Archives For Annoyed

I’m infuriated by how things are at the moment.  Politicians who support legislation that suppresses women’s rights.  Corporate officers who maintain their own profits—and those of their shareholders—by cutting jobs left and right and manipulating the financial system at our expense.  Religious zealots who would drag us all into a new Dark Age if they had their way.  The destruction of the environment across the globe.  Violence against women, children, and animals.  I could go on and on and on.

Social and political problems are nothing new.  But I’m so fed up with how the Powers That Be are failing to address them despite the wishes of the general public.  Look at how the Senate rejected the bill that would require background checks prior to gun purchases.  Public support for gun control is at a record high, yet these fuckwads still voted against this measure.  Women make up 50% of the workforce, yet the Equal Rights Amendment remains unratified, the glass ceiling is still firmly in place, and misogynist douchebags are as vocal as ever.  Despite the number of Americans who expressed their disgust during the recent fiscal cliff talks, Republicans and Democrats couldn’t work together to find solutions to our economic difficulties because they were too busy having a dick-measuring contest.

Carl von Clausewitz, the famous military strategist, said, “War is a continuation of policy by other means.”  I believe its inverse is also true: policy is a continuation of war by other means.

I realize that I’m overdramatizing and oversimplifying much of this.  But you get the idea, hopefully.

We can protest, sign petitions, write letters, boycott, and try to vote shady politicians out of office.  But there’s not much hope of success; corporations enjoy “personhood,” politicians are beholden to lobbyists more than to constituents, and companies don’t care about consumers until their bottom lines are adversely affected.

Typically, petitions are effective only when small, specific goals are involved.  A petition to keep one animal from being euthanized, for instance, can be successful; a petition to abolish wholesale animal killing won’t be.  Although I like how in the UK they have e-petitions, where petitions that get more than 100,000 signatures are considered for debate in the House of Commons.  There’s no guarantee that a petition with 100,000 names will be chosen, but it’s an interesting way for British citizens to get their voices heard. [Note: Since writing this, I've learned that the US has a similar thing in place---I suppose I didn't know this because our politicians seem hellbent on remaining deaf to us  Color me shocked.]

Protests can help to shine the spotlight on problems, but in themselves they don’t change anything.  Occupy Wall Street was—and still is—a vital voice for the 99% of us who are getting shafted by the 1%.  But nothing in corporate America has really improved.  Corporate leaders and shareholders are still making money hand over fist while houses are still in foreclosure and the job market continues to languish.  And to date, not one brokerage CEO has been sent to jail for his part in destroying the financial market.

Writing letters to your representative or senator?  One constituent voicing displeasure with a certain policy isn’t going to make much of a difference, unfortunately.  Same with boycotting certain retailers or other companies.  What’s one less consumer to a franchise or a multi-national corporation?  Nothing, really.

Voting idiots out of office can be effective, but government is like a hydra—a multi-headed clusterfuck.  You cut one idiot out, there will surely be two more to take his or her place.

Negative publicity (or what I like to call “public shaming”) can sometimes serve as an impetus for change.  Just a few weeks ago, Disney was slammed for its “I Need a Hero” t-shirts for girls.  News of these shirts spread like wildfire, sparking multiple online petitions and news stories.  Shortly afterwards, Disney removed those shirts from their website.  It’s hard to know whether they would have lost a lot of revenue if they hadn’t—I suspect they wouldn’t have—but it was refreshing to see that corporations can respond to public sentiment and do the right thing.  There are other examples of the power of the consumer backlash, like the New Coke debacle and the Tropicana branding fiasco.  But they largely involved products, not policies.

It often takes years, even generations, for sea changes in attitudes and practices to occur.  At times it takes acts of civil disobedience (e.g., Rosa Parks, the Woolworth’s sit-ins) or rioting (e.g., the Stonewall Riots) to get the ball rolling.  But those daring, drastic acts aren’t ones that most of us have the cojones for.

