I'm From the Government and I'm Here to Help

The government will take care of us in every aspect of our lives. All we have to do is give it more power (and money). Don't believe me? See for yourself. Success, everywhere you look.

The war on drugs has been fought and won. Nobody produces, sells or ingests illegal drugs in this country.

The creation of the U.S. Department of Education in the 1970's has resulted in American students leading the world in math, the sciences, the arts and every other sector worth leading.

Our borders are so secure, no one even dares to attempt a crossing without permission. Punishment would be swift and severe.

All the regulations and laws pertaining to firearms have taken weapons out of the hands of those who would use them to commit violent crimes. It's a good thing, too, because without these gun laws, our cities would be overrun with gangsters, big and small.

I just love sending my money to the IRS every year. Also, to my state franchise tax board. Why? Well, shit, if you have to ask, then you wouldn't understand. But, I'll tell you anyway. Every penny I contribute (completely voluntarily) is used with the utmost care to cover the debts of this country and to finance the completely necessary and not at all wasteful or redundant programs we all enjoy.

Can we talk about Social Security? That is one amazingly well-run program.  It's genius, I tell you. OF COURSE you can't be trusted to invest and save your own money for your golden years. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? Give it to the government, and don't ask any questions. THEY WILL TAKE CARE OF IT FOR YOU. Ok?

The growing problem of the online trafficking of intellectual property and counterfeit goods has one solution and one solution only. More government intervention. SOPA and PIPA. Make it happen, and online piracy will be a thing of the past. This new legislation will be 100% effective, with no chance whatsoever of it being used to abuse power.




Tomorrow, we will discuss how the Berlin Wall kept evil Western elements from corrupting the desire of the East German people to live under a socialist dictatorship.

Class dismissed.

What Will They Think of Next?

You are just too much! Your license plate frame is easily the most clever thing I have seen in, oh, I don't know how long.

"My Next Car is a Mercedes"

On a clunker! I tell you, I'll be thinking of that all day, laughing, shaking my head, glancing up at the heavens, slapping my knee, doubling over while clutching my belly.

And when people say to me, "What's so funny?" I'll have to respond with, "Oh, you wouldn't understand."


You just had to be there. You know?

Say My Name, Say My Name

The government loves us. The government does what's best for us. And the government knows better than we do how to handle the details of our lives. Right?

I don't know what kind conversation your parents throw about as you're hanging out on the couch, trying to watch tv or whatever, but at my house, they've always liked to tell stories about living under the soviet regime. Here's my version of one that I remember. Grab a hot chocolate, put your feet up and have a listen.

Apparently, after the soviets appropriated all homes, they set about distributing living space to their citizens. Now, if you were more equal than the others, your family received an apartment all to yourselves. However, if you were not quite as equal, your family was apportioned a part of an apartment. So, it was the norm to have several families in one apartment, each living in one of the rooms. Furthermore, it was quite common, living in such close quarters, for inappropriate romantic/sexual relationships to develop between members of different families. Of course, the affairs would be found out, and the cheating spouse would summarily be "kicked out" and move their belongings in with the new romantic interest.

And everyone would continue to share the same apartment. Because moving to a new place was not an option. You lived in the place that was assigned to you.

Moral of the story. Be careful how much power you give your government. You may be stuck in a room late one night, unable to fall asleep due to the headboard banging the wall in the adjoining room, unable to drown out the sound of another woman screaming out your husband's name.

Ohhh Yeah, Baby

Really?

I'll say this for you. You've got chutzpah.  Either that or you're incredibly clueless and should have your breeding rights curtailed immediately.

All I wanted to do was take the dogs out for a few minutes and let them take care of business, then hurry home and eat something. See, I've been working a lot lately and reaching the point of exhaustion, so I let myself sleep in a little.  I got up so late, I didn't have time for a real meal before my tap class. Then I shuffle ball changed, flapped and time stepped my little heart out for a couple of hours. And now I'm sweaty and starving. But, when the dogs gotta go, they gotta go, so here I am.

I don't even know why I'm explaining myself. There is no possible way for you to hear me.

Because there you are, sitting in your stupid tricked-out SUV, blasting something that out here sounds like the bombing of Sarajevo. And my dogs are so freaked out by your seismic booms that their little anuses have clenched up. You know what that means? As soon as we get home and they feel safe again, they will unleash their malodorous gems all over my carpet.

I have no problem giving you the stinkeye. Only, every time I look at you, you hit me with what you clearly consider your most irresistible sexy face.

Yeah.

Rest assured, the only thing you arouse in me is my fight or flight response. And maybe the need to lie down, because your assault on my eardrums has given rise to a budding migraine.

Thanks a lot, dumbass.

Sign O' The Times

I like to have background noise pretty much all the time. Even when I practice. My mom never got over my habit of having a sitcom or such playing on TV while I was working on a Bach partita or a Beethoven sonata.

"How can you concentrate with all this racket going on?"

I didn't know what how to answer her because I couldn't figure it out myself. Recently, I read that people with ADD generally do this sort of thing. Do I have ADD? Who the hell knows? And what does it matter?

All this preamble to explain why I was searching for old sitcoms on Hulu. Found one from the 80's and got excited because I love Tony Danza. So, here's the premier episode of a show that wouldn't have even been considered in today's social climate. Take a wild guess as to why.



Society suffers, and we become less than we could have been, when half of the population is considered potentially guilty simply for the fact that they possess XY chromosomes.

A sad and thought-provoking post at Free Range Kids.

I Touch Myself

 And now, so does every officious, glassy-eyed, self-important moron standing between me and my airplane ride.



Wait. What's that? All I have to do is say that I am Muslim and object to it on religious grounds, and my privacy rights will be respected? Done and done! I wonder if I can find a hijab for cheap on ebay. Added bonus? Thirty minutes of hair drying/styling time saved.

As the United States government continues its assault on the good people of this country, I wonder if I should buy stock in disposable speculums.  It's only a matter of time until someone smuggles explosives inside their lady parts and we will all need to be, ahem, examined before we can move about the country. You know, for the safety of everyone.

Here's a crazy idea. I know, I know it will never work, but, what the hell it's worth a try. Just hear me out.

What if we, you know, take a look around the world and find a country that actually has airport security policies that work?




