America, the Conformist, of Thee I Sing

Nazis demanding conformity during World War II

 In Minnesota a twelve-year-old girl was forced by school officials to give the password to her facebook page under threats of being placed in detention.  The ACLU is fighting the case in court, and no doubt many Americans will scoff at what they view as a frivolous nuisance suit by a left-wing radical organization that just wants to stir up trouble when schools are only trying to protect American children from facebook posts.  To these conformist Americans, I (as per usual, seeing as how I suffer from mild Tourette's disorder caused solely by my enjoyment of rage and profanity) say to those conformist Americans, "Go fuck yourselves."

I don't mean to be rude (yes, I do, but for the deceptive purpose of appearing polite, I thought I'd say that I don't mean to be rude), but this isn't a frivolous lawsuit.  Parents across the nation have long advocated "zero tolerance," which is the intractably stupid policy of treating every transgression among our nation's youth, citizens, and criminals as though it were the sin of Onan.  Onan, if you remember from the Bible classes you sat through without paying attention, was the dude who masturbated and spilled his seed on the ground.  Bad stuff.  Especially if you do it in public.  And especially if you do it in public with some jerk watching who would later put your masturbatory frenzy into the "historical" framework of God's good tales of woe and treachery that we lovingly refer to as "The Good Book."

"Zero Tolerance" means "Zero Thinking."  It has led to the most abysmal withering of our citizens' sense of privacy, of minding their own business, of not reacting to every little seed-spilling, every little piece of spray-painted graffiti as though it were a blood-stain on God.  We are a nation of human beings (as all nations are, despite the efforts of propagandists who exist in every nation to tell their nation that their nation is the best nation on Earth and anyone who doesn't have enough sense to live in the best nation on Earth should probably rot in Hell, along with that foreign fuck of a masturbator Onan), yet we seem to believe that we as a nation are one.  E Pluribis Unum, which either means "Out of many, one" or "Onan spunks on sand" -- I can't recall right now.  The point is, we are not a nation of one.  We are a nation of many.  Many individuals.

My nephew, who's eleven, is in danger of getting detention because he can't seem to keep his shirt tucked in at school, and this is a violation of the school's uniform policy.  It's a public school, supported by a government that is supposed to operate under the U.S. Constitution's respect for individual rights and liberties.  Public schools, and America in general, do not teach respect for individual rights and liberties.  They teach conformity.  I know it's a grotesque stretch, but the Nazis in the above photograph also taught conformity.  The difference is that they did it through the relentless act of shedding innocent human blood.  In America, we force twelve-year olds to give their school officials their facebook passwords, and we force eleven-year olds to keep their shirts tucked in.  The lessons of conformity, I admit, vary greatly by degree:  the Nazis shot their foreigners (and their own citizens) because they did not conform to their ideas of racial purity.  In America, we threaten or punish our non-conformists.  We would never shoot them, though.

Not yet, anyway.

Daylight Savings Time, My Donkey!

The reasons that "spring forward" and "fall backward" should be changed to "quit fucking with my sleep" are so obvious that they would only need to be elaborated here to my readers (if I actually had readers) if any of my readers had a mental deficiency.  According to my studies, if I had readers, 71% of you would, in fact, have severe mental deficiencies.  But I can't cater to the special needs of the 71 per-centers, because it just wouldn't be fair to the 29 per-centers, who know how to use forks and wipe their own asses.


I came up with the 71% figure by watching that annoying buzz-cut anchor on NBC's morning "news" show.  He interviewed a physician couple who were kicked off their Jet Blue airline flight because their two-year-old girl had a hissy fit and didn't immediately comply with the typical, rigidly intractable airline rules that all passengers must immediately -- and with total respect aforethought -- comply, or be cast to the tarmac like drunken hobos.  Allegedly, Mr. Matt Lauer, resident anchor buzz-cut, told the couple, whom he interviewed for no apparent reason this morning, 71% of respondents to some meaningless poll NBC took agree with the airline.  This doesn't really surprise me, because I am well aware that Americans love conformity (which they mistakenly believe is the same thing as patriotism, team spirit, or brotherhood).


And let's face it -- two-year-olds are assholes.  They do what they want, whenever they want, and they know they can get away with it because they're so damn cute.  That two-year-old brat who wouldn't strap herself into the airplane harness to placate some cunt of a captain should be ashamed of herself for being two years old.  How dare she!  You're right, 71 per-centers!


So I won't get into a deeply thoughtful argument for why we no longer need (if we ever actually needed) daylight savings time and standard time changes in spring and fall.  There is no need to argue with 71 per-centers when the 29 per-centers already know what's right ... and the 29 per-centers have kept you fucking 71 per-centers from sinking the entire fucking continent into the oceans for over two hundred years now.  Hopefully, we'll keep your moronic asses afloat for a hundred more.