Power and money are the two things most likely to influence people and organizations to change.  As long as their current practices are lucrative and/or keep them in power, they won’t have any reason to change the status quo.

In one of my favorite acts of civil disobedience, loss of both power and money led to a policy change.  In 1989, Margaret Thatcher instituted the Poll Tax, which set off a series of riots in London, and more importantly, it inspired a massive non-payment campaign.  An estimated 20-30% of the British public refused to pay the tax, and it was abolished by Thatcher’s successor, John Major.  Such protests can succeed because of the sheer number of people involved; what were they going to do, throw all of those people in jail?

So what can we do?  We can write blog posts and use Twitter and Facebook to broadcast information about the injustices we see around us.  And I’m not talking about the impassioned-but-utterly-futile “Share this status if you think child abuse is wrong!” posts on Facebook.  Social media can be immensely helpful in spreading negative publicity, raising awareness, and promoting thought-provoking dialog.  But individually, we can do only so much.  (But if a blog post alone could generate change, then this post would have worked wonders.)

I don’t want to be powerless anymore.  I’m tired of sitting here sputtering with impotent rage.  I want to ACT.  The old saying goes, “Think global, act local.”  Today, with people, countries, and economies being so inter-dependent, we can think globally and act locally AND globally.  I want to make a genuine, tangible difference.  I bet a lot of you do as well.  Now we just have to figure out how to go about it.

First, that which vexes me today:

Over the past several years I’ve noticed a disturbing trend among newscasters and other media folk regarding the pronunciation of certain words.

It started with the words “harass” and “harassment.”  My understanding was that they were pronounced “har-ASS” and “har-ASS-ment.”  Then reporters started saying them differently all of a sudden: “HAR-ris” and “HAR-ris-ment.”

A similar thing happened with the word “details.”  I’ve always pronounced it “DEE-tails,” as does everyone else I know.  Except that on television, they now say “deh-TAILS.”

Two of the latest words to get a verbal makeover are “coyote” and “Neanderthal. ” Instead of “ky-OH-tee,” it’s “KY-oat.”  And “Nee-AN-der-THAL” has morphed into “Nee-AN-der-TALL.”  Yeah, yeah, I know, in other languages you don’t pronounce the “h” when it immediately follows a “t.”  I don’t care.  I’m not speaking other languages.

Also, obviously these people haven’t been watching enough Looney Tunes; Wile E. Coyote himself always said “Ky-OH-tay”—which I assume is a regional thing, but it’s still in the spirit of the original pronunciation.

I mean, what the fuck?  Who decided on this change, and why?  These newfangled pronunciations sound pretentious and stupid. As if I needed another reason to loathe people.

I don’t like it. I will continue to say these words as I always have. And if I have to, I will launch a grassroots campaign to stop the madness and to make sure no other words are so cruelly mangled.

And now, some announcements.

First, tune in tomorrow for the Great Unveiling—when I reveal to the world which of the ten photos seen in the Where’s Weebs? contest is, in fact, Weebs.

Secondly (and much more excitingly), I am titillated and overjoyed to announce my upcoming collaboration with two spectacular women…

Throughout history, there have been many legendary trios:

Rush
FDR, Churchill, and Stalin
The Three Musketeers
The Three Magi
Larry, Curly, and Moe

Soon, another three will join their ranks:

Madame Weebles, Speaker7, and Jen Tonic

That’s right, you read correctly.  Start taking your vitamins now so you can handle the awesome.
Continue Reading…

You’ve no doubt heard of Crohn’s disease, a chronic inflammatory disorder of the bowels.  My heart goes out to people with Crohn’s because it can be very debilitating and difficult to live with.

However, there’s another condition with a very similar name, and this is the one I want to talk about today.  It’s not easy to discuss, but I need to face my fears and tell my story.

My friends, I suffer from Crone’s disease.  I don’t have full-blown Crone’s yet, but it’s just a matter of time.