The We Won't Fly Plan for Defeating TSA Porno-Scanners and Airport Rent-a-Gropers from George Donnelly on Vimeo.


http://wewontfly.com/

We Shall Overcome

Yes, I am an artist. Just like you.

And I think that's where our similarities end.

No, I don't agree with your Marxist world view.  Nor do I believe that "the man" is my enemy.

And yet, here you are, assuming that I will nod enthusiastically while you spout your moronic nonsense.

So, you don't like rich people?  Who do you think is in a position to support the arts, you numbskull?

Surely, it's not your neighbor with 3 kids from 3 different baby-daddies, now living in a run-down apartment with her current man of the month.  You know, the one who makes minimum wage at a low-skill job and with supplemental help from the government (aka tax payers, aka people like myself), barely makes it to the end of the month before her bank account totals $10? The one whose TV spends more quality time with her kids than she does?

Do I really need to point this out to you?

It's those with discretionary income who attend plays and concerts, pay for music and dance lessons for their children, donate money to visual and performing arts programs, who invest in works of art.

And now you're going to patiently explain  how government arts programs help controversial/visionary/new/struggling artists get a foothold. I don't know. Should I even attempt to look like I'm listening to your tired rhetoric? Which you think is completely new to me, and will convince me of the error of my thinking?

You live in a dream world, my dumbass friend. When the government pays for your art, committees of people get to tell you what is acceptable. In other words, they can censor you if your output does not fall in line with their agenda.

But, I have a feeling you're not averse to censorship. As long as the "right" things are censored.

Carry on, then.

Just one last tip. Gluing random objects onto canvas isn't revolutionary.

http://www.machinepolitick.com/?cat=169

"I Have Stood Up For Jobs"

Blumenthal, you are a braying donkey. And a lying one, at that. How dare you put yourself forward as someone we might even remotely consider as qualified to serve in a position of power.



Linda McMahon, I bow at your feet. You can school me anytime.

I Must Be Lacking Compassion

Midnight grocery runs capture economic desperation

I'm guessing the writers of this article intended to tug on the heartstrings. After all, how can anyone not feel sorry for these poor victims of the economy. These simple, down-trodden, salt of the earth types, who must scrimp and starve until the first of the month.  At which time, they go hog wild, piling up mountains of food, toilet paper and laundry detergent (name brand, of course). Courtesy of you and me, John and Jane Q. Dumbass-Taxpayer.

I guess I might feel a twinge of empathy, if it weren't for the bitter taste of bile rising up in my throat. 

A few questions, if I may.

Why must all the provisions for the entire month be bought at the stroke of midnight, on the first day of the month?  Are these people incapable of budgeting the money we give them, so that they have a steady amount available from one week to the next?  Maybe there is some hidden provision, of which I am unaware, that welfare money not immediately consumed, will be withdrawn from the recipients' bank accounts. Yeah. Somehow I doubt that.

Why do they bring 5, 6 children into the world, and then bemoan the fact that they can't provide for them? Was it a surprise to them that children place a financial burden on parents?  Maybe their desire to replicate themselves (5 or 6 times!) comes before my right to hold on to the money I work for. So, while I'm busy paying for them to enjoy parenthood, I myself can not partake, because I don't know that I can afford the expense of feeding, housing, educating and entertaining children of my own.

And just one final query. Since one in seven Americans lives in poverty, and more than 41 million are on food stamps, up from 35 million last year, how long before there aren't enough of us "wealthy" people to sustain all the freeloaders?

Ok, I lied. I've got one more. How much ammunition do I need to stockpile in order to survive the upcoming revolution?

See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil

Yes, I am standing here, two feet away from you. Yes, I am looking directly at you, a shopping basket in one hand,  and a prominently displayed advertisement from your store in the other.

And yet, the two of you continue your conversation, conveniently keeping your eyes from roving anywhere near my vicinity. If you don't see me, you can't be blamed for not offering to help me, right?

Come on, throw me a bone. Maybe a "Hi, we'll be right with you." That's really all I need, just a slight acknowledgment of my existence in your world. No? Ok, you can leave out the "Hi", I'll do just fine with the rest of it. Still no deal, eh? No, you're right, I can wait. Given that I am at your mercy, as I've already exhausted my own resources for finding these products, I guess I can't be too picky.

Am I allowed to at least point out that one of us isn't getting paid to stand here?

Wait, what's this? A turn of the body in my direction?

Oh, you. You're good. Because, just when I think that my time has finally come, you keep your eyes firmly glued to the floor and ease on by. My admiration of your creative interpretation of the word "work" multiplies tenfold, as I watch you contort your torso in order to avoid running into me.

Really?

Whatever, I'm not letting this opportunity slip through my fingers.

"Excuse me, can you just point me in the direction of where these products are located?"

Well, shit. When will I learn to choose my words carefully?

"Yeah, see that shelf at the end of the store? The one behind the displays? Over there." You point at some mythical spot on the horizon. And in a flash, you're gone.

I don't know. I'm thinking that since you work here and know the layout of the place, it might have been a bit more helpful had you walked me over and then pointed at the shelf in question.

So, anyway, I just want to take this opportunity to let you know that I have learned my lesson and I humbly apologize. I won't be back to interfere with the flow of your day ever again, I promise.

And, you keep this up, maybe most of your customers will finally get the message and stop bothering you with their pesky business. Then you can stand around and talk all you want.

Only thing is, you might be doing it under a sign that says "Going Out of Business Sale".

Some People Claim That There's A Woman To Blame

"I told her I don't have papers to work here and need her help," the worker said at a press conference in attorney Gloria Allred's office. Whitman's husband "was very angry and said, 'I told you, I told you she was going to bring us problems.' Ms. Whitman turned to him and said, 'Calm down, calm down.' "
She said Whitman's husband "yelled" at her. "I was crying for fear and intimidation. With a face full of tears, I told them, 'I believe in people. And I believe people deserve a chance. I also told them I don't wish them any harm. I just wanted their help."

Man, that Meg Whitman is one cold, heartless chick. Someone begs her for help and she turns the other way? With all her money and connections?

Wait, what? This wasn't a random, downtrodden person looking for some assistance?

You mean to tell me that after 9 years of consistently lying to her employer, after submitting documents, including a Social Security card (now clearly known not to be legitimate) and a drivers license, she decides to come clean and then expects to be enveloped in the warm, welcoming embrace of instant acceptance?

