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!

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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!