The Whore, wait, no, THE FUCKING WHORE, contacted me via myspace. I was a ball of sinew, anxiety, rage, and indecisiveness. Should I talk to her and hear her out, like a big mature man? Should I unleash all the anger and pure black viscous hatred that has built up and congealed over the past two and a half years, tell her everthing I always wanted to? (see: I was hoping you were dead. You should lose your kids. You are a whore and a cunt. If I ever see you again I WILL spit in your face, and if I see your husband I will smash his face into a mass of pulp attached to a neck. You are evil....etc etc etc.)
But what would be the benefit of either exchange really? She wouldn't let me finish a rampage of hate, and I wouldn't be willing to hear a single damn apology she offered. If that makes me a bitter foolish man then so be it, and I feel the better for it. Instead this is the only exchange I allowed (read from bottom to top for correct order, but the first thing you read is the most important anyway):
I guessed as such but wanted to be certain. There are only three things I'm going to address:
1) I hope your kids are healthy and happy.
2) I have absolutely no interest in the well being of you or the rest of your family.
3) I have even less interest in hearing or reading what you have to say.
::The GringO::
Showing posts with label A Very Sad Soapbox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A Very Sad Soapbox. Show all posts
08 February 2008
25 December 2007
OGDC and the Kids Tenders
Typically one would expect a holiday themed entry on the day of Christmas, but the problem inherent is that you limit the relevance of the writing. Though stories of twinkling lights, epiphanies, gluttony, family, love, and gravity defying mammals all make good fare for writing, I’m going to write about something which is different yet, I feel, equally worthy: perversion.
My Dad has significant hearing loss in both ears. To allow him to enjoy watching television we put on the closed captioning. As the action occurs we get blocks of black with white letters across the screen, sometimes accurate, sometimes giving you reason to wonder if child labor is used in this capacity in Texas (I believe in a child’s right to work damn it!). Yesterday, Christmas Eve, some family members and I caught a boxing championship on some network. Sadly, closed captioning isn’t used to cover sounds as well, so no “thwaps” or “pffts” or “coo coo cachou.’ They did relate the commentary of announcers and officials. “He went at him like an octopus!” was one such line. Shortly later, the following words were said, but more importantly, printed on the screen: “He likes it when a guy comes in hard!”
Seeing the words allowed me to take them out of context in my mind and, like any self respecting man of intelligence, twist them into an entirely different meaning. You may think this is only my own immature, or rather quite powerful, ability to pervert innocent statements. But it wasn’t just me! My whole family laughed. We are all talented and imaginative.
I was reminded of a few years ago when my sister and I discovered the joy of soundboards on the internet. We came across clips for a show which I will call “Oso in the Grande Depressed Casa” to avoid issues with libel and such. OGDC was a children’s program combining actors donning fluffy costumes, puppetry and cheap animation. When looking at the sound clips that were available, every part of my being that loves to laugh tingled and my perverse sense of humor ejaculated forth from my hand onto the mouse, into the computer, and out of the speakers. Phrases of pure perverted gold trickled and dripped from my brain and I created many deliciously decadent statements. “Its too big Oso, it’s too big! Mgghhh!”, “Let me lick it Oso let me lick it!”, “I’m coming, I’m COMING!” and maybe a few others I can’t quite remember.
Some would say this is repulsive. I say it is alluring. Others would say they detest such perversion. I say lay back, open up, take a deep breath and just get ready to take it. Like it or not many people have a sense of humor. This is one of the best parts of a human personality. We may get shit on, things may not go as planned, and you can get red dots in places you don’t want (hypothetically speaking of course). Be it saintly or satanic, anything can be funny. After all if you can’t enjoy a menu item at a movie tavern called “Kids Tenders”* you can’t enjoy life.
::GringO::
*Real menu item.
My Dad has significant hearing loss in both ears. To allow him to enjoy watching television we put on the closed captioning. As the action occurs we get blocks of black with white letters across the screen, sometimes accurate, sometimes giving you reason to wonder if child labor is used in this capacity in Texas (I believe in a child’s right to work damn it!). Yesterday, Christmas Eve, some family members and I caught a boxing championship on some network. Sadly, closed captioning isn’t used to cover sounds as well, so no “thwaps” or “pffts” or “coo coo cachou.’ They did relate the commentary of announcers and officials. “He went at him like an octopus!” was one such line. Shortly later, the following words were said, but more importantly, printed on the screen: “He likes it when a guy comes in hard!”
Seeing the words allowed me to take them out of context in my mind and, like any self respecting man of intelligence, twist them into an entirely different meaning. You may think this is only my own immature, or rather quite powerful, ability to pervert innocent statements. But it wasn’t just me! My whole family laughed. We are all talented and imaginative.
I was reminded of a few years ago when my sister and I discovered the joy of soundboards on the internet. We came across clips for a show which I will call “Oso in the Grande Depressed Casa” to avoid issues with libel and such. OGDC was a children’s program combining actors donning fluffy costumes, puppetry and cheap animation. When looking at the sound clips that were available, every part of my being that loves to laugh tingled and my perverse sense of humor ejaculated forth from my hand onto the mouse, into the computer, and out of the speakers. Phrases of pure perverted gold trickled and dripped from my brain and I created many deliciously decadent statements. “Its too big Oso, it’s too big! Mgghhh!”, “Let me lick it Oso let me lick it!”, “I’m coming, I’m COMING!” and maybe a few others I can’t quite remember.
