he’s ours, and we’ve accepted the responsibility for raising him up to be a good boy.

Frito Joe is crate-trained, and sleeps in his kennel all night. The trouble is, my partner and I wake up at 7 am. Frito Joe wakes up at 6. Wakes up whining. A soul-piercing whine, that cannot be blocked out by closed doors and roaring fans.

For the past several weeks, we’ve held our ground, determined that Frito Joe would stay in his kennel until 7 am, no matter how much he whined, because that’s what WE wanted him to do. No matter how much discomfort and sleeplessness it caused us, we were bound and determined that he would stay in that kennel until 7 am, because we were in charge, and that was the way we wanted it, and that was that.

Until this morning.

Worn down by the relentless, soul-piercing whine, I gave in. I shuffled into the living room at 6 am, and let Frito Joe out of his kennel, expecting that I would either have to remain awake, vigilant, keeping him out of trouble, or that I would go back to bed and wake up an hour later and find the house chewed to bits.

So what happened?

Frito Joe followed me back to bed, climbed in with me, and slept silent and motionless at my feet until 7. We both won.

Well done, Sister Suffragette

Happy Birthday, Women’s Vote! Yes, 85 five years ago today, the fairer sex gained the ability to have their vote ignored just like the men! Or something like that. I was always taught to the test, so I’m a little hazy on the details. And, as many of you know, I get all my news from conspiratorial websites, the Today Show, and the Style section of the Washington Post. And the Style section’s on shaky ground, since I really only read the comics therein, and the comics are starting to freak me out a little. See, it’s coming up on Blondie’s 75th anniversary, and apparently a gaggle of comic strip creators got together (i.e., were ordered by King Features Syndicate) to help the old gal celebrate. So, for about two months now, Blondie and her dimwitted husband Dagwood have been planning their “anniversary” party, and now, suddenly, there seems to be some sort of comics page-wide conspiracy to make sure the point is not lost on anyone. The chain of events, as I’ve seen them thus far:

• Blondie and Dagwood start planning their anniversary
• Blondie and Dagwood start sending out party invitations
• In his own strip, Garfield and his creepy asexual owner Jon receive an invitation to the party, hand-delivered by Dagwood

• The King of Id, in HIS own strip, receives a Dagwood sandwich
  

Now we begin the even-more-blatant cross-marketing, which to my mind is a bit disconcerting, especially if you’re reading the comics while sitting on the toilet, having had too much to drink the night before:

• Dagwood appears, playing poker, with the fellas over in Beetle Bailey

• Hagar the Horrible appears alongside Dagwood in Dagwood’s barber shop

• Grimm the Dog is caught drinking out of Blondie and Dagwood’s toilet

• Dagwood introduces the King of Id to his boss, Mr. Dithers

And, in perhaps the most disturbing scene of all (yes, even more disturbing than Dagwood taking a 12th-Century VIKING MARAUDER to his barber…) The cats from Mutts are looking for a pink sock in their own strip, and CONTINUE LOOKING FOR THE SAME SOCK IN BLONDIE’S LAUNDRY BASKET.

I mean, it’s a nice idea and all, but through all this cute cross-promotion, it has become obvious that every comic strip character is aware that they are, in fact, comic strip characters, and not real people. Which instantly diminishes their ability to offer pithy social commentary. Thank God Doonesbury and Opus haven’t gotten mixed up in it. YET. I shudder to imagine what the next two weeks will bring.

I’m sure no one’s much interested in exploring the history of the venerable Blondie franchise, but since I make it my business to know such things, and I’ve nothing else to do, I’ll run down the highlights:

Blondie (Maiden name: Boopadoop – subtle, huh?) began life in 1930 as one of a slew of “flapper-girl” comic strips popular at the time. Blondie was a not-so-bright gal from the wrong side of the tracks, who somehow fell in with the bumbling and not-too-attractive Dagwood Bumstead, playboy son of railroad tycoon J. Bolling Bumstead. Soon, Dagwood became her steady beau, just as the Depression was really getting going and people started not-so-much cottoning to the wacky adventures of a billionaire playboy. So, under threat of disinheritance, and after a 28-day hunger strike, Dagwood decided to make Blondie an honest woman. Now they were poor and on their and struggling to make a living, just like the rest of America. Ta-da!

Children soon followed: Alexander nee "Baby Dumpling", followed by Cookie - apparently, giving your child a hooker's name wasn't such a big deal back in the day. Contrary to comics tradition, these children actually aged (until they became uncharacteristically polite and helpful teenagers, where they have been stuck for years) and the sanitized strip has gamely tried to keep up with “modern” life (Blondie now owns her own business, Dagwood is a webmaster, and the couple have been to marriage counseling!)

Their popularity reached its zenith beginning in 1939, with a series of 28 “Blondie” films starring Arthur Lake and Penny Singleton, and featuring early film appearances of Rita Haworth and William Frawley. The films are pleasant in an unremarkable, formulaic, slapstickian “Little Rascals” way. Arthur Lake went on to portray Dagwood in a subsequent TV series, to his eternal delight I’m sure. Singleton was pegged as a commie in the witch hunts of the 50’s; nonetheless she went on to become the vice president of the American Guild of Variety Artists, the voice of Jane Jetson, and to make a fortune off residuals from reruns of “Blondie” movies, since she had been prescient enough to invent the concept of residuals, coin the phrase, and have it written into her contract. Right on, sister!

But, Uh-Oh, Those Summer Nights

You may know that I love Lucy. You may also know that I love Jesus. But I NEVER would have thought of combining my loves into one ludicrous whole. Speaking of loving Lucy, I guess I’m not the only one, as she’s just been voted most popular dead celebrity. One would guess that much of that popularity rests on the success of her classic sitcoms, all of which aired prior to 1975. Following this logic, one could surmise that most people under, say, 25 or so, would ONLY know Lucy from reruns of those classic shows. So why, I ask you, did CNN decide to honor the occasion with what I can only imagine is the WORST photo ever taken of the poor dear.


I suppose I’m backfrom my self-imposed exile, having had someone threaten the nuclear option, i.e. deleting my link from their favorites list. (Floozy Flingland, the dear heart, who moved away last weekend to a glorious new positin in Bremerhaven. So, for HER, here I am.) I have no excuse for being away so long, since I sit at this desk every day, stretching our 45 minutes of work into eight hours, but let’s just say I was overcome by the languid malaise of summer and leave it at that, hmmm?

Plus, I keep thinking, “Oh, today I’ll make some sort of superficial pithy comment on the political climate, and everyone will titter, and on we’ll go with our lives.” But honestly, pithiness doesn’t seem to quite do it anymore. I’m so angry and depressed and outraged every time I hear something about President Bush, I could just scream. Honest. I really think there’s something desperately wrong with our country, and I’m not sure exactly what can be done about it. Ideas welcome.

And don't get me started on James Dobson (who is of the devil) and his advice on raising a non-homosexual son. Apparently it's as simple as showing your little one an adult male penis!