Not that you deserve it.  

Facesuck's New Timeline Sucks!

Wow.  I've been examining the new Timeline feature from facesuck, and I have to say, I'm very unimpressed.  It's too busy, too cluttered.  The center does not hold, to pinch from the master-poet William Butler Yeats.  (Yeats wouldn't have liked facesuck at all, let alone Timeline.)   The problem with Timeline is that it doesn't have a line; it should be called Timeglobule or Timesplat.  It's like looking at a newspaper (I know, those don't really exist anymore) that has been constructed at random for the benefit of people with severe attention deficit disorder.


And soon I will be forced by facesuck to use Timeline.  It's facesuck's way of telling me that they are in control of my television set; they control the vertical, the horizontal, do not be alarmed, you are now entering the outer limits of customer service.  Facesuck (and here facesuck is capitalized only because it must be capitalized at the beginning of a sentence -- unless facesuck has elected to change the spelling rule to suit its own nefarious desires) doesn't care what its users think.  Facesuck is the future (until the next internet fad comes along to displace it), and the future is bleak, rife with the possibility of mass genocide, nuclear proliferation, more cheap synthetic semi-legal drugs more dangerous than the illegal ones and which will kill you faster and better, more Craig's List serial killings (until Craig's List is replaced by a new offshoot of ebay called ebaysacrifice.com, where you'll be able to sell your torture victim's body parts to the highest bidder so you can buy more chains and pliers or simply use e-dollars to play the trendy new version of Words with Friends called Gruntings with Maniacal Cannibals on Death Row).


I don't want to seem like one of those typical technophobe baby boomers who cried incessantly when he or she couldn't figure out how to program the clock on his or her circa-1985 VCR, but facesuck's new Timeline feature really sucks.  I mean, to be emphatically clear and obscene, facesuck's new Timeline feature sucks like one of the techno-robot hookers Silicon Valley will construct in the future to pleasure themselves with electronic fellatio as they come up with ever more creative ways to fuck up any and every single thing they might actually accidentally get right.  If they haven't already invented those robot hookers in the first place and are selfishly keeping them for their own delight.

Jesus Tells Me So!

There's a solar flare attacking the Earth today.  You might be thinking to yourself, why is my iPhone malfunctioning?  Why did I feel so unusual when I pooped ionized McNugget biscuits this morning?  It was the solar flare.


But don't worry.  Jesus will save you.  He told me so.  In a solar flare-irradiating vision.  Jesus told me that you should give me all your money so that I can continue to spread His word.  Jesus loves money, it turns out -- so all those televangelist/charlatans, it turns out, have it exactly right.


The world is ending and Jesus' day is come.  The only way for us to get the word out to everybody is for you to sell all your possessions and give me the cash money.  Jesus told me.  Why would Jesus lie?  Jesus died for you, you ungrateful motherfuckers, so that I could get all your money and spread His word.  Quit giving your bread to Billy Graham's kid and give it to me instead!  Look, Jesus told me so in a solar-irradiating vision.  He wouldn't lie.


Neither would I.


Not to you.

Frisbees, iPhones, and Three-Ways

The new iPad is coming out today.  Or maybe it's the new iPhone.  I don't know which one it is, because I have neither an iPad nor an iPhone.  The truth is, I don't give a shit about it.  You might be wondering why I would choose to blog about something about which I care not a whit.


Well, the reason is that I have to hear about this bullshit all the time.  Like "Desperate Housewives," or "The Bachelor" or "The Catty Plastic-Faced Trophy Wives of Beverly Hills."  Or "Dancing with the Quasi-Celebrities" or "Down-and-Out Quasi-Celebrities Addicted to Paint-Huffing Interventions."  Trends can be funny, up to a point.  Like the trend where kids choke each other out to the point of unconsciousness for the "high" (when I was a kid, we weren't interested in auto-asphyxiation; we were interested in nearly killing ourselves with good dope and alcohol, and we would walk seven miles to school in the snow with paper stuffed into our hand-me-down boots -- because I lived in the fourteenth century).


Today it seems like everyone in the world has to have a computer stuck inside his or her ear even when driving recklessly down the road, crashing into befuddled Ambien-devouring dizzy grandmothers on their way to a now-ruined day of doctor-shopping.


We have to be connected at all times, every nanosecond for the rest of our existence, and up-to-date on all the latest technologies in the computer world, because we don't want just the self-asphyxiating little trendy freaks to be the only ones who are trendy.  It would be like being a kid who didn't have a Frisbee or a Hula-Hoop when those fabulous inventions were given to the planet to increase peace, knowledge, and perfection among all those people out there who don't masturbate enough.


Don't get me wrong.  I love technical bullshit as much as the next geek (well, not that much), but if you're out there waiting in line twice a year to pay $500 or $800 a pop to buy a new version of the thing you're just going to have to buy again four or eight months from now, my suggestion is for you to just go out and buy a fucking Frisbee.