Medical literature on the subject is scant; patients generally present with very vague signs and symptoms.  Because there are no tests for Crone’s, proper diagnosis can be made only when the disease is already advanced.

I vividly remember when I noticed the first symptom.  I was at a bar and the music was really loud.  Probably no louder than the music at other bars I had been to, but on this night the volume really bothered me.  I was seized by the overwhelming urge to tell the bartender to “turn down that fucking noise.”  This was accompanied by a strong desire to reflect loudly and at length on how much better the music was when I was in high school and college and how “bands today all sound the same.”

I had never experienced anything like that before.  It scared me.

Several years later, another alarming symptom reared its ugly head.  I was out with some friends.  We had a great time carousing but after so much debauchery I needed to call it a night.  I looked at my watch.  It was 11pm.  That can’t be right, I thought.  It’s got to be around 4am.  My watch must have stopped.  How could this be, that after only a few hours I was tired and wanted to go home?

I didn’t know it then, but I was in the early stages of Crone’s.

Other symptoms emerged recently. Not long ago I used the phrase, “Kids today have NO IDEA.”  I sometimes mutter under my breath at loud groups of young’uns in their 20s and 30s.  And when people discuss celebrities, I frequently have no clue who they’re talking about.  Blake Lively?  Who’s he?

I babble about how U2 was really great “back in the day.”  I bemoan the fact that people born in the 80s and 90s are co-opting The Breakfast Club and calling it a movie for their generation.  Yeah, well, I’ve got news for you, you little punks:  you can’t possibly know what it was really like back then.  I was there, bitches.  So why don’t you just run along and play with your Xbox or something?

Doctors don’t talk about prognosis when it comes to people with Crone’s.  But I’m not stupid.  I know what’s in store for me.

“Get off my lawn, you rotten kids!”

I’ll start saying “I’m too old for this shit” more often.  My joints will make odd cracking noises, like an old house settling.  It will take me ten minutes to get up after sitting on the floor.  Certain foods will no longer agree with me but I’ll insist on eating them anyway and complaining when my stomach hurts and I can’t sleep.  My glasses will crap out and I’ll be forced to read stuff by holding it either really far away or right in front of my eyes.

I won’t even get into the visible manifestations of Crone’s disease because they’re too numerous and horrifying.  But I will say this: grey hair is associated with an increased risk of Crone’s.  As you know, I already have a touch of hag.  My future is grim.  Eventually I’ll have to accept my fate.

For those of you who think you might have Crone’s, please know you’re not alone.  You shouldn’t suffer in silence.  Instead, you should bitch and moan to anyone who will stand still long enough to listen.  It’s the only way.

[Disclaimer: This is not aimed at my Republican buddies here, who are intelligent, thoughtful human beings.  This is for the members of the GOP who are hell-bent on fomenting hatred and encouraging discrimination, among other things.  Anyone who is offended by this, however, is exactly the type of person I'm referring to below and should be offended.]

[Note: I'm not generally a politics person.  I will probably never write another political post, so I wanted to make this one count.  I'm coming out swinging.  I might lose some readers, and that's okay.]

Hey, wingnuts.  You don’t know me but you hate me.

I’m from New York City.  To you guys, that’s just another name for Sodom.  Y’all hate us city slickers because we’re not honest, hard-workin’, church-goin’, “real” Amuricans.  Yet my city, along with 3,000 people, took a big hit for you 11 years ago.  Fuck you.

I believe that a person’s race, religion, or sexual orientation has absolutely nothing to do with a person’s right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  You, on the other hand, cloak yourselves in your “Christian faith” and use it to justify your perverse views on humanity.  And you’re fine with people enjoying freedom—as long as they’re white, Christian, and heterosexual, and as long as they think exactly as you do.  You’re fucking hypocrites.

I care about the earth.  I know global warming is real.  I oppose drilling in the Arctic, fracking, and everything else that messes with our fragile environment.  I support the Kyoto Protocol and I’m ashamed that we are one of the few nations not to ratify it.  You hate that hippie shit.  As long as you make more money, who cares what happens to the planet, right?   You clueless fucking idiots.