That seems a bit much to swallow. But, ok, we all make mistakes, and she must have been in a really tough spot to have left her previous life and illegally entered another country.

I'm just wondering how she could possibly expect a woman who is now running for a major political office to knowingly break the law.

And I think this part needs repeating. She lied to Whitman for 9 years. Day after day, month after month, year after year.

So she outs herself and doesn't get the reaction she was hoping for.  What does she do? Thank her lucky stars that she had 9 years of steady employment, at a pay rate ($23 per hour) practically unheard of for domestic workers and walk quietly away, knowing that she is by definition a criminal?

Come on, don't be naive. This is California, land of the absurd.

She hires a celebrity lawyer. Yup.

Good old Gloria Allred. This Gloria Allred:


Stated on her KABC radio show her belief that single women on welfare should be given taxpayer-funded fertility treatment if they are unable to conceive.

After she brought her sex-discrimination suit against The Boy Scouts, Ms. Allred was asked if she would represent a man suing the WNBA, LPGA or a woman's college. Her response was, "That's a good question. I don't have an answer for you."

So, I guess now that we can't have people running for office based on their qualifications and stated stances on issues, we're going to throw just any mess on the wall and see what sticks. Got it.

"This is a shameful example of the politics of personal destruction practiced by people like Jerry Brown and Gloria Allred.  The charges are without merit."

Finally, Meg. At long last, I can agree with something you've said.

Count me in for November. No joke.

Asinine Quote of the Day

Really?

Despite the question mark at the end of your cleverly convoluted sentence, I'm pretty sure you're not asking anything.  But, that's ok. I'll play along.

We kill people who kill people because they have murdered innocents. That is, they intentionally, and with malice, took another person's life, often under heinous circumstances. So, not only have they appointed themselves as judge and executioner over another person's right to live, but they have also permanently and destructively altered the lives of the parents, siblings, children, spouses, extended families and friends of their victims.  Not to mention the impact on society of a person prematurely taken out of the order of things.

Do you want known murderers moving about freely in your neighborhood?

But we can just put them in jail for the rest of their lives, right?  Because we are compassionate, and capital punishment is "cruel and unusual". 

You want to see cruel and unusual, and UNDESERVED punishment? Current overachievers on California's death row, who had no compassion for their victims:

Lawrence Bittaker was convicted in the savage 1979 slayings of five teenage girls, who were plucked off South Bay streets and raped and tortured. 


Ricky Madison was convicted of stabbing his mistress 172 times in Hawthorne in 2006. 


Randy Eugene Garcia was convicted of breaking into a Torrance house in 1993, tying up a woman, shooting her and attempting to rape her, and killing her husband, Joseph Finzel, when he came home. Their baby slept in a bassinet next to her mother during the crime. 

 
Well, as long murderers are behind bars, they can't harm us.

Right. Because they never escape. Or are paroled by morons who know they will not be held accountable for future crimes committed by the parolees. Or mastermind murders while they are incarcerated.

When California executed Clarence Ray Allen, 76, it wasn't for the 1974 murder he'd arranged, but the 1980 triple killing he instigated from behind bars.

Oh.

But, you go ahead and put that idiotic bumper sticker on your car, right next to the one that tells me you "Coexist", whatever the fuck that means. And go on about your life feeling morally superior because you're obviously more spiritually evolved than I.

I have a question, too. A question for you. Not as witty as yours, I'll admit. But I'll pose it anyway.

Have you ever had to contend with any tragic injustice in your life?

And no, losing a parking spot to an inconsiderate driver doesn't count.

Dimwit.

Ah! Sweet Mystery of Life

 

Yes, yes, yes, yes, a thousand times, YES!

The dirty, self-righteous crooks who thought it was perfectly justifiable to hold secret elections, get paid for work they did not do, give themselves ridiculously inflated raises and just flat out steal from taxpayers were arrested today.

It looks like the reckoning train is ready to roll. All aboaaaaard. 

Next stop, Sacramento?

Things That Make You Go WTF?

 

Good news! The United States is now the world leader in education. We are at the top in math, science, language skills and reading. Also, our students are the most physically fit of all children in industrialized nations.  

That's why we can take time out of their school days for field trips to mosques, churches and other places of religious worship.

What's that? Public schools are not the proper place to teach religion? Taxpayer money shouldn't be spent on such things, given our nation's policy of separating religion from government?

Well, yes, you might have a point there. But, come on, our national, state and local budgets are practically drowning in surplus dollars. What's the harm?  So, our teachers take a few days off from teaching and just enjoy hanging out with their students.  And we pay them for their time. So what? Live and let live, I say.

As long as the parents are fully informed and give consent, and the community that pays for this education is in agreement, who are we to say that anything untoward is happening?

Hey, wait a minute. I'm starting to wonder about you.  You're not one of those Islamophobes I've been hearing about, are you?

www.peaceandtolerance.org

Cover Your Eyes!

This woman does not want you to look at her. Did you get that?  And she most definitely does not want you to show any sort of appreciation for her body. None. Stop looking. Hey! What did I just tell you?




OK, that's it. Now you've done it. You will be reported to the proper authorities and will have to sit through endless sensitivity training courses. Hey, don't say I didn't warn you.


Just thank your lucky stars that mandatory castration of all heterosexual males hasn't been written into law yet.

You Are a Dumbass

"Mano a mano" does not mean "man to man". Please do a bit of self-educating before you go butchering a foreign language.

I suppose next you'll be using the term "manual" to describe something pertaining to man.

Dumbass.

Ex-Muslim is the New Gay

Stay in the closet if you don't want to bring shame and violence upon yourself and the ones you love.

The always interesting and thoughtful (also supremely yummy to look at) Christina Rad:




http://www.councilofexmuslims.com/index.php?action=forum

We're Being Punk'd, Y'all

He makes some good points, and I certainly can't argue against the need to stand up for innocent victims. But, burning some paper with ink scribblings on it? Seems a little weak, don't you think?

What's next, a beatdown by way of Yo Mama is So Moslem jokes?

Maybe it's the cynic in me, but I'm thinking that Nancy Pelosi and her ilk are behind this stunt. 

What better way to discredit and push back the wave of dissent rising up against this idiotic administration, than to make us look like a bunch of neanderthals whose pinnacle of strategic thinking involves making fire?