Or, as these kids seem to be doing so much these days, just get a buddy to choke you out.  Go with the trend, lemmings.


Meanwhile, I'm going to wait to buy an iPad or iPhone when they come out with the version that plugs directly into your brain so it can simulate a three-way for you with Salma Hyek and Monica Belucci.  Because I'm all about techno-diversity.

Rush Limbaugh--Vicodin Junkie

http://www.google.com/imgres?hl=en&sa=X&biw=1440&bih=809&tbm=isch&prmd=imvns&tbnid=gENU1Vi1AruPmM:&imgrefurl=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nebula&docid=1JBHctYgcUM1gM&imgurl=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b2/Eagle_nebula_pillars.jpg/250px-Eagle_nebula_pillars.jpg&w=250&h=247&ei=d2ZWT_z8BsqEtgfZga2PCQ&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=438&sig=109007591969555590614&page=1&tbnh=135&tbnw=137&start=0&ndsp=28&ved=1t:429,r:1,s:0&tx=97&ty=64


Rush Limbaugh isn't the only symptom of the diseased state of political discourse in our nation.  If you step outside and turn to your neighbor and talk to him about one subject after another, I am quite sure at some point one of you will call the other a slut or a prostitute.  Dan Ackroyd used to make fun of such a character on "Saturday Night Live," when he would turn to Jane Curtain after she had made some reasonable argument on SNL's fake newscast, and he would call her an ignorant slut.  Now we don't have to make fun of that character, because we are that character.


We can't just disagree.  We have to attack.  And everyone's been guilty at one time or another of this transgression into rudeness -- or else you haven't lived long enough.  The problem is that no one seems to be hesitant in the slightest anymore about vilifying someone for believing, say, that a tax increase might not be such a bad idea; or that a tax increase might just be a whopping terrible idea.  Instead of just disagreeing, people nowadays are likely to try to tear the other person down by calling him or her some awful pejorative they wouldn't dare use in front of their mothers.


I disagree with everyone about everything.  Everyone's wrong.  Only I understand the facts completely, and therefore you are all ignorant sluts, whores, prostitutes.  You're hippies!  You're right-wingers!  You're zombies!  You're prostituting zombies sucking on Godzilla's cock!  How's that for political discourse?


It doesn't really make sense -- I'll grant you that.


But just when was American discourse civil?  When we hanged witches in Salem?


(By the way, Rush Limbaugh, you're a fat-ass Vicodin junkie who sleeps with interstate truckers for Oreos.  Fair enough, Rush?  Accept my apology if you're offended.  If not, go fuck yourself ... respectfully.)

Blogger Kidnapped by Niece & Nephew

Due to being abducted by my four-year-old niece (who didn't want to go to daycare today because she was "tired," although she perked up as soon as her mother left) and my eleven-year-old taekwondo tournament-winning nephew (who is "sick," although he, too, perked up as soon as his mother left), today's Doomed Stuffing is cancelled until tomorrow, when I will continue to "rage against the dying of the light," to quote the sloppy drunk and long-deceased English poet Dylan Thomas.  Here's to you, Dylan.

Swallow, Facegoogle!

Google and Facebook are my friends.  They provide me with access to a bunch of free stuff.  I can blog, I can chat, I can -- and I just found this out -- engage in another form of chatting that is called "IM" or "Instant Messaging" (I am very old and semi-senile and internet-unedumicated).  Google and Facebook are fantastic.


And evil.


I want to stress that Google and Facebook are so evil that they are sending forth their evil minions to defend their incessant invasions against our dwindling ability to protect our privacy.  Google and Facebook will tell you that they have a very "open" privacy policy, one that is not hidden behind a bunch of gobbledeegook language twenty-five-pages long, that tells its non-paying customers nothing.  Now they both have a privacy policy that is still gobbledegook, but it's not as long and it's heavy on kisses and strokes that try to obfuscate the fact that they are out to squeeze every bit of information they can from us, and they are more than willing to give that information to whomever they deem to be proper to receive that personal information.


Evil, I say.  They don't want the government to protect our privacy, because our privacy means big bucks to them.  Huge bucks.  Gargantuan bucks.  I'm just about out of superlatives to describe the bucks that our privacy will bring to Google and Facebook.  And for that, we get free chatting and blogging and "the service of advertising."  The "service" that these two evil minions are bringing to us through advertising is that the price we pay for free blogging and free chatting is the "service" of stealing our privacy.  We have no stake whatsoever in Google and Facebook's advertising, but we're the ones who make it possible for Google and Facebook to make those big, huge, gargantuan bucks in the first place.