Some would say this is repulsive. I say it is alluring. Others would say they detest such perversion. I say lay back, open up, take a deep breath and just get ready to take it. Like it or not many people have a sense of humor. This is one of the best parts of a human personality. We may get shit on, things may not go as planned, and you can get red dots in places you don’t want (hypothetically speaking of course). Be it saintly or satanic, anything can be funny. After all if you can’t enjoy a menu item at a movie tavern called “Kids Tenders”* you can’t enjoy life.
::GringO::
*Real menu item.
21 November 2007
Radioheadache
Radiohead sucks. Why should I be interested in the music and lyrics when Thom Yorke is clearly bored with them? Seriously, the guy sounds like he’s doing all this stuff because he’s been told he can’t go back to sleep until he’s finished recording.
(Scene: some recording studio in England. Weather forecast is misery with a chance of mildewed melancholy, winds from the sad at forty tears per hour)
“Thom? Thom. Thom!” (kicks couch)
zzznnnrrrraggRRAGAgSNORT! “What, for fuck’s sake?”
“Sing the song, mate!”
“What, again?”
“Yeah; it takes more than one song to make an album.”
“All right, but one take and then I’m going back to bed.”
“Fine. Put your pants* on, Thom.”
“Jesus Christ, but you are a needy bugger, yeah?”
I just don't get the appeal of slow, offbeat musical drudgery with groggily atonal whining serving as 'singing.' Maybe I'm too American to understand. Or maybe I like to look at the sky instead of my shoelaces; maybe I live in my space instead of on MySpace; maybe I like to be entertained and not bored, especially if I am paying for it; maybe I don't confuse emotional disorders with genius; maybe I think life can actually be a lot of fun every once in a while, and that music can, and sometimes should, reflect that.
Or maybe they really do suck and a lot of people are deluding themselves for reasons that I cannot understand.
I like to give my readers options.
-Zeepdoggie
*Yes, I do know what ‘pants’ are in England.
(Scene: some recording studio in England. Weather forecast is misery with a chance of mildewed melancholy, winds from the sad at forty tears per hour)
“Thom? Thom. Thom!” (kicks couch)
zzznnnrrrraggRRAGAgSNORT! “What, for fuck’s sake?”
“Sing the song, mate!”
“What, again?”
“Yeah; it takes more than one song to make an album.”
“All right, but one take and then I’m going back to bed.”
“Fine. Put your pants* on, Thom.”
“Jesus Christ, but you are a needy bugger, yeah?”
I just don't get the appeal of slow, offbeat musical drudgery with groggily atonal whining serving as 'singing.' Maybe I'm too American to understand. Or maybe I like to look at the sky instead of my shoelaces; maybe I live in my space instead of on MySpace; maybe I like to be entertained and not bored, especially if I am paying for it; maybe I don't confuse emotional disorders with genius; maybe I think life can actually be a lot of fun every once in a while, and that music can, and sometimes should, reflect that.
Or maybe they really do suck and a lot of people are deluding themselves for reasons that I cannot understand.
I like to give my readers options.
-Zeepdoggie
*Yes, I do know what ‘pants’ are in England.
03 November 2007
In the Arms of Morpheus
I was unable to sleep for seven days. A week, from one Tuesday to the next, with less than fourteen total hours of sleep; why is what you are probably wondering. Well, it’s a simple word with an insane number of connotations.
Death.
Just as my eyes would close, I would speculate about the end of life, which I cannot avoid and live in utter and total fear of. As a man who believes in God (I will go no further, because what else I believe in is none of your damned business), I have faith in an afterlife, a place with all the answers to my questions, and a sense of peace that I have felt on Earth in only a few spare moments.
But for the last week, I have wondered if I may be wrong. What if it’s just pain and then nothing? That thought is so terrifying that I am shaking, nearly crying, just thinking about it.
And it is totally, completely unavoidable. I will find out if I am right or wrong.
I would rather live forever. “But Zeep, what about all the loved ones who will die around you?” Well, I will miss them, but I am pretty good at making friends, so I suppose I will have new ones to love. It sounds cold, but it’s not like I will get a chance to find out if I am right or not.
I will not live forever. I will die.
My brother Bob passed away when he was 35, three years after he cleaned up from years of cocaine abuse. With a natural arrhythmia to his heart, the abuse caught up with him and he died. I am the same age as my brother when he sobered up. Like others who have lost siblings, death has a sense of immediacy with me. When grandparents die, they are fulfilling their role. They’re supposed to die; they’re old and therefore the perfect first lesson in mortality. But siblings are supposed to be as immortal as trees. They aren’t supposed to die until you’re going to die.
When you lose a brother or sister, your whole timetable on death gets skewed to a much earlier wake-up call.
There were other reasons for me not sleeping: I usually have a bout of insomnia at least twice a year, but not to this extreme; I am feeling really lonely and currently have teetering prospects for a date, and I am wondering if I should even bother since student teaching is just around the corner; my body is trying to get used to the weather and the blankets on the bed. But it’s the fear of nothing that keeps me up.
I’ve been taking Tylenol PM, which is definitely doing the trick. I am trying not to become dependent upon it, but the certainty that I will sleep, and have some really awesome dreams, is too much for me to stop just yet. It keeps the ghosts in the closet, which is all I want right now.
Well, a milkshake and a backrub would be nice, too.
-Zeepdoggie
Death.
Just as my eyes would close, I would speculate about the end of life, which I cannot avoid and live in utter and total fear of. As a man who believes in God (I will go no further, because what else I believe in is none of your damned business), I have faith in an afterlife, a place with all the answers to my questions, and a sense of peace that I have felt on Earth in only a few spare moments.
But for the last week, I have wondered if I may be wrong. What if it’s just pain and then nothing? That thought is so terrifying that I am shaking, nearly crying, just thinking about it.
