Would you want to see Stephen Hawking's dick pics? Didn't think so.
Let me back up, spell it out, explain it all for you. Last week, Carrie Prejean, the latest reason I've had to brush my teeth in the middle of the day after throwing up in my mouth a little, went on a media tour to promote her book. Carrie is the author of "Still Standing", which deals with the racism she dealt with in the South during the 19...oh, no, I'm thinking of Maya Angelou. "Still Standing" is a moving and gripping account of a mother's call to activism in the wake of the vicious murder of her gay...nope, that's Judy Shepard's book. Oh now I've got it. "Still Standing" is word salad, but the pretty lady on the cover showed us her boobs, so we are required to care.
In case this was your year to spend time in a religious cult, let me fill you in. Carrie was Miss California, competing to be Miss USA. But when asked her views on gay marriage, she answered that she was basically against it. And everyone went apeshit for three seconds, then went back to watching Jon Gosselin's every move. She lost the chance at being crowned Miss USA, and for all her trumpeting of Christian values, pictures and sex tapes (Tapes? We're still making sex tapes? Haven't we as a nation upgraded the technology with which we document our mastery of the reverse cowgirl?) and other scandal swag made its way through the media. So now she's written a book that is meant to showcase a new kind of modern woman--the hot Conservative--and position her as a model for young women and girls everywhere. There's just one thing. She's about as sharp as a bag of wet hair.
I get it. It's fine. If we want to read about what celebrities "put up with" for brief periods in their lives--aces! Applesauce! More power to us! But there is an odd trend running here, one that doesn't work when reversed, and explains my opening question. We are obsessed, as a culture, with forcing the "sexy" part of the population to also appear "smart." But we never really attempt to make the smart appear sexy. The Nobel Prize winners are never asked by the gals on The View to "make it clap." Unfortunately.
But I digress. If you do one thing well, or if you have one brilliant strength, that's fine. It's okay to fill up on pretty and have that be your only trip to the salad bar. Your thing is your thing. In The Breakfast Club (1984), Brian was good with his head and not his hands. But he strayed. Had Brian not taken shop for the "easy" A, he wouldn't have failed it for being out of his element, wouldn't have crumbled at the thought of what that would do to his record, wouldn't have brought the flare gun to school, it wouldn't have gone off in his locker, and he wouldn't have been serving a Saturday with the most motley crew this side of high tops and bandanas. While it's true that the detention experience turned out positively for everyone involved, think of it this way. Every other member of that Saturday session wound up in detention by committing a crime that was totally in line with their character. Except Brian. And in the end, every other character wound up with some potential action--Clare with John, Allison with Andrew. Except Brian. Brian tried to be something he wasn't, and therefore, returned only to the disapproving stare of his Mom.
There is something to be said for "stick with what you know." And when what you don't know is "everything", it's probably best to refrain from writing a book.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Mackenzie Phillips and Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead
I'm gonna cheat a little. We're stretching to 1991 for this one. But oh well, same thing. Were we still all spraying our bangs into stalactite formation in 1991 like we were from 1984-1989? Yes we were. The defense rests.
So yeah, let's acknowledge it. Let's talk about the big, creepy elephant in the room, the one that has had pretty much everyone not living in a marsh or other variety of swampland squirming in their shoes this week.
Mackenzie Phillips. I don't think I need to further clarify.
Oh, what the hell. Phillips had a decade long sexual relationship with her father, "Papa" John Phillips. Then she wrote a book about it (well, not ALL about it, but seriously--when that is in a book, any book, does the rest of the book matter? The rest of the book could be on par with The Great Gatsby and no one would care.). Then she went on Oprah. We're all familiar with the formula now, right? The one that goes:
Engage in a completely unsavory sexual act for an extended period of time.
Write a book.
Tell a rich black lady.
Regain relevance.
Anyway, she told The Big O (and the freaking free world) the following:
"If I've started a national dialogue that's going to help people face these issues, then I'm forever grateful."
Oh she started a dialogue alright. This one:
"So yeah, Mackenzie Phillips."
"Yeah, I heard. Gross."
"I know, right? Totally gross."
And that dialogue is helpful to me. On Facebook. When I have nothing else to say in my status update.
But here's the weird(er) thing. She told anyone at all. It's bad enough she was hiding a key under her welcome mat. But now she told everyone where it is. Look, it's not like she was forced into a ten year randy romp with her father. It was consensual. Does anyone else have that creepy Benny Mardones "Into the Night" song in their head right now? Really? Just me? Okay.
So instead of harboring this secret, and just keeping a lid on it and retaining dignity while still trying to move on, she blabbed. She told people she did this. It's like she paid no attention whatsoever to Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead (1991). Because in that movie, you know what they didn't do? Tell Mom the babysitter was dead. Which started a chain reaction of improvement in the maturing process of those kids. Swell was able to rule the roost, hold down a job, date a nice guy, plan a backyard party with bodacious sculptures in ice, and spread her fashion wings. Kenny turned gourmet. And cut his hair. And went by Kenneth. And landed a date with Nicole. But had they told the truth, had they contacted their mom and told her that their caregiver bit it, then mom would have returned, and their lives would have reverted to their original stagnancy. That, plus, they may have been suspected in said babysitter's sudden death. Not cute.