I’m a woman.  I’m everything you dislike in a woman, too.  I am child-free by choice.  I didn’t take my husband’s last name.  I have my own career.  I believe all women should be able to live without the government dictating what we can and cannot do with our bodies.  You think we should be smacked around and put back in our place.  A lot of you don’t even seem to believe rape is a real crime.  That’s how much you hate us.  Fuck you, you sick misogynist bastards.

I say women should have equality in the workplace and get equal pay for doing the same work as men.  You hate that idea with a passion.  Let me tell you something, wingnuts.  The first women in my family to work outside the home were my grandmothers.  They were working their asses off when Lilly Ledbetter was still just a gleam in her daddy’s eye.  My grandmothers worked because they had to.  One of my grandmothers was an immigrant from Sicily.  You would have hated her just for that.  The other was a Rosie the Riveter—she worked at Fairchild Camera, manufacturing bomb sights and reconnaissance camera equipment for the war effort. (You’re welcome.)  They had difficult lives and few options.  Today, American women have opportunities that my grandmothers couldn’t even have dreamed about.  And you can’t handle the fact that women are now outclassing you and challenging your authority, can you?  Fuck you, you deserve it.

One of our greatest Republican presidents, Theodore Roosevelt, was a champion of women’s rights.  He also spoke out against racism.  His unorthodox views didn’t endear him to a lot of people, but he was a very forward-thinking guy.  I suspect that if he were alive today, he would have been just as open-minded on the subject of gay rights.  Meanwhile you halfwits are trying to drag us back to much darker times.  You’re a disgrace—not just to the Republican party, but to the whole country.  TR would kick your sorry asses back to the Stone Age.  Fuck you.

You disgust me.  You’re vile, arrogant, and pathetic.   I hate how you’ve given my country and my people such an awful reputation around the world.  Because the Americans I know—immigrant, American-born, gay, transgender, hetero, black, white, Latino, Asian, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, atheist, whatever—are decent, kind, open-hearted souls.  They’re better Americans and human beings than you will ever be.

You’ve rewritten history to suit your agendas.  You’ve twisted the truth to such an extreme that it’s not even recognizable anymore.  Some people say you’re insane.  I disagree.  You’re not insane, you’re just evil.

The only good thing is that the more you talk, the more you reveal yourselves as hate-filled, ignorant troglodytes.  And the more that happens, the more people will want to stop you.  Because you need to be stopped.  You need to go back to your caves and pick bugs off each other, and leave my country alone.

Fuck you.  Fuck you all.

I still got nothing.  This is a recurring theme.  It vexes me.

So why don’t I just pour some coffee and tea for everyone and we’ll have a nice chat, shall we?  The cookies will be out of the oven shortly.

Since I have nothing interesting to say, I’ll tell you a bunch of uninteresting things.  So if you’re already bored, I urge you to click away from this page now.  It’s only going to go downhill from here.

For starters, I think Hurricane Isaac is a dick for hitting the New Orleans area.  Come on, dude, haven’t the people in the Gulf suffered enough??  And Hurricane Katrina hit on August 29, 2005—-nice 7th anniversary gift, asshole.

Ah, there’s the buzzer, the cookies are done.  I’ve made a few different kinds.  Chocolate chip, peanut butter, oatmeal raisin, and maple prune.  Those last ones were an experiment but they don’t look very appealing.  I’d give those a pass if I were you.  Careful, they’re heavy.

The other day I heard “Empire State of Mind” by Jay-Z and Alicia Keys for the first time in a while.  I really don’t like that song.  This is the best you could do as a tribute to your hometown, dude?  Because if so, your best sucks.  As a native New Yorker, I’m offended.  I could make a recording of subway trains coming to a screeching halt, with Joe Pesci’s voice dubbed in, and it would still sound nicer than that song.  I want the ghost of Frank Sinatra to come down and kick the shit out of Jay-Z for writing that earsore.