And it is totally, completely unavoidable. I will find out if I am right or wrong.
I would rather live forever. “But Zeep, what about all the loved ones who will die around you?” Well, I will miss them, but I am pretty good at making friends, so I suppose I will have new ones to love. It sounds cold, but it’s not like I will get a chance to find out if I am right or not.
I will not live forever. I will die.
My brother Bob passed away when he was 35, three years after he cleaned up from years of cocaine abuse. With a natural arrhythmia to his heart, the abuse caught up with him and he died. I am the same age as my brother when he sobered up. Like others who have lost siblings, death has a sense of immediacy with me. When grandparents die, they are fulfilling their role. They’re supposed to die; they’re old and therefore the perfect first lesson in mortality. But siblings are supposed to be as immortal as trees. They aren’t supposed to die until you’re going to die.
When you lose a brother or sister, your whole timetable on death gets skewed to a much earlier wake-up call.
There were other reasons for me not sleeping: I usually have a bout of insomnia at least twice a year, but not to this extreme; I am feeling really lonely and currently have teetering prospects for a date, and I am wondering if I should even bother since student teaching is just around the corner; my body is trying to get used to the weather and the blankets on the bed. But it’s the fear of nothing that keeps me up.
I’ve been taking Tylenol PM, which is definitely doing the trick. I am trying not to become dependent upon it, but the certainty that I will sleep, and have some really awesome dreams, is too much for me to stop just yet. It keeps the ghosts in the closet, which is all I want right now.
Well, a milkshake and a backrub would be nice, too.
-Zeepdoggie
24 October 2007
Not a Kitty, but a ...
While discussing Act II Scene 4 of Romeo and Juliet, I referred to Romeo as “a pussy.” This upset a woman in my class, and she told me so during our break. She began to tell me all about the strengths of the pussy and how I was wrong to use it like I did, and that I was degrading women.
I don’t use the word “pussy” to describe the vagina. Ask any lover of mine; they will tell you that I never referred to the vagina as a pussy. I cannot remember saying to any of my friends that I needed some pussy. It’s a fucking disgusting, weak, damp word that is totally unfit for the description of the vagina. Vaginas are the most important things in my life. Without them, I would have no motivation to do anything. Hell, I wouldn’t even be here without a vagina; I wore it like a hat at my very first birthday. I can’t disrespect that with a word like “pussy.” For that most wonderful of human anatomical structures, I use two words: the public word vagina, and a private term that I share only with those who have a vagina that I am taking a vested interest in. In my lexicon, whenever someone is being weak-willed, callow and foolish, they are being a pussy. A man or a woman can be a pussy, just like someone being stupidly stubborn and over-sensitive is being a dick, regardless of the position of the toilet seat in their bathroom. The woman in my class and her inability to understand that I mean no disrespect to women or their vaginas was a total dick tonight.
I tried to explain this, and I wasn’t getting through. Some of it was her inability to accept my reasoning, and some of it was my fault. To get my attention at break, the young woman hit me on the shoulder before I saw her coming. If someone touches me uninvited, I adrenalize; I get ready to fight or run (and the way things have been going lately, you can tell the predilection). So I was definitely shorter with her than I should have been. And in the process of defending myself, I snapped at the prof. I apologized later, but i doubt it made a difference.
So I got the class thinking I am a chauvinist, I shot myself in the foot with Professor Hottie, and now I am worked up and I cannot sleep.
I am such a fucking pussy.
-Zeepdoggie
I don’t use the word “pussy” to describe the vagina. Ask any lover of mine; they will tell you that I never referred to the vagina as a pussy. I cannot remember saying to any of my friends that I needed some pussy. It’s a fucking disgusting, weak, damp word that is totally unfit for the description of the vagina. Vaginas are the most important things in my life. Without them, I would have no motivation to do anything. Hell, I wouldn’t even be here without a vagina; I wore it like a hat at my very first birthday. I can’t disrespect that with a word like “pussy.” For that most wonderful of human anatomical structures, I use two words: the public word vagina, and a private term that I share only with those who have a vagina that I am taking a vested interest in. In my lexicon, whenever someone is being weak-willed, callow and foolish, they are being a pussy. A man or a woman can be a pussy, just like someone being stupidly stubborn and over-sensitive is being a dick, regardless of the position of the toilet seat in their bathroom. The woman in my class and her inability to understand that I mean no disrespect to women or their vaginas was a total dick tonight.
I tried to explain this, and I wasn’t getting through. Some of it was her inability to accept my reasoning, and some of it was my fault. To get my attention at break, the young woman hit me on the shoulder before I saw her coming. If someone touches me uninvited, I adrenalize; I get ready to fight or run (and the way things have been going lately, you can tell the predilection). So I was definitely shorter with her than I should have been. And in the process of defending myself, I snapped at the prof. I apologized later, but i doubt it made a difference.
So I got the class thinking I am a chauvinist, I shot myself in the foot with Professor Hottie, and now I am worked up and I cannot sleep.
I am such a fucking pussy.
-Zeepdoggie
27 September 2007
Ding Dong...
Bill Wirtz, owner of the Chicago Blackhawks, the man who did more to ruin hockey in Chicago than Gordie Howe ever could, died yesterday. I can officially be a Blackhawks fan again. Unless his fat apple didn't fall too far off of the tree and his son is just as much of a money-grubbing fuckhole.