So when you hear one of these cunts from Facefuck or Gigglefuck on TV telling you that they are providing a free service to you, be sure to call up whatever TV show their on (or just Facebook them), and tell them that you're on to their evil.  You're not an idiot who believes everything.  Trust me, you're not.  (Or are you?)


Meanwhile, Google and Facebook, suck on my big, huge, gargantuan blog ... and swallow!

New Game: Word with Enemies

I hate losing.  America hates losers (I think that huge asshole General George S Patton was the one who said this originally, and he often made his soldiers pay for this dictum by getting them needlessly killed so that he could show the news media how much of a hero he was by persevering through so much of his men's needless suffering). We hate losing so much because we're all such bad sports.


Words with Friends is a Scrabble-like game stolen by facebook (or, as I like to call it, facesuck) with the specific and diabolical intention of making me look like a sore loser.  Granted, I am a sore loser, but Words with Friends provokes the loser in me like no game can -- be it chess, checkers, Texas Hold'em poker, or Russian roulette (I've shot myself in the skull six times already, but I've only played Russian roulette twice ... I'm that competitive).


What makes me such a sore loser is that Words with Friends considers meg and lez to be words, but I can't use the word qat (this latter word is the normal spelling of the word that denotes a plant that is used in the Middle East and Africa as an intoxicant).  I hate Words with Friends for many reasons (and, no, none of those reasons include Alec Baldwin, whom people who disagree with him politically seem to despise, but whose Irish rage reminds me of my own German-Irish ancestry and poor sportsmanship).  Words with Friends is evil and I will continue to play it, because one cannot turn his eyes from evil; one must stare Evil in its face, then maybe cut its eyes out with a butter knife by using one of Words with Friends' own fake words to magically gouge its eyeballs out of its annoying game-face.


I hate you, Words with Friends.  I will defeat you.  I will disembowel you.  I will turn your offspring into goat feed and use your Words with Friends wife, Monopoly, as a toilet receptacle.  This may sound vicious to some of you more demure readers ... but, as General George S Patton might say, "War is fucking hell ... for wealthy generals with so many chest medals that it's hard to stand upright while I tell my soldiers to go forth and die for my glory."


America hates losers.  It's what makes us great and magnanimous in victory.  (Don't you dare say anything about the wars we've lost, you cynical shits out there -- be a good American!  And win!)

ALIENS ARE COMING! ALIENS ARE COMING!

Americans hate illegal immigrants.


I know that seems like a horrible thing to say about a "Christian" nation, but it's true.  We detest them; we want them arrested, deported, or imprisoned for years and then deported.  Being a contrarian bastard, however, I don't hate them ... I don't detest them ... I don't want them imprisoned.  And neither does Corporate America.  Yes, Americans hate immigrants, but Corporate America loves cheap labor to be accessible, and that's why even President George W. Bush wanted to put them on a path to citizenship.  It was one of the few things George and I actually agreed upon (although I doubt George would have given a shit what I thought -- why should he be any different from anyone else?).


The reason I don't hate illegal immigrants is because it is absolutely not their fault that they're breaking the law. We've had laws against illegally immigrating to this country for a very long time, yet we've always exploited illegal immigrants as a cheap source of labor.  By ignoring illegal Mexican immigration for so long, we've encouraged it tacitly.  Not even tacitly; we've encouraged it vigorously throughout our entire history as a nation.  Until times when the economy got rough and jobs became more scarce.  But even in the times when there has been a furor over immigration (like when the Germans, Chinese, the Irish, etc., started coming to America to destroy our language and rape our wives and daughters -- in decreasing order of importance), we've always survived -- and even thrived -- as a nation ... because immigrants work hard and cheap.  Just what Corporate America wants.  And Corporate America gets what it wants.  Always.  And without question.


But there will come a time when outer-space aliens come to our planet en masse.  Not just in little masses, like those stray aliens who have been occasionally abducting Midwestern farmers and probing their rectums with Uranium Isotope Metal Dildo Machines (or, translated into an American English abbreviation, UIMD's), but in huge alien armadas of great big spaceships that will surround us, take our jobs, fuck our women (and every Midwestern farmer they didn't get in their first, smaller waves), and we will all be speaking Krthpthksqigglatca, and we'll all have to get used to having to turn grocery items around in the store so we don't have to read the nutritional ingredients of Krthpthksqigglatcan Soylent Green Illegal Immigrant Queso Flesh in their unpronouncable super-fricative alien language.  That is, if the Krthpthksqigglatcans are nice enough to allow us to use English at all.


(For the record, Krthpthksqigglatacans who are here already, I love Soylent Green Illegal Immigrant Queso Flesh ... even though I can't pronounce it in your native tongue.) 

I Love Money, Money, Money ....