Would you like coffee or tea?  Personally, I like my cup of coffee the way I like my men: strong, hot, and bottomless.

Now where was I?  Right.  Rambling aimlessly.

You know what I’d really love to do?  I’d really love to have my own old-fashioned ice cream parlor and soda fountain.  With tin ceilings, marble countertops, wrought-iron fixtures, and the type of soda fountain they used to have in pharmacies back in the day.  Like these:

     

Except I’d have much more comfortable tables and chairs.  And I would serve fancy ice cream sundaes, sodas, phosphates, and all kinds of other wacky concoctions.  But I’d add a bakery section too.  This way if you’d rather have cookies, pastries, or cake (hi Sandee!), or if you want ice cream and cake (and who doesn’t??), you can have your cake and eat it too, so to speak.  I think that would be nice.  A nice 19th-century-style confection emporium.  But to give it a little twist, the staff would all be dressed like saucy Victorian whores.  Including the men.

More coffee?  More tea?  No?  You suddenly don’t feel well and have to go home immediately?  Oh, what a shame.  You didn’t try those maple prune things, did you?  That’s a relief.  Why don’t you stop by tomorrow?  Oh, you’ll be busy.  Okay.  How about Saturday?  I see.  That’s so nice of your dentist to be open on the weekend.  Good luck with those root canals.  Want me to come over on Sunday to see how you’re doing after the dental work?  A silent retreat at your church after Mass, how interesting.  Isn’t that funny, I thought you were Jewish.  My mistake.

Well anyway, it was great to visit with you, we’ll have to do this again soon!

List of Characters:
Madame Weebles, your performer and insomniac
Mr. Weebles, who can fall asleep just thinking about sleep
Cupcake, a beautiful, un-declawed, 18-pound kitty

Setting:
The bedroom, in the middle of the night.  It’s dark.  Mr. Weebles is asleep.  My alarm clock is taunting me with those giant glowing red numbers, pointing at me and snickering.

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

I can’t believe this is happening again.  I’m so tired.  Why can’t I just go to sleep?  It’s 2:00am.  If I get to sleep by 3:00, that’s still four hours of sleep.  I guess that’s not too bad.

I could read but I’m too tired for that.  And I’m too tired and lazy to get up and go to the computer.  But my brain is spinning.  I don’t get it.  How can my brain be spinning when I’m this tired??  Maybe I’ll try that deep breathing thing I read about.  Innnnnnhaaaaaaaaaale.  Exxxxxxxxhaaaaaaaa—forget it, this is boring.

What’s on television?  Hey, Law & Order: Criminal Intent is on!

Ooop, someone just jumped on the bed.  It’s Cupcake.  Hi Cupcake!  Such a good girl.  Come here, let me pet you.  Ow, don’t stand on me, you’re concentrating all 18 pounds on one paw.  It really hurts.  Just lie down, pumpkin.  Come on, lie down.  No—please, don’t walk on me.  Ow, the claws.  Oh no.  Please, not there, Cupc—oww, NOTTHERENOTTHERENOTTHERENOWOWOWAWWWWW, look at you, you’re so cute!  See, isn’t this nice, lying down?  Yes, this is much nicer.

4:00am.  If I fall asleep in the next half hour, that’s two and a half hours of sleep.  Sigh.  At least it’s something.

Uh oh. There’s that poor limping dog—it’s that ASPCA or Humane Society commercial again. I need to change the channel.  What did I do with the remote?  Dammit, now I have to grope around for it with my eyes closed, I can’t watch these animals, it’s too sad.  Where’s the remote??  WHERE IS IT?!?!  I have to switch channels immediately!!  Lalalalalalalalalalalala I’m not listening lalalalalalalalalalalalalalala oh here it is.  **click**

4:30am.  Yay, I’m finally getting really drowsy.  I should be asleep pretty soon.  What a relief.

BRRRRRROOARRGGGGGGGGGGHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!

Fucking motorcyclist.  I hope he wraps his bike around a lamppost and it bursts into flames.  Asshole.

5:15am.  My heart is still racing from that motorcycle scaring the shit out of me.  I want to find that motherfucker, tie him to a stake, baste him with honey, and set fire ants on him.

Look at Mr. Weebles, sleeping so soundly.  That smug bastard.  How does he do that?  He looks so peaceful and cozy.  I really hate him.

6:00am.  If I fall asleep RIGHT NOW, that’s an hour of sleep.  That’s barely even a nap.  Fuck my life.  Is it possible to smother oneself with a pillow?

I want to make a voodoo doll of that biker and puree it in the blender.

6:45am.  Sonofabitch.  I can’t believe I haven’t slept all fucking night.  This is BULLSHIT.  I may as well just get up now since my alarm is going to go off in fifteezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz……….

No photos, please

Madame Weebles —  August 21, 2012 — 162 Comments

Yesterday you may have seen my blog and thought, “Holy shit, Madame Weebles has lost her mind.”  As you discovered, that post was written by this guy.  But letting him guest post is obviously an indication of insanity on my part, so you weren’t wrong.  Special thanks to Le Clown for an awe-inspiring display of profanity and crudeness, perfectly underscoring the points I made in my post on his blog.

Now for my whiny tale of woe.  Please go and fetch your tiny violins so you can get ready to play “Hearts and Flowers.”  I’ll pour myself a few fingers of scotch while I wait.

Are we ready?  All righty then.

You may have noticed that there are no photos of me anywhere on this blog.  That’s very deliberate.  I have no photos here, no photos on my Facebook profile, no photos anywhere.  I like it that way because the only thing I hate more than having my photo taken is looking at photos of myself.

Lately I’ve been checking out websites of other patient advocates to get some ideas for my own site.  They all have photos of themselves.  It makes sense.  It’s a very personal thing, helping someone with medical care.  Potential clients might want to know what someone looks like, to see if they’d want to work with them.  It shouldn’t be a beauty contest, but a picture can be helpful.  Someone might think, “He looks like a nice person, I’ll email him for more info,” or, “She reminds me of that bitch I went to high school with—no fucking way am I contacting her.”

There’s no law that says I have to put up a photo, but it will seem odd if I don’t.  It’s like online dating—if you don’t have a picture, people assume you’re coyote ugly or that you have something to hide.  Or both.  So I guess I’ll have to do it.  I’m breaking out in hives just thinking about it.

For the record, I’m not a hideously disfigured freak.  (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)  I can look in a mirror without shattering it.  People don’t retch when they see me.  I’m your basic garden-variety person.  But I don’t want anyone to see my picture.  I’m not especially photogenic, and I occasionally have flashbacks to when I was younger and people made unkind remarks about my looks.  I may have grown out of that awkward stage, but my brain hasn’t.  So sue me.

I’m considering putting someone else’s photo on my site.  Yeah, I know, eventually clients would meet me and see that I look nothing like the photo, but so what?  It’s not like I’d be the first person to do a bait and switch.

Hi. I’m here to help. I’m sorry to say that in reality I look nothing like a young Sophia Loren. It’s just that her picture is a lot nicer than mine.

Or I could be an adult, suck it up, and use an actual photo of me:

If you read my palm you’ll see that I’m a nice person. (For the record, this really is my hand.)

I should not be so freaked out by this.  But honestly, I’m finding this to be the most nervewracking thing about developing my website.  Many of you have photos of yourselves on your blogs and/or Gravatars.  The idea of doing that myself terrifies me.  I admit it, I’m a big chicken.  I’d rather have multiple root canals than show people a photo of me.  It’s a very first-world problem—a luxury problem, if you will.  It’s pretty fucked up.

Now whip out those violins and play that sad, sad song just for me.