Meanwhile, Back at the Farm

While Hillary Clinton is busy earning brown-nose points,  real human rights violations continue, and the world looks the other way.




Oops, I just realized that I may be engaging in Islamophobia.  Man, we really must be vigilant, because this kind of prejudiced thinking can just creep up on us, and next thing we know, we are intolerant of other cultures and religions.

Yeah...

While we're on the topic of religion, I'm no great fan of any of them.

But, you morons who insist that all beliefs need to be equally respected, I have a question for you. When was the last time you heard of a Christian or Jew being murdered for "dishonoring" her family?

I Need to Worry This Bone Just a Bit More

Poor Jorge. If his single mom doesn't get her janitorial job back, he will need to forgo college and get a job.

I guess it would be completely out of the realm of reason to wonder why he couldn't go to college while holding down (at least) a part time job. I did it. Many successful people I know, did it. I didn't realize until now what a hero I was. Or maybe the community college he was planning on attending rivals MIT in its rigorous curriculum.

Upon further reflection, I guess I can see it from his perspective. That pesky job would waste the precious off-school hours he could be devoting to marching in protests, attending rallies, and meeting with other dimwits to yell about taking power back from "the man". Or, just, you know, hanging out.

Taking It To The Streets

First of all, a three day fast is not a hunger strike. It's a quick weight loss technique.

Secondly, let's suspend all critical thought for a moment and say that you have a good point. Do you think that intentionally closing the already stuffed-to-the-gills streets of Los Angeles, and adding hours to the abysmal commute most people endure, is going to win you support from anyone who doesn't already share your dimwitted world view?

Dumbass.

P.S. Apparently the streets no longer belong to the public. They have been annexed by the bufoons we hire to run our municipalities. Most notably, this jack-off.

Random Musing of the Day

Every time I turn around, I'm face to face with another factoid about the legendary canine sense of smell. Apparently, it's beyond the capacity of humans to comprehend the strength, depth and sheer awesomeness of the dog's nose.

Fine.

Then, how come my dogs have to get within a hair's breadth of a massive piece of refuse recently dropped off by another of their species and lovingly sniff it from every conceivable angle, when I cringe at its malodorous cloud assaulting my senses from 17 feet away?

Come On, America!

Don't Turn Around, Uh Oh!

That Nancy Pelosi! You sure have to give the old girl her props.

She's not content just coasting by, limiting her actions to the duties of the job for which she was elected. She wants to do more. Oh, so much more. She wants to investigate me. And you, if you happen to oppose placing a mosque in lower Manhattan.

Let's just put aside for a moment that silly little sentence we like to call The First Amendment found on the wrinkly, old and terribly outdated United States Constitution.

How does she propose to get the information she is after, and what will she then do with it?  I have an inkling she hasn't thought that far ahead. Judging from the following remark, Nancy isn't exactly what you'd call a mental giant:

"I think everybody respects the right of everyone in the country to express their religious beliefs."

I suppose it's possible that I could be wrong. She actually might have gone to everybody in the country and asked them if they respect the right of everyone to express their religious beliefs. 

Only thing is, I don't remember her asking me. In fact, I'm quite certain that she didn't, because I would have told her something a little different. Something more like this:

I am under no obligation to respect your idiotic expression of the irrational, backward, repressive totalitarianism you call your religion. And, by the way, if you are offended that I don't share your euphoria over the thought of cutting out your daughter's clitoris, I don't give a flying shit. Enough is enough.

OK, where was I? Oh yes, the center of worship that simply must be built within a stone's throw of the location of the massacre of thousands by a group of true believers. Surely, I'm not alone in wondering who will be footing the bill for this proposed cultural oasis.

Calls to investigate the funding for those proposing the $100 million "Cordoba House" have fallen on deaf ears, though, as New York's Mayor Mike Bloomberg has described such an investigation as "un-American."

My head is about to explode. Literally.

What the hell, now that it's obviously the inmates who are running the asylum, let's just open up the floodgates and let them all come tumbling out into the light of day.  "Religious leaders" prostrating themselves at the feet of the religion of peace.

"I'm afraid that politicians have gotten hold of this and are using it to pander to extreme voices that are really Islamophobic. The real issues get lost in the battle. I think theologically, there is nothing inside of Christianity that would indicate that we are to treat people of other religions with anything but the utmost respect and friendship."

So, now I'm an extreme voice with an irrational fear of Islam? I don't know. I happen to think that my fear is highly rational. Sorry, lady, your big words don't shame me into cowering silence. I'm a brazen hussy who doesn't share your compulsion to be liked at any cost.

Something tells me that if our government finally succeeds in its quest for ultimate control of our lives, voices like this will be the first to be silenced:



Come on, people. It doesn't have to go like this. We can take things in a new direction. Who's with me?

Dear Old Golden Rule Days

Many Los Angeles Unified School District students were compelled to start school in the dead of summer.

I'm sure there was a good reason. Let's take a look:

 

Got it.

The students are taught so well that we need to make sure we capture their test scores before they forget everything. In a matter of a couple of weeks off from school. This makes total sense. The best way to judge learning is through performance on tests. OK, I'm convinced.

Wait, what?

It seems that we have a dissenting opinion. Probably some radical outsider trying to stir up trouble against the teachers.

From the L.A. Times:

"You're leading people in a dangerous direction, making it seem like you can judge the quality of a teacher by … a test," said A.J. Duffy, president of United Teachers Los Angeles, which has more than 40,000 members.

Oh.

Only the Good Die Young

Since my days as a young mustard seed, the horror stories of my parents' lives in a former Soviet republic have been the drab and dreary backdrop of my unbelievably fortunate life. To live in a country where I can speak freely, travel as I please, take advantage of the myriad opportunities available to me and know that my civil liberties are protected by my government, this I have never taken for granted.

Amerika, it was good to know you, at least for a little while.

"The destruction of words is a beautiful thing."

OK, so maybe we aren't whisked away in the dark of night for saying the wrong things.

Yet.

But I find myself increasingly censoring my speech, especially around work colleagues. You thought I write under this ridiculous name because it's cute? Come on.

Making my living as an artist, I am often outnumbered by the more enlightened among us, who so clearly see this country's evil ways and have brilliant, sure to succeed and completely original ideas about how to make things right.

Well, maybe not so original. I think Marx may have had a slight inkling just a few years ahead of them.