I love money.  Money is small and shiny or it's big and green.  Money will get you out of any problem ... if you have enough of it.  Money will buy you love, make you more attractive, give you bigger breasts, allow you to have an erection for four or more hours (and to pay for the emergency room visit and penile surgery that follows a four-hour erection).  Money allows God to be pleased with you and gets you into Heaven.  Money makes parking tickets go away.  Money puts food on the table and keeps your wife or girlfriend in a sexy mood.  It buys admission to a movie theater, then pays for your perforated eardrum treatments caused by the explosive sounds of quadraphonic 3-D hypersound movie-theater speakers.  It buys you that big vat of popcorn that is ninety percent butterfat.  It gets you out of a murder conviction.  Lust for money, they say, is the root of all evil, but they only say that because they think that if enough people believe that money is the root of all evil, other people won't love money, and then the people who say that the lust for money is the root of all evil will have access to even more money that other people who believe that the lust for money is the root of all evil won't want.  The previous sentence, I realize, was quite convoluted, but if you read it several times, it will make sense, especially if you have money.


(ASPCA NOTICE:  No money was harmed in the writing of this post).

Why I Hate Cops (But Not All Cops)

I don't hate all cops -- let me just say that first, because I don't want the cops to come to my house, shoot me in the face, then drop a "ham sandwich" on me.  A "ham sandwich," for those of you who don't know, is what the New Orleans police call an untraceable weapon they use to plant on suspects after they shoot them.  You know, because you can't go around talking about planting firearms on dead people outright ... it might raise a few eyebrows.

All cops don't do things like that.  The reason, I think, that so many people hate cops isn't necessarily because the really bad ones go around doing murders or planting evidence.  It's because a lot of cops go around with the attitude that since they have to endure a lot of bad attitude from the public, they want to show how much they despise the public and also let the public know that they won't tolerate being despised.  It's understandable.  Being a cop is a terrible, terrible job ... one full of thankless tasks, an often rude and distrusting public, disrespectful in many ways.  And so many cops often feel it necessary to mirror the public's loathing.

It's a terrible and vicious cycle.

I came home one evening months ago after getting a huge amount of really nasty fried chicken that I sat down and devoured like a maniac in one sitting.  A loud banging on my door commenced just as I was taking some Pepto Bismol, and when I opened the door a cop was standing just off my front porch, commanding me to come outside.  I immediately stepped out and said good evening, and he proceeded to interrogate me, saying that someone had heard gunshots fired on my property about five minutes prior to his arrival.  Now, certainly, if someone did indeed report such an event, the police were certainly justified in making an investigation.  I told the officer there had been no shots fired, gave him my driver's license, and told him that although I owned firearms, I hadn't discharged them on my property.  He asked me why I had a flashlight on my neck.

At this point, you may yourself be wondering why I had a flashlight on my neck.  Well, go fuck yourself; it's none of your business -- okay, that was harsh.  I apologize.  But it really isn't any of your business.  Okay, I'll tell you, anyway.  There was a flashlight (the kind you can wear on your head, the kind they sell in sporting goods stores) because I owned it, I was on my property, I am an American citizen ... and my porch light was out and I had taken out the garbage.  As he was smirking, I told him I had taken out the garbage and had needed the light because the porch light was out and it had been getting dark.

He saw that there was a security camera in my window, so he asked me why I was filming him.  (He seemed rather paranoid to me at this point).  I told him, "For security."  He actually snickered right in my face, on my property, after having commanded me out of my own house, which is probably departmental policy, for officer safety (the commanding me out of my house part, not the snickering).  I couldn't fucking believe that a cop would come to my house, accuse me of firing weapons on my property, and actually have the huevos to smirk and snicker as he interrogated me about my personal accutrements, but I completely kept my calm and remained polite.

When he was finished with his Colombo-style investigation, he started to leave after having told me he would return.  I told him to have a good evening (not showing any of the snideness that he had so pointedly shown me), and he responded without any departing salutation and instead repeated that he would be back (presumably like Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator).  I said again, "Have a good evening," and he responded with a very emphatic, "We'll be back."  So I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Alright ... have a good evening."  And of course he repeated his prior declarative.  I decided that he was a fucking twat, and that I would just go back into my house, because obviously he had been raised by some kind of tribe of warlock savages and didn't know how to respond to a courteous salutation.

This isn't the only instance of Rude Cop I've ever experienced.  I try not to ever talk to cops.  And I know that's wrong, because they're just doing a job that has to be done.  I feel sorry for all the cops out there that aren't on steroids and feeding off the hate of the public, cops who just want to protect the public without inciting a hatred for their authority.  But I hate all the cops out there who do feed off the hate of the public.  The cops who carry "ham sandwiches," the cops who think another cop is a snitch if the "snitch" reports a bad cop.  I hate them.  And I hate cops who think that the public deserves no courtesy but only intimidation or interrogation.  I truly despise them.  And I hope their hatred destroys them and that my own hatred doesn't destroy me.

I think I'll be alright with my hatred, though.  Unless one day a cop offers me a ham sandwich.

