Plug For A True Writer

Is everybody out there reading Chris Moore's stuff yet?  Yes?  Good.  I picked up his latest, Fool, in paperback (not a rich, published author yet, dammit.  Paperbacks are spam; hardcover, Canadian bacon), and have laughed out loud several times since.  Just from recalling something in the book.  That's power right there.

Here's his website  http://chrismoore.com/



Ok, see y'all tomorrow.

Things To Admit To

(filed under Can You Doubt We Were Made For Each Other)

In anticipation of the bitter aftermath of my seduction under the insanely passionate wiles of Rosario Dawson, actress and joi de viver extraordinaire, then found out by the Wife, who will pretend to not understand but, come on, it’s Rosario Dawson, I shall get a few things out of the way:

Did I disappoint my fans and family? Hell no. It’s Rosario Dawson. High fives all around.

Am I sorry? Not as much for getting caught as for having to act like it wasn’t Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride times eleven.

I admit that Tiger Woods is a bazooganaire, so poon is basically chiclets, so screw him for being a corporate puppet and flagellating himself so we can have the Last Temptation of Gillette played out in 30-second spots nationwide. Hell, he can’t act anyway. In any commercial. A “darker, edgier” Tiger will be able to act even less. Skeezes don’t give poon to charity, folks, so let’s call everybody out. Get the skanks a podium and let’s call it a media event!

I admit to wanting to grope certain teachers through the years. Hotcha! There was one that, as I think on it, reminds me of Rosario Dawson.  I never realized the connection before.  Fate is not to be laughed at or fickled over. There’s more danger in ficking fate than admitting to consequences once caught up in it.

This may sound way too generous, but I admit that Ms. Dawson is so close to perfection I need to go suck her daddy’s dick. Forgive me, Rosario, but it's true.  The sentiment itself is not original to me. I think it’s in the bible, and is about the most heartfelt sentiment a woman will ever hope to hear from a man. It is deep. Cherish the love.

In trying to determine whether I’ve let down my faith and core values: is heathen a religion yet? What if I start a Religion of the Unzipped Fly? In that case I’ve kept up the faith as the zip goes down. Praise and hallelujah.

I admit that not being rich, no one wants me televised, apologizing or otherwise; however, let me remind you all: it was ROSARIO DAWSON. Or will be.   If I'm apologizing for future indiscretions we have to start somewhere.  Rosario, send me an autographed picture. For you sick bastards out there, no it’s not for a shrine. I’ll tape it to the headboard above the Wife’s pillow. Hey, she’s got an autographed photo of the Temptations in craning distance of our bedroom in her home office. Judge not lest ye be judged.

Ma? I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody. (For all the mothers out there truly ashamed of this unpublished, piddling--and here you have to spit the word--writer.  Not even an author, yet he suckles our time as at a teat of Mountain Dew.)

Lastly I apologize for the damning limitations of static reality. Once I get a handle on the multiverse you’d best believe there’s an entire world populated with Rosario Dawsons…and I’ve got the only movie script.

And please understand: at no time did the Wife try to club me with anything other than her hands. She’s a tactile person, not a slave to this machine age we live in. She will be blameless in this tawdry aftermath, stoic even as, after much ass-kickery her to me, she finally meets the other woman face to face…and stares into Rosario’s elf-queen eyes…and the lips, the ripe, full lips that treat every word and smile like sweet fruit…tugged into her sphere, feeling the desire mount and being afraid of it, but at the same time relishing that fear and daring it to increase, daring Ms. Dawson to prove herself, to surrender wholly and totally to the Wife’s carnal demands until Rosario begs (begs!) forgiveness for being brash enough to even think she was woman enough to engage in pleasing her Boo.

Yeah.

You get her, Babe.  (Wait for the deadpan eyebrow wiggle)

… There it is. Goodnight.

And sweet dreams. Not yet brought to you by Gillette, Buick, Nike or the company that plans to make curling (the "sport"…with the brooms…and the ice…and the sweeping) edgy and dark next year.

But they’re working on it. You’d be amazed what an unlimited budget can do.

In Defense Of Stupidity

...there is none. Tie a lemming to a copy of People, line the stupid people up, and let that sucker go. Stupidity is not a religion; it is not a way of life. Let it go. Ignorance seeks out. Stupidity stands pat. Big difference.

10 Ways to Tell If You Might Be Stupid:

If you get your “news” from Fox and/or CNN... you might be stupid.

If you actually care about what Sarah Palin has to say... you might be stupid.

If you fall for fake folksiness atop a pair of nice gams and don’t realize you’re being ridden like a real pony... you might be stupid.

If somebody tells you you might be stupid and you turn red and apoplectic in the face and reach for your Constitutionally-protected gun... you just might be stupid.