So the point? Sometimes secrets make the best of friends. Why celebrities consistently forget this is no mystery, but that doesn't make it any less disturbing.
So yeah, let's acknowledge it. Let's talk about the big, creepy elephant in the room, the one that has had pretty much everyone not living in a marsh or other variety of swampland squirming in their shoes this week.
Mackenzie Phillips. I don't think I need to further clarify.
Oh, what the hell. Phillips had a decade long sexual relationship with her father, "Papa" John Phillips. Then she wrote a book about it (well, not ALL about it, but seriously--when that is in a book, any book, does the rest of the book matter? The rest of the book could be on par with The Great Gatsby and no one would care.). Then she went on Oprah. We're all familiar with the formula now, right? The one that goes:
Engage in a completely unsavory sexual act for an extended period of time.
Write a book.
Tell a rich black lady.
Regain relevance.
Anyway, she told The Big O (and the freaking free world) the following:
"If I've started a national dialogue that's going to help people face these issues, then I'm forever grateful."
Oh she started a dialogue alright. This one:
"So yeah, Mackenzie Phillips."
"Yeah, I heard. Gross."
"I know, right? Totally gross."
And that dialogue is helpful to me. On Facebook. When I have nothing else to say in my status update.
But here's the weird(er) thing. She told anyone at all. It's bad enough she was hiding a key under her welcome mat. But now she told everyone where it is. Look, it's not like she was forced into a ten year randy romp with her father. It was consensual. Does anyone else have that creepy Benny Mardones "Into the Night" song in their head right now? Really? Just me? Okay.
So instead of harboring this secret, and just keeping a lid on it and retaining dignity while still trying to move on, she blabbed. She told people she did this. It's like she paid no attention whatsoever to Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead (1991). Because in that movie, you know what they didn't do? Tell Mom the babysitter was dead. Which started a chain reaction of improvement in the maturing process of those kids. Swell was able to rule the roost, hold down a job, date a nice guy, plan a backyard party with bodacious sculptures in ice, and spread her fashion wings. Kenny turned gourmet. And cut his hair. And went by Kenneth. And landed a date with Nicole. But had they told the truth, had they contacted their mom and told her that their caregiver bit it, then mom would have returned, and their lives would have reverted to their original stagnancy. That, plus, they may have been suspected in said babysitter's sudden death. Not cute.
So the point? Sometimes secrets make the best of friends. Why celebrities consistently forget this is no mystery, but that doesn't make it any less disturbing.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Chris Brown and the Temple of Doom
It's been awhile. But this one was just too perfect.
Chris Brown (who we pay attention to because we miss Ike Turner THAT MUCH), told Uncle Larry on CNN that he "doesn't remember" beating the living piss out of Rihanna. He also confessed that as a result of the restraining order against him, "We have to be like ten yards away from each other." He later said he and Rihanna would always be friends. Finally, a heart warming and desirable definition of friendship. One in which there is always a ten yard force field-like radius between you and the humanoid you call "amigo." But that's beside the point.
Chris Brown does not "remember" beating another human being within an inch of her life. No recollection whatsoever. It's like (and he said this) another person did the beating. He doesn't know who the stranger is who could have caused such harm to his beloved songbird. Maybe it was another person. Or maybe, just maybe, he mistakenly drank the blood of Kali Ma, and fell into a dark, possessed sleep. Anything's possible. Especially when you consider that this is a man who apologized to the woman he beat in a text message.
In Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984), Indy and Short Round find themselves in India, on a quest to reclaim Shivalinga, a Shankara stone that apparently some already dirt poor village just can not function without. At the height of their adventure, Indy is captured and forced to drink the blood of Kali Ma, which forces him into a black sleep that causes him to totally throw Short Round under the bus. But see, he doesn't know he's hurting Shorty. Because he's not Indy at all--not when he's under a spell, a spell that can only be broken when a small Asian boy puts a flaming torch to his ass.
Am I saying Rihanna should hire a small Asian boy to set Chris Brown on fire? No. But I am saying maybe she should keep her options open for the future. Besides, you can set someone on fire from ten yards away.
That's what a flamethrower is for. Hello.
Chris Brown (who we pay attention to because we miss Ike Turner THAT MUCH), told Uncle Larry on CNN that he "doesn't remember" beating the living piss out of Rihanna. He also confessed that as a result of the restraining order against him, "We have to be like ten yards away from each other." He later said he and Rihanna would always be friends. Finally, a heart warming and desirable definition of friendship. One in which there is always a ten yard force field-like radius between you and the humanoid you call "amigo." But that's beside the point.