Texas Justice! (Hang 'Em, Then Find Out If They're Guilty!)

I watched a really good documentary again the other day by Frontline on the state-sanctioned murder of Todd Willingham.  It's really fun to find out about innocent people getting murdered and/or imprisoned by the state in hick Southern towns because of witchcraft and Satanism (the West Memphis Three, in Arkansas, and this Todd Willingham sucker in Texas).  I like this kind of stuff because it's scarier than a horror movie where Satan possesses some hick schmuck and convinces him to move to the South.


Here's a link to watch it:





http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/post-mortem/


I especially like the fact that fire marshals, who investigate whether a fire is arson or not, are really just hicks who aren't trained and their determination of fact can easily get people sentenced to prison or executed.  Fire marshals and coroners ... they don't understand science ... but they understand Satan.


And people make fun of the psycho-superstitious Puritans of Salem, Massachusetts.  At least they had the excuse that they lived in the 1600's.


CORRECTION:  Sorry, that's the wrong link, but one that does pertain to today's subject.  Here's the corrected link:




http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/death-by-fire/







The entire Orion Nebula in visible light.
Credit: NASA/ESA


http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f3/Orion_Nebula_-_Hubble_2006_mosaic_18000.jpg

Brain Aneurysm Cancels Today's Doomed Stuffing

TODAY'S THE DOOMED STUFFING HAS BEEN CANCELLED DUE TO A BRAIN ANEURYSM THAT HAS STIMULATED THE LAZINESS CENTER OF MY CEREBRAL CORTEX.  

National Abort Your Unwanted Embryo Day!

Today, if you don't know it yet, is the second day after President's Day.  Most people might think it's just another bland Wednesday, and they wonder if "American Idol" or "The Voice" is going to be on -- and should they make a meat loaf for dinner or just commit suicide by drinking Drano.  Don't commit suicide today, people, because I am declaring today National Abort Your Unwanted Embryo Day.

Some of you who might be reading this (if any of you do, especially after I have just declared today National Abort Your Unwanted Embryo Day) might be thinking, "Jesus, that's a horrible holiday for some blogger who doesn't have the slightest authority to declare!"  But think again.

I want all you pro-lifers to get on board with this.  Embrace this holiday.  There needs to be an awareness among you semi-literate hysterics who think pro-choice advocates want babies to die ... and I'm just the sicko blogger to bring that awareness to the forefront of your lobotomized forebrains.  If anyone can do it, I can.

Here are some links to help you celebrate National Abort Your Unwanted Embryo Day:

www.plannedparenthood.org

www.hopemedical.com

www.naral.org

I think it's important for pro-choice advocates to embrace their confrontational side (Christ knows, those wacko pro-lifers have embraced their confrontational side).  Support these groups, if you can, and when some hick asks you how you'll feel when God punishes you by sending you to Hell for supporting choice and "killing babies," don't go overboard like they do when they shoot doctors for performing safe, legal abortions.  Just kick them in the nuts a few times.  Maybe they won't impregnate so many women whose matured fetuses they won't want to support when they hatch.

Remember, an embryo is just an egg with a sperm cell stuck in it.  You can't even make a good omelet with it.

A Message for the People

I want to talk a little bit about why I hate people.


Now, first, before all you Judeo-Christians (or whatever you are) start blathering about loving your neighbor and scoffing at my unbridled misanthropy, I just want to assure you with the caveat that I absolutely don't hate all people.  I don't even hate most people.  But when I imagine the connotation of the word people, it doesn't conjure up lovely tribe-gatherings of peace-loving, companionable, unified souls interacting with one another with the sympathy and compassion and comradeship of what those commies Marx and Engels probably would have called "The Masses."


People is a word that conjures up images of Penn State University blockheads, drunk on their own sweaty Mickey Finn of anger, alcohol, amphetamines, and stupidity, creating a riot because the coach of their football team got fired because he knew about a sexual misconduct allegation against his assistant coach and did practically nothing (which is what the university hierarchy apparently wanted him to do, which is no excuse).  People seem to genuinely care more about sports than they do about the possibility that one of their precious sports heroes was diddling little boys.  I think this fact, undeniable, is indictment enough against the word people.


Sure, there are good people, but they are perhaps more properly called persons -- if you'll excuse the alliteration.  But people are more likely to cover things up out of fear of losing their jobs or not being able to feed their own kids than they are about the welfare of others.  Whistle-blowers are shunned by people, derided, taunted with names like "Serpico" and "snitch."  People gather together in petty, whispering conspiracies to ostracize anyone who tries to right some egregious wrong.  Persons only occasionally gather together to try to protect the people -- perhaps because persons feel the same way I do about people.