But, who cares? What's important is that every country that's been ruled by these principles has been a beacon of hope for the world. Take, umm ... hold on a sec, I'm sure I can come up with an example ...

Well, now that I think of it, socialism has led to nothing but tyranny and misery for untold millions.

Oh, but we'll do it right! If we just elect enough liars, sorry,  progressives, to take money from the rich and big business, and parcel it out to the honest, hardworking little guy, we will be the people who finally manage to achieve utopia!

Yeah. Ok.

So, you want the government to be the arbiter of what's a fair redistribution of goods and services?

Cuba's not very far. Plus it's got gorgeous beaches. Why don't you move there for a spell and sign up as a citizen. You can always move back if you change your mind.

Oh, wait. Maybe you can't.

OK, I know, I'm being ridiculous. Why go all the way to another country when you can just fuck this one up? It's easier, involves far less packing and you can still watch your favorite daytime television programming.

Thanks to my mom and dad, I have an insider's view of what happens when the government becomes the  benevolent provider.

State run hospitals lacking basics, like blankets, medicine, rooms for the sick and injured. Or nurses who bother to empty filthy bedpans you've been laying on for hours. They don't have the resources. Well, not unless you have the dough. As soon as you grease some palms, you are transformed into a guest of honor, and all the necessities, as well as a few luxuries, miraculously appear.

Standing in line for hours at a time, only to get to the front and be greeted by a surly clerk guarding  shelves full of nothing. There's no more 50 kopek government bread. But, if you have a few rubles, he may find a loaf or two in the back.

Come on, that sort of thing can't happen here. We are the land of the free, the home of the brave.

Really? Is it possible that you can be so mind-numbingly naive?

Alabama, August, 2010, from AJC:

A crowd of people hoping to get federal housing assistance became unruly Wednesday morning with reports of fights breaking out in the crowd.

Thousands of people were lined up at the Tri-Cities shopping center, hoping to apply for a voucher from the East Point Housing Authority that will give them a discount on their rent.

People began lining up at the shopping center two days ago, and by Wednesday morning the crowd had grown to over several thousand people. East Point police, some wearing riot helmets, were patrolling the area. Firefighters and EMTs were attending to people who were overheating in the sun. Police from College Park, Hapeville, Fulton County and MARTA assisted in crowd control.

Felecia McGhee told the AJC she arrived around 6:30 a.m. Wednesday. She said the major problem began when people started breaking into the line and officials started moving the areas where they were handing out applications. She said she saw at least two small children trampled when the crowd rushed the building where the applications were to be handed out.

"It's a real mess out here," she said.

You said it, sister.

Eureka!

I've been eating well. I do my 3 sets of 12 reps every other day. Two different exercises for each muscle group. Upper body and lower. Still, I'm not quite there yet.

You, on the other hand, have got it going on! Yes, I notice you working out along side me at the gym. Well, maybe "notice" is too strong a word ...

Ok, to be perfectly honest, I've actually been trying to avoid you. But you certainly don't make it easy. Wherever I go, there you are, elbowing your way into my consciousness.

So, choosing to make lemonade out of your smelly lemons, I've taken the liberty of compiling a to-do list. Here's what I have so far. I think it's pretty comprehensive.

5 Steps To Getting Ripped, Hot and Utterly Irresistable

1.  Wear sleeveless shirt to properly showcase tribal tattoo. (note to self: get tribal tattoo)

2.  After every set, look in the mirror and flex while doing a small, yet noticeable, head nod in approval of what you see.

3.  Grunt often. If that doesn't draw enough attention, throw in an "aaaarrrrggh" every once in a while. Remember to grimace. A lot. Adds a sense of realism and believability. And heightened drama.

4.  At the end of a set, let the weights drop quickly and with as much ear-shattering clatter as possible. Extra muscle striations if everyone within a 50 foot radius winces.

5.  Never use a towel between yourself and the machine. The pool of sweat you leave behind? Don't even consider wiping it off. It will serve to cool those who use the machine after you. You gotta give something back to the community, right?

And there you have it, in all its elegant simplicity. Will I follow the method that has produced your spectacular results?

Hell. Yes. I'll see you at the gym tomorrow.

And when our eyes briefly meet as we each lovingly appraise our own wondrous reflections, you will recognize my silent greeting, "Thanks, obnoxious muscle-y guy. I couldn't have done it without you."

Boobies

Apparently the Victoria's Secret runway is a hotbed of intellectual discourse.

To the untrained eye, the ladies merely sashay to and fro, flipping their glorious manes of hair and generally looking jaw-droppingly hot. But,  a careful scrutiny behind the facade reveals the truth -  they are the fortunate recipients of a well-rounded and thorough education, with heavy emphasis on philosophy, science and the law.

Now, to demonstrate the fruits of her training, VSU alumna, Gisele Bundchen:
 
"I think there should be a worldwide law, in my opinion, that mothers should breastfeed their babies for six months." 

And you thought she was just a pretty face. You fools.

Curiouser and Curiouser

If there was any whiff of lingering hope, this puts the nail in that coffin.

Meg Whitman came on the scene like the no-nonsense outsider, here to put the business of California back on track. And she was so serious about it that she spent $71 million out of her own pocket to get our attention. Can you even wrap your mind around that figure? I know I can't. It's a crazy huge number that's as incomprehensible as the distance (17,000 light years) between us and a newly discovered world.

I voted for her in the primaries. Why? Because I trusted that she would be good for California? Because she made a lot of money in business and it would naturally follow that she would turn this state's dismal financial situation around? Not even close.  It was simply a choice between Meg, who cared so much about this country that she couldn't be bothered to vote (maybe she was too busy, yeah that's it. For almost 30 years. Ok.) and freaking Governor Moonbeam.

OK, so I thought that no matter what, anyone was better than Jerry Brown. He's already shown us what he can do, and, frankly, I don't think our state will survive another Brown term. The least damaging thing that could happen with him in power is for us to concede parts of our land to foreign crime syndicates. You ask me, Arizona got off easy. They just had to give up some desert land no one wants to hang out in.  California has already all but handed over our schools, prisons and hospitals. It's just a matter of time before San Francisco becomes off limits to anyone who isn't a piece-carrying criminal.

So now, Meg Whitman is running two simultaneous (and contradictory) campaigns.