Speaking of Bush, click here if you want to see Jenna’s (warning – mature content!) I SHOULD feel bad about passing this sort of thing on, but she talked all the way through her father’s inaugural worship service, and my solo, so she deserves it. Plus she’s a filthy drunk.

So, summer….as you may know, the performing work pretty much grinds to a halt over the summer, and Jet and I have lots more free time to play with. The problem is, I have some sort of psychological disorder (I suspect OCD, or schizophrenia) that prevents me from relishing in relaxation. I always think I should be doing something productive, and when I’m not, I feel guilty and anxious. Often I think I could relieve the anxiety by distracting myself with something, but every distraction I think of seems woefully inadequate. So I just end up doing nothing, and THEN I feel guilty because I’ve wasted xxx number of hours. What the flip? Jet has it too, so I know it’s not just a psychological disorder that makes me THINK I have a psychological disorder. Not to imply that we don’t have SOME fun.

Frito Joe, I’m occasionally happy to say, is still with us. But, Lord Jesus, the chewing. We’ve so far replaced one area rug and six throw pillows that were victims of his indiscriminate gnawing. Oh, and a container of Bath & Body Works Satsuma Lip Balm, and a bottle of Visine. And several pair of socks, which we are usually able to track down easily. I sometimes have to retrieve my sweatpants or underwear from the backyard as well.

In July, Jet and I went south to see our respective families, and spend a relaxing week in the Florida hot. Mother Rubble plans meals years in advance, so there was plenty to eat, and we finally got hip to the idea that, if people want to see us, they have to come to US, and not make us drive all over creation. Worked like a charm.

Code Dependent joined us on the trip back, and stayed a spell before joining Mr. Dependent and Lil’ Dependent in West Virginian wilderness, where her father-in-law, Poopdeck Pappy, owns a vast tract of property and a country chateau. Her report from the front:

Thursday was spent going to the Wal-Mart in Lewisburg, an hour or so each way. We did the grocery shopping and came home and I cooked dinner.

Friday we actually got out and about on the property, found property lines, visited some neighbors and did some target shooting up in the woods. Lil’ Dependent is a very good shot and I am not bad either. His big project was knocking a dead tree down by shooting at the trunk until he knocked enough of the wood away that it fell. (Took till Sunday.)

Friday evening, Mr. Dependent and I got back to the house at around 7:30 from visiting neighbors and Poopdeck Pappy (who had stayed at home) called us into the living room to tell us "something important." He said,"Mrs. Dependent, I've decided to throw a party tomorrow night for the neighborhood that you will hostess. We'll have hot dogs, hamburgers, slaw and beans and you can go to the store with Debbie (a 40-something booze hound that lives down the road who helped with Mrs. Poopdeck and now stays around to do his laundry, as he cannot operate the washer, take him to the store, as he cannot drive, and plot ways to cheat his heirs out of his estate when he dies) and get everything you need.”

So, Saturday was spent getting all that together. Went pretty well, considering. I foolishly purchased beer along with the soft drinks and no one drank any as they were all "too religious". Luckily, Debbie thought to go to the community center and get the big drink coolers for some lemonade and sweet tea. Funniest conversation of the night was when I was talking to a 70-ish woman, Marm Porterfield. I asked where she lived and she told me which house in the valley was hers. Then she said,"My husband died in December, so I've lived alone since then. My daughter lives in the valley and I have a son up in Covington he's married to a black girl we just love her they've been married 18 years she's his third wife but she's the best one and we just love her." Wonder if he ever brings her down to visit. Funniest name in the valley: Sonny Loony, the used car salesman. (Wouldn't he just about have to be?)

Poopdeck has this hired hand, John, who is kept busy building stone bridges and trying to control the flow of water that comes rushing off the mountain whenever it rains. He is a nice enough feller- seems honest, is grateful for the work and seems to have a good
deal of respect for Poopdeck. He is about 23, I think, (very easy on the eyes as
well!) Brought his wife, who looks about 16, and two of his FIVE children to
the party (she is his third wife- everyone seems to have been married more than onc't). Anyway, Mr. Dependent was talking to John just before we left yesterday, to ask him to keep an eye on the Debbie situation and call collect if he had any suspicion that she might be preparing to stab the elder Achor while he sleeps. Mr. Dependent asked if there was anyone else in the valley who might help out with household chores and John said, "Well
thar's that one woman who was at the party, Marie. You know, she came with her
mama, has dark hair and glasses- looks like she's never been married."

We finally figured out that "looks like she's never been married" must be
valley speak for lesbian.

Jet, after years and years of worry, has finally found a new job that will secure the happiness of us all. I’d tell you more, but he hasn’t actually STARTED yet….I’ll wait and see if he likes it before I get snarky about it.

My own job has been a flurry of activity with hirings and firings – I figure I’m safe as long as Bossman keeps telling me WHO’S getting fired before it happens. Last to go was Miss Mousy, who spoke so quickly and quietly I often had to ask her to repeat herself several times, even if she was standing right next to me. Except when Bossman was gone. Then she would scream obscenities into the phone, or to the computer, or just into the air for all I know. Word has it that Zynthia is next to go, as she was asked during her evaluation not to make personal calls all day long, and responded with a potty-mouthed memo cc’d to every department head in the company. Then asked for a month off.

I, of course, continue to be a model employee, despite spending most of my day surfing the internet.

Jet and I read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince the very SECOND it came out (okay, we chickened out and didn’t go to the bookstore at midnight, but we went the next day.) In the unlikely event that there’s anyone who really cares about such things that hasn’t finished the book yet, here are my predictions for the next book. Highlight the area below:

Dumbledore IS dead, and Snape DID kill him, but he was ordered to, by Dumbledore. Snape is still on the side of good.

Harry’s scar is a horcrux, but Voldemort doesn’t know it. V. thinks there are only six horcurxes, but there are seven (Harry’s scar is the seventh) and it will somehow contribute to V.’s ultimate defeat.

Snape is the half-brother of Harry’s mother. His birth name is Esperus Evans (which, when the letters are jumbled, becomes Severus Snape). That’s why he regrets calling Lily a mudblood, and why he is protecting Harry. Oh, and he was also present when Harry’s parents were killed.

Remember these, because if any of them are true I want royalties.

Spent last weekend at LSBB’s, where Mother Rubble was visiting, and a lovely time was had by all (except, possibly, LSBB, who had a houseful of messy people, and two pair of flip-flops ruined by Frito Joe.) Had a great deal of fun thinking up imaginary horrible food with which to torment
the children, Peeps and Ragu Too - among them Coconut Shrimp Blizzard, French Onion Soupcicles, and V8 Roll-Ups.

And Code Dependent was back briefly this weekend, to do a quick and dirty recording job. The producers and arranger were, naturally enough, wowed by her professionalism and talent, so much so that they called Jet and I to come on up and do some small backup things – and then, when they heard US, had us re-record some things that had already been recorded by a lesser singer. Tee hee, superiority is fun!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I’ve found a new hobby, writing bitchy reviews on Amazon. I'm hoping if enough of you go there and vote for me, I'll win a prize - like, my whole wish list. I promise I'll share!

That's all, I think. While you wait for me to inevitable disappoint you again, go join the evolution vs. creationism debate, here and here. Ta ta!