If you think angry white folks are a true minority... you are fucking stupid.

If you haven’t ever laughed at yourself and realized you were completely ass-fucking wrong about something and then turned that opinion all the way around and realized the government is actually not a separate Plan-9-From-Outer-Space entity from you... you might be stupid.

If you think that people who are against stupid people are ass-fucking wrong…up yours, you poor, poor stupid bastard.

If you think I’m stupid…you could be right. But let me ask you this: does Octo-Mom really have a chance at fame, or did Jon & Kate Plus Eight kill that?

If you think informed discourse is listening to dicks baying on TV or radio, then having Joe Anonymous Dick call in either to loudly agree or loudly argue... and you’re dialing your cell phone right now... you, sweet, gentle soul, might just be a leedle bit stupid. Just a bit. Here, let me wipe that soup, you got a little dribble...

If “taxes” or “socialism” throw you into a fit yet you think nobody should get anything for free and you’ve got this rock hard thought lodged securely in your head that identifies you as a _______... sister, have I got a Tea Party for you.

If you think Phil Donahue is in any way related to Maury Povich... I will club you like a seal. That was eleven. It was a freebie.

I appealed earlier for an end to celebrated Dickishness. Can we add stupidity to the mix? Can stupid people be ignored? I know there’s a growing revolution of the stupid, I know the lowest common denominator is in negative numbers, I know that stupid is as stupid does. Stupid people are getting mad for being stupid. Then, dammit, slow down and educate yourselves! Make the leap from stupid to ignorant, and from ignorant to worth somebody's time. Thing is, stupid does all the time now and in disturbing numbers. Stupid is lucrative, so we get Fox, CNN, morning shows, judge shows, reality TV, CSI: Miami, Chris Columbus movies, mommy blogger TV shows, TMZ, the possibility of another Die Hard movie, Jennifer Hudson with a valid career, corporations getting first crack at the wives of the commoners, the screenwriting team of Orci and Kurtzman, and anything involving Jennifer Love Hewitt as an actress.

I’m done with dicks except my own, and even that gets less and less attention now (see previous entry, re: fogeyville). I’d like to say I’m done with stupid. The random acts of dumbassed-ness we all go through are fine. Comedian Bill Engvall calls them the “Here’s Your Sign” moments, when we should all get a sign saying we’re stupid after doing or saying something that defies God’s Will in the worst way. Like the news reporter who says of a woman, “She was raped against her will.” Or the wife who asks how you hit your thumb with that hammer when you’ve never had a taste for masochism before. Or the husband who thinks writing piddly blogs and releasing them in the Dante’s Inferno of porn, celebrity and websites using the words “American”, “Liberty” or “For Family blah blah blah” that is the internet means more than half a damn to a dead guppy.

Here’s your sign.

And one for you, too, Sarah, plain and tall.

One For The Road: Pearls Before Swine

...if you're not reading Stephan Pastis' work, you should be.

Brought To You With Limited Commercial Interruption

There’s a chance the Glorious Revolution is slowly…surely… grinding to a halt. The workday: it is a powerful thing. I’m up to almost sixty percent and, Captain, she canna take no more. Ship’s engines have had to file, collate, and deal with AT&T. I had to use the words ‘platform’ and ‘leverage’ in one breath. Luthor wouldn’t even do that to Superman. What I’m trying to say is, I’m tired. I just put the finishing touches on the second edit of a novel. The brain’s dilithium crystals can manage one more Star Trek reference but they lack the strength to raise shields against The Man.

Aw hell, there’s always room for Jello: Dammit, Jim, I’m a Glorious Revolutionary, not a copywriter for a trade magazine read by account executives (Denebian slime devils). And yet…

And yet I wrote this: “…our exciting new platform of initiatives will leverage experience and prestige with the innovation and creativity of the new generation to bring…”

The only saving grace is those words will never be seen. It was a draft only and turns out will not be needed. But the damage is done. They came from my head. The hair follicles desperately tried to scratch them off the old gray matter but they just don’t have enough troops. I am a geezer at 44. I am not as sexily published as Stephen King; there will be no writing groupies. At home there’s a toilet to put in. Grout to be freshened up. And sleep, whole lots of sleep, that eludes.

They came from my head. Tiny little Tom Cruises. The Glorious Revolution is compromised (although I did get paid for the time it took to type that last line; I’m off lunch now. Keep Hope Alive!). Soon enough I’ll be unrecognizable (except when naked, but that’s the Wife’s purview). To all 2 people reading this, Run! I’ll lay down suppression fire. Run for the hinterlands and don’t look back. It’s been fun and it’s been an honor. Take whatever you can from the Revolution and rebuild a fine society, one where account executives (that’s salespeople to you) are retrained as masseuses. I don’t know that I’ll be gone for good, just for a while.