"60 Minutes" reported this Sunday that the FDA allows drug companies to use only the positive studies the drug companies commission to prove the efficacy of their antidepressants (which, it turns out, are not efficacious; unpublished study after unpublished study shows that antidepressants are about as effective as placebo or exercise, but antidepressants have much more dangerous side effects and are much more expensive).  Crap like this could only happen with the deplorable consent of the people involved.


I doubt any persons would have ever been involved in these two examples of the disgraceful conduct of people.


So don't start crying because I hate you, people.  You might just be a person.


If you're not a person, go fuck yourself.

Meteors, Whitney Houston, and Schmucks

Because I got my vehicle stuck in the mud Friday and had to call a tow truck and pay an exorbitant ransom for the towing, I thought I'd write Monday's blog on Saturday, just in case that meteor the size of the runaway stupidity of Texas' judicial system strikes the Earth before I have a chance to post Monday's blog.


In case you missed it, Whitney Houston is dead.  I would normally not mock someone's demise, but I feel the media has made Ms. Houston's death mockworthy.  I will admit that she had a decent voice at one time (and horribly banal songs with pedestrian lyrics and cringe-worthy high-pitched vocal gymnastic gloating), but the media has turned her into a hero.  She was not a hero in any sense of the word.  Heroes go into flaming buildings to rescue helpless quadriplegics and/or children (and not pets of any kind) at great risk to their own lives, or they throw themselves on top of grenades to save their platoons.  Heroes aren't people who can hit ridiculously high notes.  Heroes aren't people who donate to charities for tax write-offs.  Heroes are not people who invent iPhones and make billions of dollars.  Heroes are not people who feed their children properly and raise them right; those people are called parents.  A hero is not a man who survives for eight days wedged in a crevice in a mountain and cuts his own leg off to do so; that person is called a survivor, or a victim of his own desire to experience an adrenaline rush.  The Crocodile Hunter wasn't a hero because he got killed by a stingray; he was a victim of his own adrenaline addiction (as well as the sting of the stingray that stung him in his chest).


We use the word hero too much because we all want to be heroes.  Alas, we cannot -- nor should we -- all be heroes.  And we should not degrade the word to mean anyone who accomplishes anything or succeeds in any venture.  Heroes should be rare.  They're the way we tell the differences among good people, okay people, and total schmucks.


By the way, when that meteor the size of the stupidity of Texas' justice system hits, I'm going to be cowering under a toilet with my knees between my legs and trying to stuff my head up my backside while screaming louder than one of Whitney Houston's terrible songs.  I don't want to be a hero.  I want to be a schmuck.


We all have to have goals.

My Apologies, but I'm Awesome

At the close of The Doomed Stuffing's first blogweek, I'd just like to take the time to tell all my readers (to date, this means some nefarious crumpet-eating Words with Friends opponent named Skipper Dick -- if, indeed, that is his real name -- and me) that I am deeply ashamed with how poorly this blog is doing so far, ratings-wise.  I expected to be inundated with comments by numerous proselytes, hermaphrodites, Daisy Duke-shorty-shorts-wearing prostitutes, degenerate gamblers, serial killers, colostomy-bag-wearing former police officers with lengthy past histories of civil-rights violations, curmudgeons, yoga-exercising vegans with rickets and serious protein deficiencies, lesbians, hashish-eaters, Communists, Republicans, Democrats, cocaine abusers, chronic masturbators, retired secretarial clerk-typists, and US government spies masquerading as garbage collectors.  I have been vastly disappointed thus far, but I pledge to my meager readership to continue my efforts to lower American standards of journalism even lower than they are now.

Perhaps I'm to blame, meager readers ... but I just can't accept that.  No, indeed ... I am fricking spectacular!  A credit to the bloggosphere.  A champion of tripe and swill, if you will.

Next week will be better.

I'm expecting comments from leprous ex-al Qaida members.

Until then,

THE DOOMED STUFFING

The Law Is the Flaw

There is a new proposal for a city ordinance being bandied about Shreveport, Louisiana, by arch-Big Brother City Commissioner Michael Williams, who has publicly stated that public pajama-wearing is demonstrative of a loosening of morals in our society. Apparently he went into a Walmart and saw someone wearing pajama pants and saw too much of the offender's nether regions, so he decided what all politicians decide to do when there is such a momentous infraction of human decency: he decided to make a law.

Laws are funny. We need them to protect individuals not only from other individuals who would do them harm, but also from the grinding machinery teeth of government. However, laws usually end up doing most of the grinding, no matter how well-intentioned. This proposed ordinance, though, isn't even well-intentioned. It's stupid -- a very stupid overreaction from a politician who wants to make a name for himself to ostensibly restore moral order to the universe.

Granted, I don't want to walk into a grocery store to buy my daily ten pounds of regular ultra-fatty hamburger only to find the meat aisle empty and John Holmes' heir apparent in a Speedo, holding all my hamburger meat, but that has nothing to do with wearing pajama pants on the street. People who wear pajama pants are not in a moral decline. They're just comfortable. Laws often make me uncomfortable ... because they often presuppose that the law is the law and therefore the law is good, right, moral.