I know it's bad to speak of the dead like that. For some reason, in our society, when someone dies we automatically forgive them for all the bad shit they did and try to say something good about them. The only thing I can say that is good about Bill Wirtz is that he is now dead. This is a guy who never did anything that he couldn't profit from. He has a laundry list of bad shit, too long for me to go into, but check out this book. If reading this doesn't convince you of Wirtz's place in Hell, remember that this is the guy who purposefully traded Chris Chelios, the greatest captain of the 'Hawks ever, to the Detroit Red Wings to keep Cheli from bitching about the front office to the press. For those not in the know, it's the equivalent of someone going from the Red Sox to the Yankees, the Packers to the Bears, or the Heat to the Knicks.
I know that some people will miss me when I die. I know some people won't. Some will mourn, and some will celebrate; some may do both. Either way, I will be dead; if people are talking about me, it means I am not forgotten, and that's all I could ask for.
-Zeepdoggie
I know it's bad to speak of the dead like that. For some reason, in our society, when someone dies we automatically forgive them for all the bad shit they did and try to say something good about them. The only thing I can say that is good about Bill Wirtz is that he is now dead. This is a guy who never did anything that he couldn't profit from. He has a laundry list of bad shit, too long for me to go into, but check out this book. If reading this doesn't convince you of Wirtz's place in Hell, remember that this is the guy who purposefully traded Chris Chelios, the greatest captain of the 'Hawks ever, to the Detroit Red Wings to keep Cheli from bitching about the front office to the press. For those not in the know, it's the equivalent of someone going from the Red Sox to the Yankees, the Packers to the Bears, or the Heat to the Knicks.
I know that some people will miss me when I die. I know some people won't. Some will mourn, and some will celebrate; some may do both. Either way, I will be dead; if people are talking about me, it means I am not forgotten, and that's all I could ask for.
-Zeepdoggie
12 August 2007
Now Who's Wrong?
Geneva Convention relative to the Protection of Civilian Persons in Time of War
Adopted on 12 August 1949 by the Diplomatic Conference for the Establishment of
International Conventions for the Protection of Victims of War, held in Geneva
from 21 April to 12 August, 1949
entry into force 21 October 1950
PART II
GENERAL PROTECTION OF POPULATIONS
AGAINST CERTAIN CONSEQUENCES OF WAR
Adopted on 12 August 1949 by the Diplomatic Conference for the Establishment of
International Conventions for the Protection of Victims of War, held in Geneva
from 21 April to 12 August, 1949
entry into force 21 October 1950
PART II
GENERAL PROTECTION OF POPULATIONS
AGAINST CERTAIN CONSEQUENCES OF WAR
Article 16
The wounded and sick, as well as the infirm, and expectant mothers, shall be the object of particular protection and respect.
As far as military considerations allow, each Party to the conflict shall facilitate the steps taken to search for the killed and wounded, to assist the shipwrecked and other persons exposed to grave danger, and to protect them against pillage and ill-treatment.
Article 18
Civilian hospitals organized to give care to the wounded and sick, the infirm and maternity cases, may in no circumstances be the object of attack, but shall at all times be respected and protected by the Parties to the conflict.
Article 19
The protection to which civilian hospitals are entitled shall not cease unless they are used to commit, outside their humanitarian duties, acts harmful to the enemy. Protection may, however, cease only after due warning has been given, naming, in all appropriate cases, a reasonable time limit, and after such warning has remained unheeded.
The fact that sick or wounded members of the armed forces are nursed in these hospitals, or the presence of small arms and ammunition taken from such combatants which have not yet been handed to the proper service, shall not be considered to be acts harmful to the enemy.
Article 21
Convoys of vehicles or hospital trains on land or specially provided vessels on sea, conveying wounded and sick civilians, the infirm and maternity cases, shall be respected and protected in the same manner as the hospitals provided for in Article 18, and shall be marked, with the consent of the State, by the display of the distinctive emblem provided for in Article 38 of the Geneva Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Wounded and Sick in Armed Forces in the Field of August 12, 1949.
This is not what anyone would call a "political" blog. This is for the co-worker who argued with me about how the US continues to violate laws that it helped draft and has enforced with violence in the past.
Fuck you. What is your excuse for being wrong this time?
-Zeepdoggie
11 August 2007
Seven Hundred Fifty-Six asterix
I watched some of Barry Bond’s press conference last night (I know I’m late, but, in my defense, I cannot stand baseball), and I could only think of two things:
Bud Selig, your douchebaggery has reached a new low. The man broke the home run record (or, if you believe all the allegations about steroid use, a half-man, half-horse hybrid) and you are the commissioner, and you were NOT in attendance? He was one away, you fucking tool; it’s not like he went on a seventeen-dinger streak that night. Selig continues to prove that the only thing he likes about baseball is the fan’s money. Regardless of what you think about Bonds, as the commissioner you should respect the sport and its history.
The second thing was, “Look a’ tha’ heed. It’s like Sputnik!”
Do you think Barry cried himself to sleep on his huuuge pilla that night?
-Zeepdoggie
Bud Selig, your douchebaggery has reached a new low. The man broke the home run record (or, if you believe all the allegations about steroid use, a half-man, half-horse hybrid) and you are the commissioner, and you were NOT in attendance? He was one away, you fucking tool; it’s not like he went on a seventeen-dinger streak that night. Selig continues to prove that the only thing he likes about baseball is the fan’s money. Regardless of what you think about Bonds, as the commissioner you should respect the sport and its history.
The second thing was, “Look a’ tha’ heed. It’s like Sputnik!”
Do you think Barry cried himself to sleep on his huuuge pilla that night?
-Zeepdoggie
05 July 2007
What Train?
Asshole and I went to the 3rd of July fireworks, a long-standing tradition of ours that stretches back to when we were in high school, around the time that Marco Polo first brought gunpowder back to the western world. Sometimes, that’s how old I feel.