I’ve just seen a commercial for a new TLC show called Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.  This Honey Boo Boo creature, who is 6 years old, is one of the stars of another TLC train wreck, Toddlers & Tiaras, and is a regular on the children’s beauty pageant circuit.

Now this little monstrosity has her own fucking show.  Because when TLC deliberately scraped the bottom of the barrel last season, they apparently still weren’t satisfied.  I haven’t checked the weather forecast for the week yet but I’m expecting locusts and frogs.

Here’s a video clip to give you an idea of what we’re dealing with here.

That “special juice” she’s talking about, by the way, is a mixture of Mountain Dew and Red Bull that her mother concocted for her.  She calls it “Go-Go Juice.”  No wonder the kid has the crazy eyes.

This is going to be one hell of a show.  A children’s beauty pageant contestant, her nightmare pageant mother, and the rest of her trailer trash family (although they don’t actually live in a trailer).  The daughter is an obnoxious, mumble-mouthed brat who’s cruising for a bruising if the parents continue to encourage that attitude of hers.  Mom is a brash, ignorant fame whore and a diabetes disaster waiting to happen.  And one of her other daughters proudly proclaims that they’re not rednecks because “we have all our teeth.”  With all that Red Bull and Mountain Dew?  I doubt that, honey.

And if that weren’t enough, the mother is a self-confessed “coupon queen” and one of the teenage daughters is pregnant.  TLC won the Extreme Reality Jackpot with this crew.  They must have wet themselves when they realized they hit the dysfunctional mother lode.

And before anyone starts yelling that I’m unfairly going after Southerners, rest assured that I also have plenty of venom for Snooki and her vacuous, sun-fried friends on Jersey Shore, the shrieking harpies on Real Housewives (all of them), the snarling shrews of Bridezillas, and most other reality-show “celebrities.”  They’re the worst of every possible stereotype.  I’m sure the producers edit the footage so that they seem as appalling as possible, but surely that doesn’t require much effort in most cases.

Networks will continue to put this dreck on the air as long as we keep watching it for our guilty pleasure.  Reality shows about well-adjusted people sitting around reading on their Kindles just doesn’t make for riveting television.  The problem is that these programs end up spawning legions of increasingly self-absorbed, brain-dead lemmings who want their 15+ minutes of fame.  They celebrate and encourage ugly behavior.  And they make us look bad as a country.  It’s embarrassing.

Sure, the world hates Americans because we’re big bullies and we know think we’re better than everyone else.  But big deal—that’s been the case for decades.

No, it’s these literacy-free cretins who really ruin it for us.  They’re why people in other countries think we’re fat, lazy, arrogant assholes with the intelligence of a speed bump.  For better or worse—mainly worse—in today’s world, these reality shows, like Hillbilly Handfishing, My Teen Is Pregnant and So Am I, Bad Girls Club, etc., end up serving as our nation’s ambassadors.

So forget about our ham-handed approach to world affairs, our penchant for going to war, and the fact that McDonald’s can now be found in even the most far-flung locations on earth.  Our reality shows are why everyone hates us.  Can you blame them??

Hey, nice rack

Madame Weebles —  August 1, 2012 — 209 Comments

Yes, this post is about what you think it’s about.  It’s about boobs.  Cans.  Hooters.  Melons.  Jugs.  Sweater meat.

My friends, I am not a flat-chested woman.  I’m packing heat.  I’ve wintered well.  My cups overfloweth.  Mind you, I’m not complaining.  It comes in handy quite often.  I’ve got a built-in popcorn catcher.  And it’s a convenient place to keep a tissue or money when I have no pockets available.

There are, however, some drawbacks.  The most annoying being unsolicited comments from representatives of the XY chromosome pairing.

I started getting comments and catcalls when I was a teenager.  Now that I’m in my 40s I don’t get as many but it still happens occasionally.  And it’s not like I’m pulling a Sue Ellen Mischke, walking around wearing just a bra.  I can wear the baggiest of sweaters and some slack-jawed idiot will still zero in on my chest.