Unless something exceedingly stupid forces my hand.

Viva Paper Towels!

2010

Why are certain people such dicks? Shouldn’t there be a reset switch inside to return their mindsets to factory defaults? Let’s not debate this. Pat Robertson is a dick. Dick Cheney is a dick. Rush Limbaugh is a dick. Yes, dicks tend to be older white men. Masters of the Universe can’t help but be dicks; dickishness helps one think of oneself as “Master of the Universe”. Not that women can’t be dicks. Not that all races can’t be dicks. Condi Rice is a dick. Understand I’m not speaking from personal interaction with any of these esteemed doofs, I’m going off what they present of themselves to us of their own free will. Robertson is an easy-target dick: anybody that says an earthquake that pretty much decimates a country is divine retribution for satanic pacts should either be ignored or shuffled quietly into the bus to “Camp Comfort”. Cheney: Cheney is Beavis from Beavis and Butthead, complete with that nervously aggressive laugh, in attitude, demeanor and phenotypic traits. A weasel’s a weasel. Michael Steele’s a dick. John Edwards is a dick (literally—dude, is it the hair? Like a Sampson thing pulling in the chicks?).

What’s a dick? A dick is someone whose responses to given situations is so far off the map of human perception that, when presented to a crowd of onlookers anywhere on the face of the planet, the communal reaction is a confused WTF in capital letters followed by looking at one another to try to figure out wtf.

Former mayor Kwame Kilpatrick of Detroit is, was, and always shall be…a dick.

Kim Jong is a supreme North Korean dick.

Monica Conyers (former city council member, Detroit—it’s a long story) is a dick.

Is Tiger Woods a dick? That’s too easy a joke and we already zinged John Edwards. Moving on…

We’re all dicks on occasion. Why, I was a dick just last night. Most of us though, to humanity’s credit, aren’t stuck on dickish. Usually it merely takes a buddy telling us “Stop being a dick” to cure the affliction.

Others aren’t so fortunate. Others are paid millions of dollars and given huge forums to fan their dickishness throughout the land. These poor saps are being robbed of their souls by Rumplestiltskin corporations turning dickishness into gold hand over fist. Pity these poor dicks for they are kind of stupid and don’t even find comfort in masturbation. Dick Cheney masturbating with that sneer on his lips and those beady eyes fixed on a picture of a starving foreign child is an affront to god on so many levels.

Dicks tend to think on the level of “Do the most harm” as opposed to the physician’s credo “First, do no harm.”

Ladies and Gentlemen: hug a dick today. Before he can open his spout-hole; before she can flash that irritating look; before she makes us frown the huge WTF; before he disgusts us with the petty, brackish thing that is his irredeemable worldview. Hug that dick. Squeeze him hard. Re-humanize him. Dicks need love too. They’ll pretend otherwise, but truth is truth: all you need is love. Everybody.

All together now: All you need is love.

Love is all you need.

We love you, dicks, but you are irritating as hell and in the best world we are marching to beat the snot out of you. Please leave the door unlocked.

Actually in the best world there are no dicks. There’s no malicious violence. Jesus is appreciated but not worshipped. Humanitarian aid isn’t viewed as political fuel. People aren’t stupid. Disney stops creating cash-cow teens. In the best world we all grow up. The world has become one huge 12 year old. And 12 year olds, especially boys, are in love with their dicks.

Maturity is woefully under valued.

Can we stop needing to see suffering on a biblical scale in order to re-humanize ourselves?

Sting, when Sting was cool, sang it best: “policeman puts on his uniform, he likes to have a gun ‘cause it keeps him warm, because violence here is a social norm—you got to humanize yourself.”

“Johnny’s joined the National Front; he always was a little runt; got his hands in the air with the other cunts—rehumanize yourself.”

Barring that, can we just agree to ignore the dicks? No more national forums for them. No radio programs. No talking head Sunday morning television interviews. No press. No media of any kind. No More Professional Dicks. The next time Limbaugh wants to say that the nation’s first black president’s response to a cataclysmic natural disaster among a whole bunch of darkies is tailor made for said Pres to gain street cred among U.S. darkies (I’m paraphrasing here but not by much in word or dickishness), can it be a conversation that only Limbaugh and the lonely bottle of lotion on his nightstand needs to hear?

Yes, dicks rule now…but after a certain point even the followers of a dick need to step back and say, “Dude, what the fuck?”

Lady Gaga

Marilyn Manson crossed with Hanna Montana. Miley Cyrus. Whatever. End of message. Death of culture. Goodbye.