The fireworks were okay; it’s not an election year, so Richard II doesn’t spend as much money (usually four times as much). But we met up with some friends of Asshole’s, one co-worker and her friend, who is from Israel and did serve in the IDF. That is much cooler than any fireworks I have seen in a long time! Any thug gangsta out there, from any shitty, destroyed neighborhood in any inner city rife with violence and corruption is a total, utter pussy to any grandma living in Israel, especially if she’s a Sabra.
The night progressed; we had some drinks in a local pub, the Wabash Tap, in order to get out of the rain and let the mass transit crowd thin out. Eventually it did, and we said goodbye to our new friends and hopped on the Green Line; Asshole wanted the company on the train and offered to give me a ride home. Fuckin’ fraidy cat…
The conductor we had was hilarious! Every stop, he would inform the passengers and those waiting on the platform that it was a “Green Line Train to Harlem and Lake,” a minimum of seven times. He had to do this for two reasons: the signs on the train were stuck, displaying everything from purple to green to yellow lines (speaking of which, if the CTA really wants to save money, it should just dump the Skokie Swift; like, ten people ride it; get on Metra!); the second reason was for idiot dipshits who can’t (or won’t) listen, much like the example I will now put forth. We pull into the State/Lake stop, and the driver starts his mantra, along with some nice little inclusions, like “Ignore what the signs say, this is a Green Line train; it is NOT a Purple or Yellow or Brown Line train. It is a Green Line train; not a Purple line train.” The doors are open for several minutes while he’s letting people know. While the doors to our car are open, and during the conductor’s monologue, this utterly stupid, white man has been staring at the train, at the signs, inside the doors, looking completely bewildered. After the third iteration on the conductor’s message has been broadcast, Dipshit (who is wearing a polo that is sold at Hell) asks us, “Is this a Purple Line train?” Asshole and I just start laughing; everyone else stares at this guy like stupid is contagious. The doors shut before I could say, “Sure is! Hop on!”
What is this paranormal power white people have when it comes to ignoring what could be considered “the help?” When I am greeting, some of the things I say to white customers goes completely unheeded: when I wish them tumors; when I observe that sucking cock does make one deaf (must be all the changes in internal head pressure or something); that fools will buy anything; and so on. But if I tried to slide one of these past someone who actually cleans their own home, I’d get my pee-pee spanked.
Will someone who is rich and white explain this to me? I f I were you, I’d pay attention to what the “little people” are saying. How many figurative (and literal) Bastille’s must be stormed before the rich learn to fear and respect those “below” them?
I love it when a blog gets away from me.
-Zeepdoggie
The fireworks were okay; it’s not an election year, so Richard II doesn’t spend as much money (usually four times as much). But we met up with some friends of Asshole’s, one co-worker and her friend, who is from Israel and did serve in the IDF. That is much cooler than any fireworks I have seen in a long time! Any thug gangsta out there, from any shitty, destroyed neighborhood in any inner city rife with violence and corruption is a total, utter pussy to any grandma living in Israel, especially if she’s a Sabra.
The night progressed; we had some drinks in a local pub, the Wabash Tap, in order to get out of the rain and let the mass transit crowd thin out. Eventually it did, and we said goodbye to our new friends and hopped on the Green Line; Asshole wanted the company on the train and offered to give me a ride home. Fuckin’ fraidy cat…
The conductor we had was hilarious! Every stop, he would inform the passengers and those waiting on the platform that it was a “Green Line Train to Harlem and Lake,” a minimum of seven times. He had to do this for two reasons: the signs on the train were stuck, displaying everything from purple to green to yellow lines (speaking of which, if the CTA really wants to save money, it should just dump the Skokie Swift; like, ten people ride it; get on Metra!); the second reason was for idiot dipshits who can’t (or won’t) listen, much like the example I will now put forth. We pull into the State/Lake stop, and the driver starts his mantra, along with some nice little inclusions, like “Ignore what the signs say, this is a Green Line train; it is NOT a Purple or Yellow or Brown Line train. It is a Green Line train; not a Purple line train.” The doors are open for several minutes while he’s letting people know. While the doors to our car are open, and during the conductor’s monologue, this utterly stupid, white man has been staring at the train, at the signs, inside the doors, looking completely bewildered. After the third iteration on the conductor’s message has been broadcast, Dipshit (who is wearing a polo that is sold at Hell) asks us, “Is this a Purple Line train?” Asshole and I just start laughing; everyone else stares at this guy like stupid is contagious. The doors shut before I could say, “Sure is! Hop on!”
What is this paranormal power white people have when it comes to ignoring what could be considered “the help?” When I am greeting, some of the things I say to white customers goes completely unheeded: when I wish them tumors; when I observe that sucking cock does make one deaf (must be all the changes in internal head pressure or something); that fools will buy anything; and so on. But if I tried to slide one of these past someone who actually cleans their own home, I’d get my pee-pee spanked.
Will someone who is rich and white explain this to me? I f I were you, I’d pay attention to what the “little people” are saying. How many figurative (and literal) Bastille’s must be stormed before the rich learn to fear and respect those “below” them?
I love it when a blog gets away from me.
-Zeepdoggie
21 June 2007
A Line in the Sand
Hello, World! How are you? I bet you’re awfully sexy, even the ladies under the burkhas! Hey, I’m an American (that’s pronounced ‘Mur-kin,’ right, W?) and if the hot dog proves anything, it’s that we in this nation love mystery meat; if ever there was an equivalent in women’s fashion, it’s the burkha!