The Ballad of Frito Joe

Well, okay, I’ll come back. Stop complaining! CodeDependent thinks I’m afraid of success, and since I’m so universally popular, I’m hiding my light under a bushel. Hmmmmph. I prefer to think that the news, and every thing that I could conceivably comment on, is so obviously stupid already that it’s hard for me to make snarky comments to point out how stupid it is.

So, a couple of brief tidbits:

I, nor anyone in my immediate circle, cared who Deep Throat was. And we’re all awfully depressed that the free press that existed thirty years ago during Watergate is nothing but an historic relic. If you’ve been watching or reading the mainstream press, you probably don’t know that Rep. Conyers will be holding a hearing tomorrow to raise questions about the Downing Street Memo, which proves that President Bush intended to invade Iraq all along, and lied to the American people. Since Terri Schiavo’s autopsy results are in, and Michael Jackson has been found not guilty, there is a SLIM chance that you will hear about this tomorrow, but don’t forget – there’s still a missing white woman in Aruba, and the media LOVES missing white women! If she’s found tonight or tomorrow, you can bet that’ll carry the news through Monday.

Anyway, I’ve been obsessed with finding out every thing there is to no about dogs, which brings me to Frito Joe, our new little foundling. Jet and I saw him about two months ago, when we were looking for a baby brother for Dino, the sweetest dog that ever lived on the Earth. Frito Joe is a homely little thing, and when we first saw him, wasn’t housebroken, and hadn’t been bathed very frequently by his foster family. We filled out paperwork to start the adoption process, but realized the housebreaking thing wouldn’t exactly suit our busy, on-the-go lifestyles. So we withdrew our interest.

Several weeks later, the SPCA helpfully emailed us information on a different prospective new baby brother, which we traveled to see at an adoption show. And there was Frito Joe, still dirty and unadopted, but (as hastily pointed out by his foster mother), housebroken at last.

So, we indicated a renewed interest.

This was a on a day that I was en route to Atlanta, to attend the Council of Science Editors Annual meeting.

Regarding Atlanta, what’s the big deal? The highlight of my stay was finding that there’s a Dairy Queen adjoining the Hyatt Regency.

Regarding the Council of Science Editors – lots and LOTS of justified open hostility toward the Bush Administration I the scientific community. They are under attack, and they know it, and they’re not going to take it lying down. And they’re THIS close to figuring out how to clone. If I were a Republican, I’d be watching my back.

I did have a delightful Thai dinner with my cousin Dang, recently divorced from wife number two and on the prowl for number three. Though he’s no longer the strapping, golden-haired youth he was, oh, about 30 years ago, I still have a clear-as-a-bell memory of Dang’s brother, Jame Gumm, taking me out in the woods when I was a wee thing, and leaving me there. Not being one to be left, I set off to find my own way back and promptly found myself stuck in a thicket of briars with bees swarming all around me. Wherupon strapping, golden-haired Dang strode through the underbrush and plucked me up to safety.

So, I came home from my restful stay in Atlanta to find that not only had our renewed interest in Frito Joe been renewed and acknowledged, but that he had been delivered to our tasteful suburban home and been in the sole care of the harried Jet for two days.

Not only that, but Dino didn’t seem to like him very much. Probably because, never having heard the word “no” in her whole life, she was now hearing it all the time, loudly, and likely had no idea that it wasn’t directed at her.

Plus he bites her. All the time.

So, we decided Frito Joe would go right back to his foster mother, no questions asked, and we would go right back to our peaceful, idyllic lives with Dino.

This was on Wednesday. The foster mother agreed to pick him up on Saturday.

If not for the constant crying by Jet and I at the prospect of spurning him again, it probably would have worked.

But, alas, Frito Joe is ours now, and likely will be forever. Dino is grudgingly beginning to accept him, and as soon as we teach him not to dig at the lining of the water feature, I imagine he’ll be a delight.

Well, hope springs eternal.

Back soon – in the meantime, Floozy Flingland wants you to read all about the Lost Boys, Fundamentalist Mormon boys who get kicked out of their homes when they come of age to be competition for the elders. Grim stuff, if you can take it!

Riddle me this....

... which wiry Pittsburgh native passed away yesterday?

And riddle me this while you're at it….who the hell is casting the X-Men movies, Helen Keller?

Jet and I were greeted this morning with the happy news that possibly our favorite show ever will be on DVD this summer. If you like Upstairs, Downstairs and its ilk, you’ll certainly like House of Eliott…but if you’re unwilling to make the financial commitment on a non-entity, go get French and Saunders: At the Movies and watch their hi-larious parody, House of Idiot. You’ll get the idea.

And I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t mention that I only discovered HoE because it was on PBS after Mother Rubble’s favorite British production, Ballykissangel, also on DVD and worth a look, if you like priests flirting with barmaids and country veterinarians and folksy Irish humour, and that sort of thing.

Since most of you will be saving time and money by NOT watching either of the above, there’s still time to watch the 14 wonderful episodes of Firefly, Before it becomes a major motion picture in September. You can even come to my house if you want, I’ll watch them all again and again. I’ll make popcorn. You’ll love it.

And now you know what I do with the sudden addition of unstructured free time into my schedule, think of TV and boss other people around.

Alert reader Floozy Flingland tells us that Dingleberry Dynasty, whom I first told you about last year, will soon be headlining in their own feature film. Well, good for them. I wonder if they’ll have the guy dress like a dog and hump everybody. I’m betting we all liked the offbeat-mockumentary-like band movie the first time we saw it, when it was called Hedwig and the Angry Inch.

But I digress.

What does everyone think of me and Jet’s new teenage crush? Too bad there’s no American politician ballsy enough for us to get dreamy-eyed over.

Shamefull self admissions, good for the soul

Mind you, I’m not talking about the sort of self-discovery, like, “I’m a transvestite serial killer” (that is, a serial killer who IS a transvestite, not a serial killer OF transvestites). I’m talking about the sort of harmless thing where, if your friends knew, you might be mightily embarrassed. But, if you’re man enough to accept your own peculiar behavior, everyone can just move on with their lives and nobody gets hurt.

Here are my two shameful self-admissions for the day:

1) I have an odd but irresistible attraction to bubblegum pop re-interpretations of songs from Disney movies. EVEN IF THEY INVOLVE AARON CARTER OR JESSICA SIMPSON.
2) When I wear a pink t-shirt, I look like a giant wad of bubblegum stuck on two moving sticks.

There, now don’t we all feel better?

Speaking of disturbing facts about people, pro-life militant and spokesman for the Fundamentalist terrorist organization “Army of God”, Neal Horsely, admitted to professional milquetoast alan colmes last week, on National radio, that he has had sex with a mule.

Honest.

That’s maybe not so disturbing, depending on your world view (I hate to draw conclusions about my readership). But what IS disturbing is that he apparently thinks having sex with mules is something everyone does.