And we the people are stuck with two losers, one of whom will be the "winner" we will have to live with for the next 4 years.

I just have to wonder. Who owns California? And how long before the taxpayers realize that we are the slaves that were included in the purchase?

You Still Love Me, Right?

The victory belongs to us. It belongs to us.

There are a few other things that belong to us, too.  Unfortunately, we didn't really want to be the owners of an expensive and destructive medical insurance overhaul. Or an economy that has us hurtling toward third-world status in the next couple of generations. And we could probably do without a federal government that is hell bent on erasing the physical and cultural boundaries that formerly defined our country.

Maybe after taking the keys to the oval office, you realized a few things.  Like, that blaming it on "that other guy" would only take you so far, and that a year and a half into this thing, you need to shoulder some of the responsibility for the way things are going.  Looks like now you're "that guy", and someday soon, the accusing finger will be pointed straight at you.

Perhaps it's becoming clear to you that speaking slowly and with great emphasis on certain syllables doesn't get the masses all starry-eyed like it used to.  What happened? You used to stand at a podium and the heavens would resound with the choirs of angels.  The glory of a thousand suns was reflected in the hopeful faces of your adoring public.

These days, not only is your popularity plummeting among the general population, but high-ranking members of your own party are speaking out against you. Come to think of it, your smile is starting to look pasted on, and the fear and confusion in your eyes are pretty hard to miss. Or maybe it's just my imagination. Yeah, that must be it.

Were you really so arrogant that you thought taking your wife on a million dollar date (I wish I was exaggerating for effect, but I'm not), courtesy of the tax payer, was anywhere near the bounds of decency? Will future generations ask how a democratic country buried its collective head in the sand as its freedoms disappeared down the gullet of the bloated monster it called a government?

I don't know.

But one thing looks to be right on track. What does a man, who by his own admission lacked the experience necessary to lead a country, do when reality knocks him flat upside the head?

He goes on The View, to have his ass kissed by five bat-shit crazy windbags.

Let Them Eat Cake - UPDATE

Man, you really hit the jackpot. 

See, while we the people were hustling to scrape a few dollars together, get some food on the table and maybe take the family to Disneyland during the kids' summer break, you pulled a fast one. You gambled that we wouldn't notice, and you were right. 

To be fair, the odds were supremely in your favor. We hire civil servants to keep things chugging along, faithfully pay the taxes that blanket our lives like moldy multiple layers of puff pastry, and hope that, at the end of the day, things come out pretty close to even. The vast majority of us don't give you even a passing thought.

I, for one, never suspected that I was supporting an ever-growing class of American royalty. Yet, with each passing day, and every shocking tidbit that is revealed, it becomes harder to avoid the reality that our governing bodies are the bloated leeches sucking the morale out of the people of this country.

Let me ask you something, Robert Rizzo. What exactly is it that you do to justify your annual salary of $787,63? 

What's that? 

You're the Chief Administrative Officer of Bell, one of the poorest cities in Los Angeles County? 

Oh. 

Well, it must be enormous, with a vast territory and a population of millions, whose welfare and quality of life have greatly improved since you assumed your position almost 20 years ago.

Say what?

It's a city of 37, 000 residents? Whose claim to fame is that in 2000, 55 Oscar statuettes were stolen from a loading dock located there?

Huh.

Ok, look, I'll take part of the blame. We silly common folk were asleep at the wheel, and the temptation was just too much for you. I get it. You're human. So, if you'll just reverse that 12% yearly raise you've guaranteed for yourself, and maybe cut some time off the 5 week annual vacation you enjoy courtesy of us tax payers, we'll just forget the whole thing. 

An apology delivered in a sincere tone wouldn't hurt, either. No one says you have to mean it. Go ahead, Robert Rizzo, defender of the people, the floor is yours.

"If that's a number people choke on, maybe I'm in the wrong business," he said. "I could go into private business and make that money. This council has compensated me for the job I've done."

It would seem that you need some time to clear your head and come to terms with the knowledge that the jig is up. No problem. Take a moment. Maybe one of your minions will step up and do the right thing.

Assistant City Manager, Angela Spaccia, (annual salary $376, 288), would you like to make a statement?

"I would have to argue you get what you pay for."

This isn't going quite the way I had imagined it would. 

Well, alright. I'm willing to keep an open mind. What exactly have we been paying for? 

Ladies and gentlemen, I present the Mayor of Bell, Oscar Hernandez.

"Our streets are cleaner, we have lovely parks, better lighting throughout the area, our community is better," Hernandez said. "These things just don't happen, they happen because he had a vision and made it happen."

Oh, well, why didn't you say so in the beginning? We could have avoided this entire embarrassing incident. Your streets are cleaner, you have lovely parks and better lighting. 

And your community is better. 

Actually, please bear with me, Mayor Hernandez. I need a few moments to digest the complex information contained within your statement. 

...

Yeah, after careful analysis of your data, I'm not convinced that we've gotten what we paid for. 


UPDATE:
John and Ken, of radio station KFI 640 AM in Southern California, are interviewing a resident of Bell, who also happens to be a professor at USC. According to her, the citizens of Bell have been trying to get answers about the doings of their ruling class for years, and have been left frustrated and ignored. Also, apparently the Bellsians practice predatory policies to suck up as much money from their serfs as humanly possible.

This makes me so happy:
http://basta4bell.com/

What Is This Thing Called Love?

I've thought about this in great depth. I've taken into consideration the opinions of others, from ancient philosophers through modern scientists, poets, musicians, wise men and fools. I've even had this guy in my head since the 90's:



Not only is this one of the best songs ever for working out to, it is also currently the 62nd best-selling single of all time in Germany. No small potatoes, that.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I hadn't quite nailed it. And then it hit me like a lightening bolt. Man, did I feel stupid. It was right in front of me all along. Of course!

You know you're in the company of your soul mate when you find yourself dancing together like you're suffering from an inner ear disorder and he's trying to keep you upright. Or sitting on a sofa, with your man's arm awkwardly around your shoulder. Or in the back seat of a car, with stiff smiles frozen on your faces. Then there's the obvious, walking on the beach at sunset. I kind of already knew that one.