The burkha is what brings me here tonight, or rather the region of our tiny little orb that’s in the hands (mostly) of the folks who enforce the burkha on their women: the Middle East.
The more I read about what’s going on over there, the more I am convinced of two things: we should never have gone in and should get the hell out and never, ever, EVER look back; and that I think it’s about time that we stopped looking at what is happening as a Middle East crisis and just start thinking about it as Middle East culture.
Historically, this is the region that birthed ‘civilization,’ so it stands to reason that it is also the region that has had nearly ceaseless warfare and violence. Seriously, I don’t know how the Tigris and Euphrates aren’t just red with blood by this point. The periods of peace in this particular region of the globe are measured in decades, when its presence in history is measured in millennia. This does not suggest a good ratio of hugs to choke holds.
I am not smart enough to offer a solution, but I am lazy enough to suggest a cop-out. Let’s think of the Middle East like Sparta, or even better, Barter-Town. Yeah! You can have Mahmoud Ahmadinejad as Auntie Entity, and Ali Khameni as Master Blaster. “Who run Barter Town?” Would that make the kids Mad Max finds in the desert Israel? Wow, but there is a lot of allegory to be found in “Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.”
Let's just leave, and figure out how to make fuel out of algae.
BTW, this is not the subject I had envisioned, and that I promptly forgot. That’s still lost in the incredibly dark, murky, sporadically active recesses of my memory. I just wanted to share this with you. Why? Cuz you, like me, believe furries to be EVIL.
-Zeepdoggie
The burkha is what brings me here tonight, or rather the region of our tiny little orb that’s in the hands (mostly) of the folks who enforce the burkha on their women: the Middle East.
The more I read about what’s going on over there, the more I am convinced of two things: we should never have gone in and should get the hell out and never, ever, EVER look back; and that I think it’s about time that we stopped looking at what is happening as a Middle East crisis and just start thinking about it as Middle East culture.
Historically, this is the region that birthed ‘civilization,’ so it stands to reason that it is also the region that has had nearly ceaseless warfare and violence. Seriously, I don’t know how the Tigris and Euphrates aren’t just red with blood by this point. The periods of peace in this particular region of the globe are measured in decades, when its presence in history is measured in millennia. This does not suggest a good ratio of hugs to choke holds.
I am not smart enough to offer a solution, but I am lazy enough to suggest a cop-out. Let’s think of the Middle East like Sparta, or even better, Barter-Town. Yeah! You can have Mahmoud Ahmadinejad as Auntie Entity, and Ali Khameni as Master Blaster. “Who run Barter Town?” Would that make the kids Mad Max finds in the desert Israel? Wow, but there is a lot of allegory to be found in “Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.”
Let's just leave, and figure out how to make fuel out of algae.
BTW, this is not the subject I had envisioned, and that I promptly forgot. That’s still lost in the incredibly dark, murky, sporadically active recesses of my memory. I just wanted to share this with you. Why? Cuz you, like me, believe furries to be EVIL.
-Zeepdoggie
11 January 2007
No Child Left Behind-The Football Version
1. All teams must make the state playoffs and all MUST win the championship. If a team does not win the championship, they will be on probation until they are the champions, and coaches will be held accountable.
If after two years they have not won the championship their footballs and equipment will be taken away UNTIL they do win the championship.
2. All kids will be expected to have the same football skills at the same time even if they do not have the same conditions or opportunities to practice on their own.
NO exceptions will be made for lack of interest in football, a desire to perform athletically, or genetic abilities or disabilities of themselves or their parents.
3. ALL KIDS WILL PLAY FOOTBALL AT A PROFICIENT LEVEL!
4. Talented players will be asked to workout on their own, without instruction. This is because the coaches will be using all their instructional time with the athletes who aren't interested in football, have limited athletic ability or whose parents don't like football.
5. Games will be played year round, but statistics will only be kept in the 4th, 8th, and 11th game.
6. It will create a New Age of Sports where every school is expected to have the same level of talent and all teams will reach the same minimum goals.
If no child gets ahead, then no child gets left behind.
7. If parents do not like this new law, they are encouraged to vote for vouchers and support private schools that can screen out the non-athletes and prevent their children from having to go to school with bad football players.
You know, if someone explained it like this to W., he might actually see the problems with NCLB.
-Zeepdoggie
If after two years they have not won the championship their footballs and equipment will be taken away UNTIL they do win the championship.
2. All kids will be expected to have the same football skills at the same time even if they do not have the same conditions or opportunities to practice on their own.
NO exceptions will be made for lack of interest in football, a desire to perform athletically, or genetic abilities or disabilities of themselves or their parents.
3. ALL KIDS WILL PLAY FOOTBALL AT A PROFICIENT LEVEL!
4. Talented players will be asked to workout on their own, without instruction. This is because the coaches will be using all their instructional time with the athletes who aren't interested in football, have limited athletic ability or whose parents don't like football.
5. Games will be played year round, but statistics will only be kept in the 4th, 8th, and 11th game.
6. It will create a New Age of Sports where every school is expected to have the same level of talent and all teams will reach the same minimum goals.
If no child gets ahead, then no child gets left behind.
7. If parents do not like this new law, they are encouraged to vote for vouchers and support private schools that can screen out the non-athletes and prevent their children from having to go to school with bad football players.
You know, if someone explained it like this to W., he might actually see the problems with NCLB.
-Zeepdoggie
14 November 2006
It's all their fault!