The transcript follows:

colmes: Is it true?
Horsley: Hey, Alan, if you want to accuse me of having sex when I was a fool, I did everything that crossed my mind that looked like I...
colmes: You had sex with animals?
Horsley: Absolutely. I was a fool. When you grow up on a farm in Georgia, your first girlfriend is a mule.
colmes: I'm not so sure that that is so.
Horsley: You didn't grow up on a farm in Georgia, did you?
colmes: Are you suggesting that everybody who grows up on a farm in Georgia has a mule as a girlfriend?
Horsley: It has historically been the case. You people are so far removed from the reality... Welcome to domestic life on the farm...
...
Horsley: You experiment with anything that moves when you are growing up sexually. You're naive. You know better than that... If it's warm and it's damp and it vibrates you might in fact have sex with it.

Heh, heh, you said it Neal. I…errrr…..um, forget it. I have nothing.


You’ve probably heard about last weekend’s brouhaha in St. Paul, where a Catholic priest denied communion to 100 people because they were wearing rainbow-colored sashes.

Well, I don’t know why they don’t just turn Episcopal.

Anyway, it reminded me of a good homily on a similar subject by the usually-dreadfully-boring father Pat Earl at Holy Trinity in Georgetown. Read it. Do as I say.

An speaking of unjustified hatred and fear of gays, Republican Alabama lawmaker Gerald Allen says homosexuality is an unacceptable lifestyle. His proposed solution is to prevent public school libraries from buying or stocking the shelves with literature or plays written by gay authors, regardless of content.

Let’s see, that would include, oh, EVERY AUTHOR OF NOTE IN THE PAST THREE THOUSAND YEARS.

On the plus side, I may finally have found a market for my pet project, Cliff’s notes for the collected works of Clive Cussler.

That’s all for today. Now go buy a Superman medal.

Road rage...or at least discomfort!

So yesterday, I was driving home to make Jet’s supper, and the car in front of me, an SUV, had a bumper sticker that said “Marriage = man + woman” (only the “man” and “woman” were pictograms like on restroom doors, just in case anyone missed the point or couldn't read). The vehicle was also adorned with the requisite “God Bless America” bumper sticker, a magnetic “Support Our Troops” yellow ribbon (which, by the way, are MADE IN CHINA and DON’T SUPPORT OUR TROOPS), and a dashboard full of sun-bleached beanie babies. I was struck by the sudden urge to follow the vehicle in question – not to be confrontational or anything (since I’m passive-aggressive), but just out of an intense curiosity to see who was driving, and where they were going, and see if I could glean in their appearance a sense of what sorts of fears and insecurities they must live with on a daily basis to feel compelled to display it so publicly.

Well, I didn’t, because I had a sack full of pork chops, and I’m intensely afraid that I’m going to be poisoned by bad meat someday, so I had to get right home to put them in the fridge.

But it started an idea brewing, and I think I may have found a new mission: to create progressive tracts, of the Jack Chick variety, which I can leave on windshields of offensive cars. Plot ideas welcome.

I never watch the insipid Jay Leno if I can help it, but did anyone catch Bright Eyes’ performance last week? He sang a little ditty (well, maybe sang is a bit generous) called “When The President Talks to God”:

When the president talks to God
Are the conversations brief or long?
Does he ask to rape our women’s' rights
And send poor farm kids off to die?
Does God suggest an oil hike
When the president talks to God?

When the president talks to God
Are the consonants all hard or soft?
Is he resolute all down the line?
Is every issue black or white?
Does what God say ever change his mind
When the president talks to God?

When the president talks to God
Does he fake that drawl or merely nod?
Agree which convicts should be killed?
Where prisons should be built and filled?
Which voter fraud must be concealed
When the president talks to God?

When the president talks to God
I wonder which one plays the better cop
We should find some jobs. the ghetto's broke
No, they're lazy, George, I say we don't
Just give 'em more liquor stores and dirty coke
That's what God recommends

When the president talks to God
Do they drink near beer and go play golf
While they pick which countries to invade
Which Muslim souls still can be saved?
I guess god just calls a spade a spade
When the president talks to God

When the president talks to God
Does he ever think that maybe he's not?
That that voice is just inside his head
When he kneels next to the presidential bed
Does he ever smell his own bullshit
When the president talks to God?
I doubt it


And speaking of God, here’s a link to the sermon by George Regas I mentioned last week, in defense of ecumenicalism.

And speaking of the National Cathedral, last week the Queen Mother of Swaziland was there!

And speaking of the President, is he retarded? Here’s a transcript of a recent exchange from his Social Security-a-Palooza tour. He was addressing Fidel Vagas, a fellow Republican who had come out to support his hare-brained scheme:


PRESIDENT BUSH: Great job, thanks for coming. The fact that you went to Harvard bothers me more than the fact that you didn't vote for me.

MR. VARGAS: We both went to HBS [Harvard Business School].

PRESIDENT BUSH: That's right. I forgot that part. Good job. Thanks for coming.

Is he…I mean….uh, forget it. I have nothing.

When I get done reading Christian comic book tracts, and am still bored, I turn to my other favorite pastime, reading internet comic book message boards.

Where one STILL can’t escape religious arguments.

To wit: a recent posting on the DC Comics website, where “sensorsnake” has a TERRIFIC idea for a new super-hero:

I propose DC adds a new superhero to the JLA. His name is Shepard and he fights injustice and evil in a Christian way. While the JLA fights to protect earth from alien threats, Shepard's focus would be to protect innocents such as unborn children. What does everyone think?

Rest assured, “everyone” didn’t think much of sensorsnake’s brainstorm. I guess Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, et al, who defend the defenseless, protect the innocent, have a high moral code that prevents them from killing even the vilest of bad guys, and generally, well, ACT LIKE CHRISTIANS, aren't enough, now we need a super-hero who specializes in bombing abortion clinics?

Heh. If Superman showed up tomorrow, in the real world, James Dobson (who is of the devil ) and his ilk would denounce him as the Antichrist by sundown.

Also good for laughs is the personal web domain of John Byrne. Byrne, a powerhouse comic book artist who began his career in the early 70’s, and became a superstar of sorts for his work on The X-Men in the late 70’s/ early 80’s, is at least 50% responsible for the X-Men being such a viable movie franchise.

Lately, like the last 15 years or so, he’s become a trifle unhinged, attacking other creators, attacking his own fans, and generally being a giant dick.

Here’s a recent exchange, which began because Byrne was enraged by people who use the term “word bubble” (which is apparently incorrect) instead of “word balloon” (which is, apparently, correct).