Do I find it icky when guys make lewd comments?  Ewww, yes.  Do I think it’s sexist and degrading?  Fuck yeah.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about launching asshole-seeking missiles at these knuckle draggers.

But my other feeling is, if you’re going to make a sleazy remark, you should put some thought into it.  Make it memorable.  Pithy.  Because I’ve heard a lot of really lame stuff.  Loud kissy noises, a variety of animal-type grunts, many yells of “Woooooooo yeah!!!!” or words to that effect.  Once a guy came up real close to me, gaped at my torso and said, “BIG ONES!!” in a voice that sounded eerily like that of Cheech Marin.  And for international flavor, I’ve gotten a lot of “Ayyyyyyy mami!!!”

Come on, fellas.  Don’t phone it in with a disgusting noise or a wolf whistle or something juvenile like that.  Those are all really played out.  You can do better.

I’m not saying you should doff your hat and proclaim, “My dear lady, your mammaries are quite bountiful and luxurious indeed.  Good day to you!”  But if you’re going to be a douche, at least make an effort not to be a stupid douche.

The best line I ever heard was when I was about 17 or 18.  Anyone remember those t-shirts sold by Haagen-Dazs back in the glory days of the 80s?  They had the H-D logo on the front and an ice cream flavor on the back.  I had one (mine said Coffee).  One day when I was wearing it, I was walking down the street and saw a guy ahead of me leaning against a parked car.  I had a feeling he was going to be a problem.  I just looked straight ahead and hoped he would leave me alone.  He didn’t.  As I passed him, he said, “Haagen-Dazs, huh??  Nice scoops you got there, honey!”

Now that was clever.  Respect, bro.

Unlike many of you, I am a mere mortal.  I have many weaknesses.  You know how Superman was powerless against kryptonite?  There are many things that are kryptonite to me.  Some in a good way, some in a bad way.

For instance, certain accents are kryptonite to me.  Yesterday we were treated to The Reclining Gentleman’s English accent.  The English accent weakens my knees pretty quickly.  But the accent I’m most powerless against is the Irish brogue.  I can’t resist it.  Can’t.  Won’t.  It doesn’t even matter if the speaker is male or female.  I’d pay good money just to listen to an Irish person read aloud from the dictionary or the phone book.

There are several other things that are guaranteed to evoke a visceral reaction in me, such that I am unable to resist swooning, making an ass of myself, and/or indulging in to an unspeakable degree:

  • Cute animals—anyone who doesn’t turn into a mess of goo with cute animals is probably Hitler reincarnated.
  • French fries—this should require no further explanation.  They’re delicious, greasy, salty proof of God’s existence and benevolence.
  • Carvel ice cream—for those of you not fortunate enough to live in an area with purveyors of Carvel, Carvel is like Dairy Queen or Mr. Softee, except much, much, much better.  See “proof of God’s existence and benevolence” above.
  • This guy—at this point he should need no introduction.
  • Flea markets—where you can find all kinds of crap you never knew you absolutely must have.
  • Bookstores—at least, until Amazon destroys them all, anyway.
  • Las Vegas—over-the-top decadence and debauchery at its best.

Then there’s the bad sort of kryptonite. Things that are so heinous and awful that I can’t stand looking at them, hearing about them, or being in the same room with them:

  • Disgusting holeswe’ve discussed these.
  • Roaches—Satan’s emissaries on earth.
  • Any of those interminable ASPCA and Humane Society commercials—why don’t you just waterboard me, it would be less traumatic.
  • Cottage cheese—to some, a healthy snack.  To me, a vile poison.
  • Honey—to some, a delicious topping for toast and other things.  To me, a vile poison.
  • Kevin Costner’s voice—want to send me into a homicidal frenzy?  Force me to listen to the audio from Dances With Wolves.
  • Tom Cruise—my hatred of him is even more intense than my hatred of Alex Trebek.

So how about you?  What’s your kryptonite?