Zeepmomma is in the hospital. On Sunday she tried to get up from the couch, and her legs couldn’t support her. She couldn’t walk. So they took her to the ER, where they then took her to Elmhurst Hospital (yes, that is quite far from where she and Zeepdaddy live, but that’s where the doc is, so there is where she goes), where they have done an MRI and blood work and some motor tests to determine that they don’t know what the hell is wrong.
She had a stroke last year, so it might be that. But her blood work shows some kind of issue that might suggest diabetes. Still, in the hospital three days now and the all they can do is the MD equivalent of shuffling their feet and saying, “I dunno…”
She’s in high spirits, and her legs can move. She took some steps today with her physical therapist (put a space in there and “therapist” becomes “the rapist”…I just noticed that…English can be kinda funny, can’t it?), so there is good stuff coming along. We played a joke on my sister that I’ll share with you all later, which made her laugh. She said it was “the highlight of the year.”
I’m like a lot of folks out there. When I feel lazy and irresponsible, I blame my folks for my troubles. “If they did a better job raising me, then I would (or not) have done/said/been that way about…” You get the picture. But, if that’s the case, if we are going to give up responsibility of our decisions to our parents, then we should most definitely give a big, screaming, TRL-style shout-out for all the cool shit we did!
Thanks Mum & Dad, for:
o All that creative mischief I pulled in which almost no one got hurt (sorry again about the arm, Scotty-2-Hotty)!
o All those lovely ladies that I convinced I was good enough for sex! Actually, double thanks for that!
o Every time I did something smart! Both of them!
o For the insane work ethic, which I also curse you for!
o For teaching me that funny hurts!
Und so weiter!
So, that’s my thing. If you blame your folks, thank them too. Because, if they fucked you up so badly, then there’s no way you can take credit for all that cool shit you pulled, you suck-ass, namby-pamby, irresponsible jerk-off!
I’m out like the Kansas ass flash pants.
-Zeepdoggie
She had a stroke last year, so it might be that. But her blood work shows some kind of issue that might suggest diabetes. Still, in the hospital three days now and the all they can do is the MD equivalent of shuffling their feet and saying, “I dunno…”
She’s in high spirits, and her legs can move. She took some steps today with her physical therapist (put a space in there and “therapist” becomes “the rapist”…I just noticed that…English can be kinda funny, can’t it?), so there is good stuff coming along. We played a joke on my sister that I’ll share with you all later, which made her laugh. She said it was “the highlight of the year.”
I’m like a lot of folks out there. When I feel lazy and irresponsible, I blame my folks for my troubles. “If they did a better job raising me, then I would (or not) have done/said/been that way about…” You get the picture. But, if that’s the case, if we are going to give up responsibility of our decisions to our parents, then we should most definitely give a big, screaming, TRL-style shout-out for all the cool shit we did!
Thanks Mum & Dad, for:
o All that creative mischief I pulled in which almost no one got hurt (sorry again about the arm, Scotty-2-Hotty)!
o All those lovely ladies that I convinced I was good enough for sex! Actually, double thanks for that!
o Every time I did something smart! Both of them!
o For the insane work ethic, which I also curse you for!
o For teaching me that funny hurts!
Und so weiter!
So, that’s my thing. If you blame your folks, thank them too. Because, if they fucked you up so badly, then there’s no way you can take credit for all that cool shit you pulled, you suck-ass, namby-pamby, irresponsible jerk-off!
I’m out like the Kansas ass flash pants.
-Zeepdoggie
17 September 2006
Pope On a Rope
The Pope apologized. Pussy. What did he say anyway? He was QUOTING (that means that he didn’t make it up; somebody else said or wrote it first and he’s saying it sometime later) a dialogue between two men dead since the fourteenth century about how Islam is a violent religion. And the Muslim world’s response to the quote? Burn churches, write legislation to ban the Pope from various countries borders, and kill a nun in a hospital. Wow. At this point, I don’t know which quip to go with, so I will give you both. Pick the one you like best.
a)Way to support the quote, idiots.
b)Was that 14th century guy off-base with his argument!
I’m not a theologist, and I’m not unbiased either. But I don’t think I’m wrong when I say that, as a whole, Islam needs to just chill out a little. I’m a Christian, and I don’t flip out every time I see a piece of wood with a nail in it. Being raised Catholic, I get to hear all the wonderful jokes about priests and altar boys. Am I going out and killing the comedians making the jokes? No! If I don’t find it funny, I don’t laugh. If I don’t like it, I don’t need to listen.
Islamic leaders need to do two things: start promoting dialogue with other faiths and cultures and stop the silent acceptance of extremism.
No doubt I will receive a fatwah for this. See you in the pit, infidels!
-Zeepdoggie
a)Way to support the quote, idiots.
b)Was that 14th century guy off-base with his argument!
I’m not a theologist, and I’m not unbiased either. But I don’t think I’m wrong when I say that, as a whole, Islam needs to just chill out a little. I’m a Christian, and I don’t flip out every time I see a piece of wood with a nail in it. Being raised Catholic, I get to hear all the wonderful jokes about priests and altar boys. Am I going out and killing the comedians making the jokes? No! If I don’t find it funny, I don’t laugh. If I don’t like it, I don’t need to listen.
Islamic leaders need to do two things: start promoting dialogue with other faiths and cultures and stop the silent acceptance of extremism.
No doubt I will receive a fatwah for this. See you in the pit, infidels!
-Zeepdoggie
11 August 2006
An overreaction to the latest flying scare
The odds of dying from a heart attack are 1/400. Cancer killing you has a 1/600 chance. People still eat shitty foods and smoke cigarettes. If you took four flights a month and hijackers blew up a plane a week, the chances of you dying are 1/135,000. That’s if the 18,000 flights a day statistic stays constant, instead of increasing by the 8.2% growth rate that the flight industry has undergone since 1975. Facts and odds supplied by Google.