So, a message board visitor said:
Then this all brings up the question of language. Do words have inherent meanings or just those we ascribe to them? If enough pros, in addition to the fans, say "speech bubble" then why wouldn't "bubble" be just as valid as "balloon"? JB says "balloon", someone else says "bubble", and they could both be right.
To which, Byrne responds:
There are lots of people who call Black people "niggers". Are both terms "right"? You seem to have missed the rather important point that my response indicated roughly the same percentage of fans and pros use the improper terms for various elements of what we do -- but that percentage does not approach a balance. It is not that roughly half say "balloon" and half say "bubble". It is that some say "bubble" and they are wrong.
Another user states:
Um, we don't avoid using the word "nigger" because it's incorrect usage. We avoid using it because it's incredibly racist and hateful. Is there an ethnic group that's impugned when someone says "thought bubbles" instead of "thought balloons"?
Byrne again:
"Um..." in point of fact there are plenty of people who use the word "nigger" because that is the word they use, not because they imagine it has any negative racial connotations. That's precisely why I chose that word as my illustration.
Another response from the crowd:
Enough already with the casual tossing around of racist epithets!John, you cannot possibly be that ignorant to believe that people who use racial slurs do so without any negative intent or connotation. If you do indeed believe that, I strongly encourage you to seek some counsel and educate yourself on the matter, if you don't want to take my word for it. I've only been black and lived in this country for, oh, my entire life, so I may not be aware of how things really are out there...We spend an awful lot of time on this board dealing with the issue of respect, as it pertains to comic book characters, comic book terminology, reverence for creator's original visions, nicknames for comic book characters, etc. People tread lightly on eggshells out of fear of upsetting you and your many rules for how seriously this wonderful hobby of our should be taken, both by us within it and by those civilians outside of it. How about we extend that same measure of respect to the people who participate in this board?We're supposed to take your word for how things should be in the industry, how characters are supposed to be treated, etc because of your years of experience. How about you extend me the same courtesy on this issue?This isn't about political correctness, or "looking for something to be offended by." It is simply a matter of consideration and manners...There were an infinite number of comparatives you could have chosen to illustrate your point about correct comic book terminology. The fact that you chose the one you did...why?I think we get your point. They are balloons, not bubbles. Fine. Your comparative example sucked. Just as you ask us not to use terms that bother, offend or piss you off, I'm asking you publicly to not use racially insensitive terms and epithets on the board as well. Or is that something you would have a problem with?
Once again, Byrne replies:
Ignorance is the key, but not on my part. There are many places in this country where people to this day use "nigger" when referring to Black people because that's the word they use. They don't think of it as a racial slur. They don't think about it at all, in fact. It simply is.This is not even considering Black people who themselves use the word. We cannot, surely, imagine that it is used in that context as a racial slur?"Nigger" is -- like so many others -- a word with a complex etymology and an even more complex pattern of use.

Other highlights of Byrne’s rantings include his proclamation that Hispanic women with blond hair look like hookers. Not to be missed!

And finally, I leave you with this. Ta ta!

Every time....

....I see the name "Malachy", I think of the movie "Children of the Corn", which for some reason was my favorite movie for, oh, about three teenage years.

I'm sure it had NOTHING WHATSOEVER to do with Peter Horton spending half the movie with his shirt off.

Anyway, I set out to refute the kooky prognostications of St. Malachy, and promised to do it “tomorrow”, which was about a week ago. So sue me. I’ve been ever so busy trying to “gather research” (also known as mindlessly surfing the internet) and, the simple fact is, EVERYONE BELIEVES IT. So I’m just going to have to do it myself. What else should I expect from a nation that thinks an oil stain on a freeway underpass is the Virgin Mary?

To recap: St. Malachy (1094-1148) was an Irish Benedictine bishop who is said to have predicted, by means of brief phrases for each one, a characteristic feature of the reign of every Roman Catholic pope, from the beginning of the papacy to the very end. A total of 112 popes were listed in a book published by Benedictine friar Arnold de Wyon in the year 1590.
The authenticity of the book has been doubted since the 17th century and, in fact, it is now widely assumed that the “prophecies” were written by Wyon himself. There are no mentions of Malachy's Prophecies prior to 1590 in any official or unofficial Church record, and none of Malachy's contemporaries (including Bernard of Clairvaux, who wrote Malachy's biography and was his close friend) reference the document, and as the Benedictines at the time of Arnold de Wyon's "discovery" were fighting for their survival (many of their monasteries had been sacked and their members killed during the wars of the Protestant Reformation) and a document that showed the Benedictines in a good light would have been a godsend to the embattled order, and as the manuscript has itself disappeared and only notes about its contents survive, most contemporary, responsible, reputable scholars believe the thing to be a fake from beginning to end. Including me.

The descriptive phrases of popes BEFORE Wion’s time are quite accurate, while those coming after require a good deal of stretching to make them fit. For instance, the phrase attributed to the late John Paul II was "De Labore Solis" (Of the Solar Eclipse, or From the Toil of the Sun). Most scholars of prophecy seem to think this fits because of the “fact” that John Paul II was born during a solar eclipse.

A partial solar eclipse.

Visible only in Australia (he was born in Poland. Very far from Australia.)

Pope Benedict XVI is Pope # 111 in Malachy’s list, “The Glory of the Olive”. His choice of the name Benedict seems to instantly fulfill the prophecy, Saint Benedict purportedly prophesied that before the end of the world his Order, known also as the Olivetans, will triumphantly lead the Catholic Church in its final fight against evil.

Except, well, that’s fudging things a little bit, because the Olivetans are a particular sect of the Benedictines. All Olivetans are Benedictines, but not all Benedictines are Olivetans. Plus, the Pope isn’t a Benedictine.

So, to be completely sure that Pope Benedict XVI IS the fulfillment of prophecy, we better look for something a little less tenuous. Maybe he likes martinis? (Trust me, I’ve known some Catholics in my day, and they can put the hooch away!)

There is also every reason to believe that the Vatican is not only well aware of Malachy’s prophecy, but actively trying to make it look as though each new Pope is fulfilling it.

Like the fact that a Papal portrait gallery in the Vatican only has two more empty spaces in it; one for Benedict, and one for his successor, which would bring us to the end of Malachy’s list and, presumably, to the end of the world.

Like the fact that the American Cardinal Spellman was so eager to become Pope that when Piux XII was near death and the next Pope, according to Malachy, was to be "pastor et nauta" (shepherd and navigator), he hired an Italian sailor to take him on a cruise down the Tiber River with a flock of sheep on board. It didn't take; the next Pope was Angelo Roncalli, who took the name John XXIII. He had served for a time in Venice, a city of many waterways where EVERYONE’S a sailor, and after his election, he promised to be a "good shepherd" to his flock.

Um, yeah, well…that’s kind of the Pope’s JOB, isn’t it?

So, that’s my take. If there’s one thing Carl Sagan taught me, it’s that specious reasoning is for sissies!

Now, at the risk of offending all my Catholic pals, I’m afraid I’ve raised a quizzical eyebrow or two at some of the pronouncements of this new Pope of theirs. Like that all Protestant denominations are “sects”, and the sex-abuse scandal was just “a secular attack on the Church”, and the like.

But THIS takes the cake.

He says Harry potter books "undermine the soul of Christianity".

No word yet whether priests molesting children has the same effect.

Speaking of religion, I had to sing last Saturday at the installation of the new Dean of the National Cathedral, Samuel Lloyd. Nothing TOO interesting, except that Sandra Day O’Connor was there, and she looks EXACTLY like Grandma Walton. I’m not kidding.