Arch-Big Brother City Commissioner Michael Williams is what better political hacks would call, in the parlance of political hackdom, "a go-getter." I think he represents everything that is wrong with people who are given too much power, too high a pulpit, or too grandiose a sense of self-importance. Less diplomatically on my part, but more to the point, I think he's a total schmuck.

If anyone out there in the terribly lawless and immoral world of the internet wants to contact Arch-Big Brother City Commissioner Michael Williams and tell him what you think of his schmuckiness, here's a link:

www.caddo.org/district3.cfm.

The above link contains his home phone, office phone, and e-mail address. Be sure to call him at moral hours. And wear a Speedo while you do it.

The Purpose of No Purpose

You're probably saying to yourself right now, "Hyram," (I'm having you call yourself Hyram, but if your name is Coolio, Thread Monster, or Anna Nicole Booby Freak, don't worry -- you can just substitute your crazy name for Hyram), "what is this blog, 'The Doomed Stuffing; or, Excursions with Nebulous Earthlings,' all about?"  Well, I'll fill you in.


Blogs are about nothing.  All blogs.  Blogs are as unimportant as having a conversation on the street with a wino prostitute who wants to tell you all her (or his -- I'm all about choice) ideas, beliefs, thoughts, and experiences.  No one really cares what anyone else thinks -- especially wino prostitutes who want to tell you their thoughts on the World Bank/Jewish conspiracy to control America.  In fact, if you're crazy enough to care that a wino prostitute actually believes UFO's are commanded by rectal-probing aliens who want to impregnate Midwestern white farmers to take back fetally aborted samples of redneck-alien tissues for later dissection on their home planet of Krpnukthcth, I certainly have nothing for you.


If you believe Bigfoot is a bear that mated with a gorilla before Pangaea split and the continents of Africa and North and South America were no longer one, you probably won't find anything of interest here.


Oh, sure, maybe once in a while I might come up with some crazy idea.  For instance, I believe rodents are a superior race of humans that evolved because early Man didn't enjoy gnawing on electrical wires enough -- but that's my own personal quirk ... like when I poop in random unlocked vehicles (I always leave a roll of septic-safe toilet tissue when I do this; I'm not a total savage).  Generally, though, this blog will be about reason, logic, atheism (God told me to tell you that He doesn't exist, and that if you don't believe me, you don't believe Him, and He will castrate you eternally in Hell and solder your empty scrotum to Satan's pitchfork), and the occasional odd odds-and-ends that have nothing to do with reality or general human perception.


If you want to read a blog about how much some chick loves her pussycat, hit "Next Blog" on this site, and you probably won't be disappointed anymore.  Humanity, however, should weep inconsolably.


Thank you for your attention, Hyram.

Keep Your Kids off Drugs by Getting Them Interested in Dogfighting

It's very important that Junior be a good citizen -- and what better way than encouraging him to develop other interests?  Drugs are bad, as the school councilor from "South Park" always says, mm-kay, and despite the century-long "War on Drugs," no progress in the American drug problem has been made.  In fact, drug usage has become far worse than it was when you could kick the mud off your spurs, slap your horse's reins around that wooden bar outside your favorite local tavern, and mosey on in to the watering hole to legally order a box of Bayer's Heroin Tablets from the surly barkeep, who always had dyspepsia because his liver was shot from overindulgence in alcohol.  So take junior to a dogfight.  Let him feel like he's Michael Vick for a day.  C'mon, parents!  Kids need heroes!  Family is important.

GREETINGS, EARTHLINGS

Greetings.  I would say, "Hello," but I don't feel I know any of you that well.  You're all probably closet racists and pedophiles, anyway, and so I shouldn't really care how you feel about such a formal greeting as "Greetings."  In fact, you are probably worthy only of perusing the schlock that passes for facebook pages and ABC News blog-splatterings, comments from disastrous excuses for membership in the overhyped and underfunded species commonly known by government scientists as Homo sapiens.  Do not be discouraged, Teabagging quislings, for you shall imbibe the terrible, squeezed-out juices and tannins and exotic caffeines of my tirades soon enough (I believe the metaphor has been itself terribly squeezed out, but take the point, if you dare).


Also, I would like to extend my condolences to Whitney Houston's lawyers and to everyone who shall now and forevermore be subjected to the squealing replacement notes from Jennifer Hudson.  It is a sad day for us all, including Homo sapiens.  May we all recover from this day of penultimate tragedy.  And also (sorry for the redundancy), as a word of warning, large doses of Xanax and hot baths do not mix.  One would have thought Whitney would have known that from her long-time romance with Bobby Brown's dope.