The thing that really rocked my world was learning that when you find true love, from that moment on, you move in slow motion. But only when you're together. Also, music plays constantly. Even when you are laughing hysterically on a boat. Or on a balcony. I guess the head-rolling laughter is a pretty  integral component of twoo lub. The best part of all, which must be the clincher that you have been blessed by a miracle, is that the two of you are always surrounded by a halo of backlighting.  Amazing, right?

Thanks, eHarmony. You laid it out for me, clear as day. Over and over. On tv. On the radio. On my computer screen. In fact, it's kind of hard to avoid you. Now that I think of it, you're like that guy that stalked me in college. Only, you don't leave love letters and flowers on my windshield. But, there's still time for that. After all, we'll be together forever. Right? Right?

There's just one tiny, little thing. Microscopic, really. It's probably nothing, and maybe I shouldn't even mention it. It's ... well, I don't know.

You Rule!

My commenters are really coming through today. Sent to me by the charming Joey-baby:

Well, Since You Asked

Commenter Gretchen asked for some clarification on my last post. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to explain my rant. I knew I liked you!

      what term would you prefer we use to demonstrate something like this:
      A qualified white person is turned away from a job, which is given to a 
      less qualified minority in order to promote "equal job opportunity"?

I call that exactly what it is: racism. Of what significance is the ethnicity of the racist? Would you call it "reverse domestic violence" when a woman abuses/attacks her man? To me, that sounds just as ridiculous as reverse racism. Adding an unnecessary modifier to a powerful word does nothing but water it down.

This twisting and turning of our language is a symptom of the bigger disease of the pussyfication of our society, where validating and placating people and making sure nobody's feelings get hurt has become our national pastime. And, more frighteningly, has wormed its way into policy.

It is an ugly and destructive practice to judge a person (or group of people) by something as superficial as the amount of melanin in their skin, or the particular slant of their eyes, or any number of stupid criteria ignorant people use to make themselves feel superior to others.

The scenario you describe is anything but "equal". 

And While We're On the Subject

What the hell is reverse racism?

Is there some kind of vast, dimwit conspiracy to demolish the English language beyond all recognition?

Some days I really dislike the human race.

It Don't Matter If You're Black or White

Wait. So, you're telling me that "people of color" is a respectful term and "colored people" is derogatory? Huh. I did not know that.

Sure, I see it now. It's right there, in black and white. Of course! How could I have missed it all this time? Boy, do I feel sheepish.

At first glance it would seem that the words are somewhat similar. But careful scrutiny reveals that there are subtle, yet significant differen-

Oh, no, hold on. They're exactly the same.

OK, let me think about this for a second. I'm pretty sure I can figure it out.

...

Got it! It must be that, when the order of the words is reversed, their definitions change completely. There are many examples of this in the English language.

I wish I could think of some.

Or even just one.

No matter. It's a good thing that the National Association for the Advancement of People of Color is here to show us the way.

What's that? No. Really? Are you sure?

OK.

You Just Keep Me Hanging On

If I had a wish for today... It would be that the damn period button on your phone... Would stop working... Because every time you text me... I'm left with this uneasy feeling... That there is more to come... And I can't get on with my day... Because you're trying to communicate ... But somehow it takes 132 separate messages... and an unholy amount of ellipses... for you to clog up my phone memory... to say nothing of stealing my time... and say absolutely nothing... at... all... and the fact... that you are a college graduate... does not... in the least...  make you appear any less of a ... DUMBASS


PS... I luv u... ur my homegurrl... hv a gr8 day... l8er

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter

Sometimes I wonder why I'm so weird.

I say to myself, "Mustard, it can't be so hard. Watch what others do, and do like them.  Combine your mad observational skills with your gift for mimicry, and next thing you know, you'll have your very own passport to normal town."

I get my hopes up. I drive to the mall, park my car and walk around, mentally cataloging the words, mannerisms and general demeanor of the masses.

And for a little while after my foray, I can "pass". But, inevitably, the effort wears on me, and the facade surely falls.

Recently, it became clear to me that my efforts have been in vain. A careful scrutiny of my family proves that strangeness this profound is imprinted into my DNA and I might as well stop this losing battle with mother nature.

Ten minutes after arrival at my dad's place, my niece, Paprika, turns on the stereo, blasting a song from one of the 80's hair bands. With a faraway look in her eye and an expression bordering on idiotic ecstasy, she does a half squat and sways her hips rhythmically from east to west. Interestingly, her flow bears absolutely no relation to the beat emanating from the musical masters assaulting my ears. Upon seeing the fun being had, my father joins in, doing his own version of the squat and sway.

"We are dirty dancing!" he proclaims.

"Woo hoo," chimes Paprika.

As it turns out, the rhythm does, in fact, get me. By invisible forces, I am brought to my feet and add my own two cents to the boogie. Now, it is generally agreed upon that I'm a pretty spiffy dancer. So, it's no small surprise that both of my loved ones put an abrupt halt to their festivities and stare at me.

As my dad walks away, Paprika drops her verdict. "At least you won't hurt yourself when you fall, cause you're not that far from the ground."

A little later, the three of us are hanging out, eating pizza. It suddenly occurs to me that Paprika can help me settle a question that's been nibbling at the edges of my mind for some time.

"Hey, Paps, what does ZOMG mean?"

"ZOMG?"

"Yeah, you know, Z-O-M-G?"

"Umm, I don't knowwww?" In a judgmental cadence that comes so naturally to teenagers.

My father, from whom I inherited my worship of books, swoops in to settle the matter. Sprinting into the adjoining room, he comes back with this:

Handing it to me, he says, "Look in here. This book has every word in it."

I resist. "Dad, the word I'm talking about is a current slang term. I don't think it's in the dictionary."

He insists, now waving it frantically in the air, "No, no, it's in here. Everything you want to know, you can learn from books. Just look."

One of us has to fold, and I know it's not going to be him. I sigh and take the book.

All of 300 pages long, copyright 1975.

"This book is 35 years old."

"Every word in the English language. Just look for it."

Like a dumbass, I turn to the listings under "Z".

"It's not in here."

"What?"

"The word."

"What word?"

"ZOMG"

"Oh, then it must be in Latin. Let me think. Zomg? Well, the root, zo, probably comes from...."

I tune him out. He'll be occupied with this fruitless train of thought for a while.

I look to Paprika, hoping we can commiserate about the unique nature of my parent.

She is busy. Looking at the mirror on the wall, and practicing running her tongue around her lips. She tries left to right, then right to left, altering speed and angle of attack.