But then, the next day, the Dean’s pal George Regas sermonized, and said all manner of shocking things, like he didn’t think Christ was the ONLY way to God, and how we should work in concert with other religions for social justice, and all sorts of hate-filled ideas like that. A quick Google search showed me all sorts of reasons to like Dr. Regas, like this and this , and so I dropped him an email of appreciation, and he wrote back the very same day! I’m a reg’lar ambassador of good will!

Money quote: “God, for me, is defined by Christ, but not confined by Christ”

Preach on, brother.

Also last weekend, Jet and I officially became Americans. That is, we used the extra money from refinancing our mortgage to buy things we didn’t really need, like a front-loading washer and a surround sound system. Let me tell you, I’m sure I don’t know how I survived without either one for so long. Isn’t capitalism great?

So great, in fact, that some people are desperately filling the internet with lies to get here. Case in Point: “Yulia”, a sweet young Russian gal who’s been corresponding with LSBB’s friend “RJ”. How he got involved I’m still not sure of, but this girl is working him but good.

I mean, how is a poor defenseless straight man supposed to react when receiving in his inbox the following:

By the way I like oral and normal (usual) sex. I DISLIKE sexual orgies and group sex. But I like to try something new in sex relations and I like some experiments.

Errrr…..nice to meet you, too! Oh, she also dislikes anal sex and gay people, in case you were wondering.

Of course, after enticing him with carnal thoughts, she drops the bomb:

Yesterday before I gone to sleep I thought about us so much and I understood that I falling in love to you. With every day you take more and more space in my head. And I think about you constantly. I had a dream and in my dream I saw you RJ! All the night you was in front of my eyes. When I got up I thought about it and I believe it's not bychance. I want to tell you that I really sense the feeling to you. And I want to let you know that we need to meet each other.Don't you think so? Our meeting will be great thing in our lifes. Do you agree with me? I have insuperable wish to meet you in person. I believe it can be possible! This is real thing! I think if we will want it we need to have meeting. I believe our meeting will help to know usbetter and more closer! I'm sure that I would like to meet you RJ. I feel that you have become more closer to me. I tell you all about my life and I will tell more if you will ask. I feel that you have become more than just a friend to me and I want to tellyou three words of love. But you must know I want to tell you it now! I had a dream about our meeting! I really want to know you, speak to you, take your hand and see your eyes. Maybe it's very frankly now but it's true and I don't want to hide it. I always say the true and don't like when people lie. I hate it!

Of course, love does come at a price…

I have the good news for you! Yesterday I make the application for a cominginto your country and I will get the visa for it soon! I went in the organization which makes the documents for a coming through embassy. I hope I will get the documents permitting to come! Today I will give them the medical informations and other types of papers for registration of visa. All necessary documents will cost about 314 dollars for me.

And then…

I want to ask you my RJ: CAN YOU FIND OUT INFORMATION ABOUT COST OF FLIGHTTICKET YOU? FROM MOSCOW TO NEAREST INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT TO YOU. I ask you because I really need in this information.

LSBB thinks she’s a poor heartsick girl who desperately wants a way out of her Siberian hovel, but I’ve got money on the table that within three days she asks him to pony up the 314 dollars, or perhaps tests his mettle first by asking him to send a sewing machine to her mother or something. The suspense, I can’t stand it!

Well, THAT didn't take long

Cardinal Ratzinger will be Pope Benedict XVI (despite the breathless commentary from a CNN commentator that they had just announced “Pope Decimi Sextus”. Idiot.)

So, we’ll see how it goes. He’s 78, I guess he won’t have much time to do much harm, despite the fact that he once called homosexuality a tendency toward "intrinsic moral evil" and dismissed the uproar over priestly pedophilia in the United States as a "planned campaign" against the church.

Just for kicks, let’s review the prophecy of St. Malachi that I discussed in my previous post, shall we? Malachi’s sobriquets for the last few Popes read as follows:

· Paul VI. The words of the 108th prophecy are "Flos Florum" (Flower of Flowers). The 108th pope after Innocent II was Paul VI (1963-78). His coat of arms included three fleurs-de-lis (iris blossoms).

· John Paul I. The 109th is "De Medietate Lunae" (Of the Half Moon). The corresponding pope was John Paul I (1978-78), who was born in the diocese of Belluno (beautiful moon) and was baptized Albino Luciani (white light). He became pope on August 26, 1978, when the moon appeared exactly half full. It was in its waning phase. He died the following month, soon after an eclipse of the moon.

· John Paul II. The 110th is "De Labore Solis" (Of the Solar Eclipse, or From the Toil of the Sun). The corresponding pope was John Paul II (1978-2005). John Paul II was born on May 8, 1920 during an eclipse of the sun. Like the sun, he came out of the East (Poland). Like the sun, he visited countries all around the globe.

The 111th prophecy is "Gloria Olivae" (The Glory of the Olive). The meaning of the olive is unclear. The Order of Saint Benedict – not St. Malachy – has claimed that this pope will come from its ranks and Saint Benedict himself prophesied that before the end of the world his Order, known also as the Olivetans, will triumphantly lead the Catholic Church in its final fight against evil.

So…Pope Benedict. Does he know something we don't?

The 112th prophecy says, "In the final persecution of the Holy Roman Church there will reign Petrus Romanus (Peter the Roman), who will feed his flock amid many tribulations; after which the seven-hilled city will be destroyed and the dreadful Judge will judge the people.
Trouble is, Petrus Romanus may not actually be St. Malachi’s work, but a much later addition. Meaning Benedict is it, kids.

Jesus is coming, look busy!

Except....it might all be hooey. Skeptic's counterpoint coming tomorrow!

Who is Matt Lattimore?

And why is he popping up on my computer screen about A BILLION TIMES A DAY, telling me to buy a Titanium Turbo razor? I don’t WANT a Titanium Turbo razor, especially not if it’s recommended by someone whose claim to fame is starring in something with “Sasquatch" in the title.

So the Pope is dead, I suppose you’ve heard. And now they’re trying to pick a new one. I wouldn’t be in such a hurry if I were them, seeing as how St. Malachi prophesied back in the day that there would only be two more popes before the end of the world. Seems to me they’d want to stretch it out a little bit.

Plus, all the candidates that are in the running seem to be on their last legs. Correlate this with the Mayan prophecy that the world will end December 21, 2012, by which time we could have easily gone through two more papal geezers, and it seems they’d maybe want to consider finding a precocious child pope or two. Like they do with the Dalai Lama.

High-school-dropout-turned-prophet John Hogue has his own cheery ideas about the future of the papacy and the coming global conflagration. Enjoy!

Not that I mean to sound flip. Mother Rubble made sure we grew up with a healthy respect for our Catholic neighbors and their Holy See, and although we were not Catholic ourselves, we DID have a souvenir mug collection with pictures of Pope Pius, or John, or somebody. Or maybe it was Santa Claus, I was never sure.

Oh, and if you’re still interested, click here to read about some of the nastier Popes in history.

And if you’re still interested after that, click here to get your very own Jesus doll. With Kung-Fu grip!

Not only that, but a little research revealed that one can acquire a doll of almost ANY hitorical or popular personage, including Twiggy, Snoop Doggy Dog, Andy Warhol, and….um, well, I guess it’s Christopher Walken.