Have you heard about what you can’t bring on a flight anymore? Chap-Stick. Eye shadow. Water. Water? You can drink it if they serve it to you, but you can’t bring your own? I think once the airports see the marginal dip in profits from the vendors not selling $3 bottles of water that policy will change. Someone needs to give the security Nazis a chemistry lesson if they think that water is hazardous. Of course, 400,000 people die from drowning every year, so they might have a point. Maybe that’s what they’re doing; they’re saving you from drowning on your $3 bottle of water!
If you are flying from the US to England, the airlines won’t allow passengers to bring a book. Six hours on a plane, and you are forced to watch “The Shaggy Dog” or “Honey.” Continuously. You’ll watch one at least twice. In this country, we have laws against cruel and unusual punishment. And flouride in the water, but that's neither here nor there.
But hey, fuck literacy, right? Who wants to read books with all their facts and figures and research and entertainment? Let’s just rely on the media’s take on the world.
You can bring baby formula on board, but now that “the terrorists,” those guys and gals who “didn’t win,” know that, it’s only a matter of moments before they sneak the next explosive onto the plane in a baby bottle. At least, according to the media-fear machine. Then what? No breasts on planes, because of some woman ingesting just the right chemicals to turn her titties into flamethrowers? Why does that both frighten and excite me? I may die from a woman flambéing me with her death-breasts, but hey, I’ll get to see boobs…
Seriously, if there are no boobs on flights, I’ll swim to Europe, thank you very much.
Part of me really hopes this stops people from flying, like 9/11 was supposed to but didn’t. Never mind that it’s been the safest way to travel for the last thirty years, and that it can cross distances in hours that would take days by the second fastest mode of travel. I don’t want Americans to stop flying out of fear. I want them to stop flying because of the inconvenience; because they will say, “Enough already! When will you stop blowing the safety thing out of proportion and just let us decide if we should take that risk? I’m not flying until you let me be an adult and bring on the plane what I want to bring on the goddamned plane!” And it will probably work, being that Americans are all about convenience. Something becomes too inconvenient, we don’t fucking do it. Look at this little device. Or anything on this page.
So when does it end? When will this world we live in cease to be dangerous? Never, so stop waiting for it. Get over it, now. We are constantly at risk of death. I admit that dying scares the shit out of me; it’s totally irrational, but there it is. Yet I still go outside and live my life, being fully aware that at any minute my life can end from a bad driver, crazed postal worker, or a meteor streaking from space. Odds of that are near a trillion to one, so why isn't the media hyping that up?
Note:
Kudos to the USPS for its change in personnel policy. When was the last time you heard of a postal worker going bananas and killing his/her coworkers? Whatever they did, it worked. Much to the newsmedia's chagrin, I'm sure.
-Zeepdoggie
Have you heard about what you can’t bring on a flight anymore? Chap-Stick. Eye shadow. Water. Water? You can drink it if they serve it to you, but you can’t bring your own? I think once the airports see the marginal dip in profits from the vendors not selling $3 bottles of water that policy will change. Someone needs to give the security Nazis a chemistry lesson if they think that water is hazardous. Of course, 400,000 people die from drowning every year, so they might have a point. Maybe that’s what they’re doing; they’re saving you from drowning on your $3 bottle of water!
If you are flying from the US to England, the airlines won’t allow passengers to bring a book. Six hours on a plane, and you are forced to watch “The Shaggy Dog” or “Honey.” Continuously. You’ll watch one at least twice. In this country, we have laws against cruel and unusual punishment. And flouride in the water, but that's neither here nor there.
But hey, fuck literacy, right? Who wants to read books with all their facts and figures and research and entertainment? Let’s just rely on the media’s take on the world.
You can bring baby formula on board, but now that “the terrorists,” those guys and gals who “didn’t win,” know that, it’s only a matter of moments before they sneak the next explosive onto the plane in a baby bottle. At least, according to the media-fear machine. Then what? No breasts on planes, because of some woman ingesting just the right chemicals to turn her titties into flamethrowers? Why does that both frighten and excite me? I may die from a woman flambéing me with her death-breasts, but hey, I’ll get to see boobs…
Seriously, if there are no boobs on flights, I’ll swim to Europe, thank you very much.
Part of me really hopes this stops people from flying, like 9/11 was supposed to but didn’t. Never mind that it’s been the safest way to travel for the last thirty years, and that it can cross distances in hours that would take days by the second fastest mode of travel. I don’t want Americans to stop flying out of fear. I want them to stop flying because of the inconvenience; because they will say, “Enough already! When will you stop blowing the safety thing out of proportion and just let us decide if we should take that risk? I’m not flying until you let me be an adult and bring on the plane what I want to bring on the goddamned plane!” And it will probably work, being that Americans are all about convenience. Something becomes too inconvenient, we don’t fucking do it. Look at this little device. Or anything on this page.
So when does it end? When will this world we live in cease to be dangerous? Never, so stop waiting for it. Get over it, now. We are constantly at risk of death. I admit that dying scares the shit out of me; it’s totally irrational, but there it is. Yet I still go outside and live my life, being fully aware that at any minute my life can end from a bad driver, crazed postal worker, or a meteor streaking from space. Odds of that are near a trillion to one, so why isn't the media hyping that up?
Note:
Kudos to the USPS for its change in personnel policy. When was the last time you heard of a postal worker going bananas and killing his/her coworkers? Whatever they did, it worked. Much to the newsmedia's chagrin, I'm sure.
-Zeepdoggie
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