I give up. Thanks a lot, DNA.

I'm Like a Freaking Yo-Yo Over Here

This post has nothing to do with being offended.  I just need to let some stuff go. Yep, it turns out that I am, in fact, human. No need to worry.  I'll be back to my Mustardy self in no time.

This morning I played for the funeral of an 18 year old boy.  He may have died due to alcohol poisoning.

I walked into the church overflowing with people, firmly resolved to keep my emotions under control. I'm the dork who cries at weddings and funerals of people I don't know. And then others try to comfort me with things like, "Oh, were you close to the deceased?"

"No, I didn't know him at all."

Awkward silence usually ensues.

Today, I actually held myself in check pretty well. Until the hockey team lined up in a double row along the center aisle. Achingly beautiful, in full uniform and holding their hockey sticks, they looked on, grief and bewilderment clouding their faces, at the casket holding their friend and teammate passing before them. 

That's when my face crumpled up and the tears blurred my vision so I couldn't see the music in front of me.  It's a good thing that my hands can do their thing while the rest of me falls apart.

To my surprise, the presiding priest came across as having a mind and a mouth that were in full communication with one another. And, here's something I never thought I'd say, I might consider attending his church, just to listen to him speak. Yes, he was that thoughtful and captivating. Maybe miracles do happen?

At one point during the eulogy, the priest walked to a woman sitting in the front row who was holding a baby in her arms. Now, what he didn't know, and what I could see from my vantage point, was that she wasn't just holding the baby. Underneath the blanket that covered her, she had undone her shirt and was breastfeeding the child.

The closer the priest got to her, the more nervous this lady looked. And when she realized that he wanted to use her baby to illustrate a point he was making, you could almost see the hamster frantically running on his wheel, as she tried to figure out her course of action. Just as he reached out his hand, she managed to slip her breast out of the baby's mouth and deftly tuck it back into her bra. With literally not a micro second to spare, another Catholic Church sex scandal had been averted. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

At this point, I had my lips tightly pursed together, and my body was about to explode due to the effort of keeping thunderous laughter from erupting out of my mouth. The kind of inappropriate laughter that can only make its appearance in church, or a dramatically serious play or other solemn and quiet gathering.  I finally allowed it to escape under the guise of a coughing fit, while giving thanks that the waterworks had run their course and I, once again, had full use of my eyes and facial muscles.

Not for long, it seemed. My professional composure cracked once again during the prayers.  The priest called the mother, father and sister of the boy to come and stand around the casket. And, as he put his hand tenderly on the box holding the body, he asked the people gathered to forgive any wrong done to them by the boy who was no longer here. In the silence that followed, I watched men gruffly wiping at their eyes, young adults being enfolded in their mother's arms and the family at the center of this tragedy holding on to each other for dear life. Once again, I disintegrated. And with a vengeance. Transformed into a massive puddle of grief, I gave up trying to hide the tears.

You know those films that advertise themselves like, "You'll laugh, you'll cry, you won't know what hit you"?  The whole morning was like that. Several hours later, I still feel like I've been worked over by the thugs of a mafia boss I owed large amounts of money to. And, as I sit here typing, I know that I have to pull myself together and play a massively energetic show tonight, when I'd rather it be just me and my piano, giving quiet comfort to each other.

So, for me, and anyone else who needs it, I present to you Miss Liza Minelli, here to save the day:

Yadda Yadda

So, when your mouth opens to speak, does it consult with your brain first? Or do words spill out of their own accord, randomly selected from the bubbling cauldron of cliches you carry around in your head?

"It is what it is."

Really? I thought it was something it was not.

I can't thank you enough for setting me straight.

The Fungus Among Us

No, you're not cool, unique or rebelliously self-expressive. I don't care what your friends (and I use the term ironically) at the tattoo parlor told you.

Your "full sleeves" look like you contracted a nasty skin disorder from a box of Crayolas.

Congratulations! You managed to be a lemming and a poser, and it only cost you several thousand dollars.

Peek a Boo, I See You!

Good morni-

Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you were busy. Talking to the grocery bagger in a foreign tongue. While you are scanning the items I am purchasing.

Could I trouble you for an instant? Just some eye contact, perhaps an acknowledgment that we are standing in front of one another, engaging in a moment of human interaction?

No?

Ok. Maybe when you are done laughing hysterically at whatever it was your co-worker just said to you. I'll wait, I don't mind. I've already taken out my wallet. My keys and sunglasses are right here on the little shelf in front of me, so... I'll just look around at the display. Or something.

This is not in the least bit awkward.

And now you've tallied my last item. I'm pretty sure I know what comes next.

Only, it's not happening.

Really, all you have to do is touch the button that produces the total amount I owe you. It's not all that difficult, nor time consuming. But, I can see that all your attention is focused on the riveting story you are regaling your colleague with. Wish I could understand it. I like to laugh, too.

By some happenstance (divine intervention?) your finger brushes up against the keypad, and the total for my purchases appears on the screen. Only, I can't see the numbers from this angle. Maybe if I crane my neck and lean over a bit.

You know what? How about I just hand you this twenty, and you give me back whatever you think is fair.  I mean, what's this world come to if we can't trust each other with a few dollars, right?

I said I'll hand you this twenty. Come on, lady, work with me here, I can't do this thing alone.  Here, I'll wave my hand around and hope against hope that you'll see my money out of the corner of your eye.

I am using up reserves of patience I didn't know I had.

I add an "excuse me" to my efforts.

I do have to give you props. Because you can take the twenty, make change and pile the mountain of bills, coins and receipt, into the palm of my hand, without a hitch in the flow of your conversation.

"Thank you," I say.  If only one of us is allowed good manners in this scenario, I'll gladly volunteer myself.

Como se dice "Dumbass" en espanol?

Self-Congratulation Corner

So there I am, staring at the ceiling, naked as the day I was born, feminine hands massaging my breasts.  This scenario gets only slightly less sexy when I tell you that I was at my annual "girly" exam.

"These," she says, pointing down, "are normal."

And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. My boobs have been officially approved by a licensed professional.

Now I need to find my smelling salts. Being referred to as "normal", for perhaps the first time in my life, has given me the vapors.

P.S. Ok, what the hell are smelling salts? Other than a frequently reappearing motif in tales of Victorian times.