Jet and I are so tired we can hardly see straight. On top of doing an opera down at the college, we spent a harried three weeks preparing a cabaret show of French pop music, which we then performed with our musical director, Patrick Fitzjames, down at the Atlas Theater in Northeast DC, at the corner of Slash Avenue and Grab Street. Of course it ended up being the smash sensation of the age – at least for the twenty-five people that attended – and instantly launched us into the upper echelons of the local cabaret scene. The only one who didn’t like it was the uppity “producer”, who was, apparently, in charge although he had been out of town until the actual day of the performance. He informed Jet that we had “the basis for a good show”. Well, he’s just jealous. Hmmph.

So the week before the French show, I was having nosebleeds every day, and in fact had one the very DAY of the show, and bled all over my new lavender shirt bought especially for said show, and had to change to my gold shirt, also bought especially for said show, because I couldn’t decide between them. So the next day I went to my doctor, Dr. Prissy Hindu, who likes to offer his opinion without actually examining you, who poo-pooed my idea of the nosebleeds being caused by Rinocort spray, and insisted it was my blood pressure, and gave me blood pressure medicine which makes me tired and my stomach hurt. Even though my blood pressure is ALWAYS 130 over 70, except for that ONE day when I was at the doctor, nervous because my nose was bleeding all over my new shirts. And that’s what leads me to now, sitting here exhausted and with a sore stomach.

At least, I THINK it’s the blood pressure medicine making me tired, even though I sleep and sleep. Being a hypochondriac, it could also be mono, bird flu, or lyme disease. Or, perhaps I’ve inherited Mother Rubble’s genetic disease of being “born tired”.

Along with new shirts-especially-for-shows, Jet and I bought new tuxedos for our active performing careers, and shoes and things. Well, actually Jet bought shoes. I took a pair of shoes up to the counter, as they were the most comfortable shoes EVER, as if magic elves had come in my sleep and made them JUST for me, and the shopgirl informed me that they were actually NOT the shoes that belonged in the box, but in fact that it appeared someone had come in, put on the pair of new shoes, and left their old, used shoes behind in the box. I almost bought them anyway, but they wouldn’t let me. Sigh. Which convinces me that there are no shoes in the whole world for me that don’t look like they should be worn by old arthritic lesbians.

So, that’s all for now. Oh, except for this. Ta ta!

In other news: Hell freezes over

Well, Mother Rubble is online. It’s the sixth sign of the apocalypse.

While there’s still time, feel free to drop her a line (but be gentle, she’s new.)

As I write (March 24, 4:15 pm) Terri Schiavo’s parents have submitted ANOTHER appeal to the Federal Court.

As I wrote the other day, I waffled for a long while on this whole issue. But the past few days, in doing my research, I’ve come to the conclusion that Mrs. Schiavo’s parents, pitiable as they are, are just plain crazy.

The most telling evidence in my assessment was a report by the Mrs. Schiavo’s court-appointed Guardian Ad Litem, who spent considerable time with her, her husband and parents. From the report (emphases mine):

Testimony provided by members of the Schindler family included very personal statements about their desire and intention to ensure that Theresa remain alive. Throughout the course of the litigation, deposition and trial testimony by members of the Schindler family voiced the disturbing belief that they would keep Theresa alive at any and all costs. Nearly gruesome examples were given, eliciting agreement by family members that in the event Theresa should contract diabetes and subsequent gangrene in each of her limbs, they would agree to amputate each limb, and would then, were she to be diagnosed with heart disease, perform open heart surgery. There was additional, difficult testimony that appeared to establish that despite the sad and undesirable condition of Theresa, the parents still derived joy from having her alive, even if Theresa might not be at all aware of her environment given the persistent vegetative state. Within the testimony, as part of the hypotheticals presented, Schindler family members stated that even if Theresa had told them of her intention to have artificial nutrition withdrawn, they would not do it. Throughout this painful and difficult trial, the family acknowledged that Theresa was in a diagnosed persistent vegetative state.

And….

In 2000, despite conceding their daughter's persistent vegetative state, the Schindlers said they still believed she knew when they were there. When Felos, Michael Schiavo's lawyer, asked Bob Schindler if he thought Terri would be tormented by her current state, he replied ''Yes,'' but added, ''she's not that cognizant to be aware of it.''

It’s clear to me from the above that Mrs. Schiavo’s parents simply can’t let go, and perhaps have a bit of a control issue.

But any sympathy I might have felt for the Schindlers for their delusions of eventual recovery for their daughter has been whittled away by the ghoulishly political behavior of the Repugnantan party. To wit:

Tom Delay’s assertion that God sent Terri Schiavo to Earth in order to expose the vast liberal conspiracy threatening conservatives everywhere:

“One thing that God has brought to us is Terry Schiavo, to help us elevate the visibility of what is going on in America … This is exactly the issue that is going on in America, of attacks against the conservative movement, against me and many others … a huge nationwide concerted effort to destroy everything we believe in.”

DeLay’s, and the President’s, sudden concern for the welfare of those in vegetative states is remarkable, considering that in 1999 they could have done something to stop a Texas ruling which allowed people who wanted to be kept alive and whose families were in unanimous agreement that they wanted to be kept alive to be taken, involuntarily, off life support if the facility they were in decided that they weren't able to pay for the treatment that would sustain their lives. Especially if they were black.

Feverishly pro-Bush radio host Glenn Beck, who has offered to buy Terri Schiavo from her husband. Oh, and on his website, you can buy a T-shirt with Michael Schiavo’s picture on it, which says “I starved my wife to death”. Classy! (And in case you were wondering, Michael Schiavo relinquished his right to make the decision to remove his wife’s feeding tube. That’s how it ended up in the courts in the first place. The decision was the court’s. The decision would not change, even if her parents were to gain custody.)

And Dr. Bill Frist, who diagnosed Mrs. Schiavo via videotape and used that as a basis to give her already-addled parents false hope for her eventual recovery. Interesting in that he had this to say about the death of Democrat Christopher Reeve:

"I find it opportunistic to use the death of someone like Christopher Reeve -- I think it is shameful -- in order to mislead the American people," Frist said. "We should be offering people hope, but neither physicians, scientists, public servants or trial lawyers like John Edwards should be offering hype."It is cruel to people who have disabilities and chronic diseases, and, on top of that, it's dishonest. It's giving false hope to people, and I can tell you as a physician who's treated scores of thousands of patients that you don't give them false hope."

The hypocrisy of proclaiming a “culture of life” is astounding, in a world where 20,000 people a day die as a direct result of poverty, 100,000 innocent civilians have been killed in Iraq, and Michael Schiavo and Judge Greer continue to receive death threats from “religious” folk across the nation.

Jesuit theologian John J. Paris has this to say to the zealous among us:

Here's the question I ask of these right-to-lifers, including Vatican bishops: as we enter into Holy Week and we proclaim that death is not triumphant and that with the power of resurrection and the glory of Easter we have the triumph of Christ over death, what are they talking about by presenting death as an unmitigated evil? It doesn’t fit Christian context.

And my last sad, unfortunate truth for today: Terri Schiavo, who previously had the option to either die with dignity, or be kept alive with dignity, now has grandstanding Repugnantans to thank for stripping away any dignity she might have had.

Way to go, GOP!

What's that smell...?

...Why....it's Jesus!

Sorry I've been gone - I can hardly fend off the complaints of my, apparently, innumerable fans. I’ve been busy, you see, though I know you’re all busy and that’s no excuse.

So, let’s see…I went to Charleston, SC last week to a seminar about the online submission system that most medical journals use. Charleston is built on top of a swamp, you see, which you can tell by the swampy smell that permeates the town. Except for the lobby of my hotel, which smelled like asparagus piss. Beggars shouldn’t be choosers, I guess – I DID have free wireless internet access in my room, a sofa AND an easy chair, and room service that was quick as you please. Plus, every item on the room service menu came with either fried green tomatoes OR buttermilk-fried oysters. Yum!

There was a gal at the conference who couldn’t stop talking about the excitement of being on the volunteer fire department, back in Kansas or New Jersey wherever she was from. I bet it IS exciting, especially for the people whose homes are on fire, since she also disclosed that she’s BLIND IN ONE EYE.

And the person who drives the fire truck is deaf.

I returned to face an endless week of rehearsals and performances. Jet and I have ill-advisedly consented to help out the kids down at the college with their production of La Boheme. We’re making a pretty penny to do so, but I think we would have been better off to stay poor and have a free evening now and again. Plus we both work in churches, and it’s the Easter season, and if you’re not aware, it’s a pretty big deal for most churches. Plus we were doing a concert with the Washington Bach Consort, which made us mad because the hired soloists from out of town were not very good, and the people who did little tiny solos from the choir, like ME, were BETTER, and some people, like ME, who saw the Washington Post reviewer feverishly scribbling on his pad every time I sang my little insignificant solos, expected to wake up to the Tuesday Post to find that I at last had a champion in the Press, who would decry the hateful practice of flying in out-of-town soloists while local talent languishes in the choir. But it was not to be.

Poor Jet had to have a stress test yesterday, and the nurses made such a patchwork of his chest hair that he decided to trim it down to the nub when he got home. If you’ve ever SEEN Jet’s chest, you can imagine it was quite a chore. I imagine SOME gals would be delighted to have a clean-shaven husband, (like the young lady recently being squired by LSBB’s friend Doctor J, until he noticed a line her email that read “Men rock – except the hairy ones. Can’t deal with that shit.”) but not me! I’m just counting the days til it grows back!

I just don’t know what to think about this Terri Schiavo business...I was tending to come down on the side of the parents, so I asked Code Dependent for the buzz in the medical community, and she’s of a mind to let her go. And trust me, if Code “Softest Heart in Show Business” Dependent says it’s time to let go, then it’s time to let go. (And, Republicans, by “letting go” I DON’T mean parading Ms. Schiavo in front of Congress to “testify”, or comparing her state to that of a crumpled hundred dollar bill.)


I INSIST everyone go to the video store right away, and rent or buy the series set of Firefly, the late lamented FOX series by Buffy-creator Joss Whedon (who also writes a mean X-Men comic, and has just been signed to write and direct a new Wonder Woman movie). See, it’s kind of imperative that you do this for me, because then you’ll have time to fall in love with all the characters, and then you’ll go see the movie version when it comes out in September, and then FOX will regret canceling it, and it will come back on TV, and Jet and I will be happy. So just do it. Honest, have I ever steered you wrong?

Commandments, shmammandments

So the Supreme Court continues hearing oral arguments today about the constitutionality of displaying the Ten Commandments on government property. Opponents to the displays argue that it’s a blatant governmental sponsorship of a particular religion, which violates the First Amendment.

Those in favor of such displays countered yesterday that, in fact, the Ten Commandments are not even religious. Who knew?

Well, since the Ten Commandments ARE, apparently, the basis of our laws, I suppose, we ought to, you know, actually enforce them. At least one or two. Let’s run down the list, shall we?

Thou shalt have no other gods before me. Should be easy to enforce, once we decide once and for all who the “me” is that’s speaking, and then deport all the Hindus, Sikhs, Wiccans, Buddhists, Agnostics, Atheists, Humanists, and I would imagine most Catholics, Jews, and progressive Protestants. Oh, and we’ll also have to repeal that pesky First Amendment.

Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me. And shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments. Let’s see, no smiling Jesus on velvet paintings. Oh, and no naturalistic painting or sculpture. Or photography. Oh, and, effective immediately, descendents of criminals are responsible for the crimes of their ancestors, to the fourth generation.

Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain; for the LORD will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain. Well, in the original meaning, it dealt with using God’s name in a contract. Like, you know, when you swear on the Bible in court or, say, at your inauguration as President of the United States.

Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work: But the seventh day is the sabbath of the LORD thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates: For in six days the LORD made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: wherefore the LORD blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it. Guess we’ll have to stop selling liquor on Sundays, huh? Except, of course, that the Sabbath is Saturday, meaning that this commandment is broken by nearly every facet of society, including EVERY CHRISTIAN DENOMINATION IN AMERICA. Whoops! Oh, and technically, you’re really not supposed to do anything but rest on the Sabbath, including anything fun and relaxing. Just a slight technicality.

Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee. We’ll save a bundle of tax dollars when we eliminate Child Protective Services, since children in abusive homes will have no option to get out. And we can probably do away with Medicaid and Social Security altogether, since elderly parents will be living with their children until they die.

Thou shalt not kill. Don’t panic, Republicans! According to the letter of the law, the following persons may still be killed:

· Persons found guilty of temple prostitution
· engaged women who are seduced by a man other than her future husband
· women who practice black magic
· women who are raped in urban areas
· children who curse their parents
· some non-virgin brides
· Jews who collect firewood on Saturday to keep their families from freezing
· persons proselytizing in favor of another religion
· persons worshiping a deity other than Yahweh
· strangers who enter the temple

I suppose this list can conceivably apply to Iraqis and Iranians, so we’re okay there, but it looks like the death penalty will have to go.

Thou shalt not commit adultery. Again, fellas, not to worry! This refers ONLY to a man engaging in sexual intercourse with a woman who is betrothed or married to another man. So I suggest you choose virgins for your extramarital affairs. Oh, and – masturbation’s out. Sorry, gents. Ladies, you can do whatever you please, since under the new laws you will be property and inconsequential. Sorry about that. On the plus side, since we’re limiting things to just these 10 commandments, gay sex is A-OK!

Thou shalt not steal. I, ummm….er……okay, you got me. This one is already illegal.

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour. I guess television and movies will already be illegal with the graven images thing, and this ought to do away with conservative talk radio…I smell a renaissance of live theatre!

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour's. So long, Capitalism, been nice knowing ya!

I suggest a compromise on the issue that's sure to please everyone - round-the-clock screenings of The Ten Commandments at all government facilities. Yul Brynner's manly scowl, the way Anne Baxter sort of pouts every time she purrs "Oh....Mooooses", an appearance by my dear aquantiance, Riselle Bain....and HESTON RULES, BABY!