Chris Brown does not "remember" beating another human being within an inch of her life. No recollection whatsoever. It's like (and he said this) another person did the beating. He doesn't know who the stranger is who could have caused such harm to his beloved songbird. Maybe it was another person. Or maybe, just maybe, he mistakenly drank the blood of Kali Ma, and fell into a dark, possessed sleep. Anything's possible. Especially when you consider that this is a man who apologized to the woman he beat in a text message.
In Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984), Indy and Short Round find themselves in India, on a quest to reclaim Shivalinga, a Shankara stone that apparently some already dirt poor village just can not function without. At the height of their adventure, Indy is captured and forced to drink the blood of Kali Ma, which forces him into a black sleep that causes him to totally throw Short Round under the bus. But see, he doesn't know he's hurting Shorty. Because he's not Indy at all--not when he's under a spell, a spell that can only be broken when a small Asian boy puts a flaming torch to his ass.
Am I saying Rihanna should hire a small Asian boy to set Chris Brown on fire? No. But I am saying maybe she should keep her options open for the future. Besides, you can set someone on fire from ten yards away.
That's what a flamethrower is for. Hello.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
AIG Bonuses and Adventures in Babysitting
We are seriously missing it big time. Here's how it went down, as I understand it. But what do I know...I write a blog that compares this stuff to 80s movies.
The economy is in the toilet. It's not in a house toilet, or a restaurant toilet, or even the Port Authority toilet, which all flush and what-have-you. No, our economy is in a toilet that more resembles a Lollapalooza port-a-potty, which does not flush and therefore all the waste and debris just sits on the bottom in blue water, producing an eerie and filthy echo every time someone else takes a piss. That is the toilet we're in. Enjoy the visual. And the audio.
Anyway, there we all are, flailing in a biohazardous job johnny, when out of nowhere, some dude--let's call him "the US government" comes in, reaches down, and fishes out a piece of used toilet paper called "AIG," and sets it on the rim of the bowl. He fishes out a few others too, but for our purposes, let's just focus on the AIG wipes. I will also end the toilet metaphor now, while I can still retain a shred of dignity in this post.
So the government bailed out AIG, and gave them a ton of money to keep them afloat (whoops, sorry...no more toilets, promise). And what did they do with this money? They gave it to its own executives in the form of hefty bonuses. Executives, mind you, who were in the department MOST responsible for AIG's downturn to begin with.
AIG's CEO Edward Liddy called this "distasteful." Distasteful? Keeping Up With The Kardashians is "distasteful." This misuse of funds is...is...um...Hitlerous. Pol Pot-esque. Castro-nomical. Bushbastic. Fucking horrible.
Then, Liddy asked (asked!?!?!) the execs to give half (half?!?!) back. In doing this, it seems he is trying to show the public he "knows" the bonuses were wrong at a time like this, but still smooching some executive ass by a) giving them an option, and b) only asking for half. In short, his only concern seems to be getting in trouble with his parents.
Last week, a friend and I were watching Adventures in Babysitting (1987) and she made the excellent point that for all the serious trouble those kids get into in that movie--with the law, with the mob, with street gangs--their main concern throughout the entire movie is getting into trouble with their parents. The main goal is picking up Brenda at the bus station, then returning home before Mom and Dad do, because getting in trouble with them would be the absolute worst thing that could happen. Forget the knifing on the subway. Forget the run in with the mob. Forget a ten year old girl hanging on by a thread outside of a skyscraper. They just can not afford to anger Mom and Dad. Even though Mom and Dad appear clueless. Even though Mom and Dad already seem lax with their rules. And even though Mom and Dad are the ones who left their children in the care of an unstable 18 year old in the first place. Their (unjustified) wrath would be the worst case scenario.
And we wouldn't want that, now would we?
The economy is in the toilet. It's not in a house toilet, or a restaurant toilet, or even the Port Authority toilet, which all flush and what-have-you. No, our economy is in a toilet that more resembles a Lollapalooza port-a-potty, which does not flush and therefore all the waste and debris just sits on the bottom in blue water, producing an eerie and filthy echo every time someone else takes a piss. That is the toilet we're in. Enjoy the visual. And the audio.
Anyway, there we all are, flailing in a biohazardous job johnny, when out of nowhere, some dude--let's call him "the US government" comes in, reaches down, and fishes out a piece of used toilet paper called "AIG," and sets it on the rim of the bowl. He fishes out a few others too, but for our purposes, let's just focus on the AIG wipes. I will also end the toilet metaphor now, while I can still retain a shred of dignity in this post.
So the government bailed out AIG, and gave them a ton of money to keep them afloat (whoops, sorry...no more toilets, promise). And what did they do with this money? They gave it to its own executives in the form of hefty bonuses. Executives, mind you, who were in the department MOST responsible for AIG's downturn to begin with.
AIG's CEO Edward Liddy called this "distasteful." Distasteful? Keeping Up With The Kardashians is "distasteful." This misuse of funds is...is...um...Hitlerous. Pol Pot-esque. Castro-nomical. Bushbastic. Fucking horrible.
Then, Liddy asked (asked!?!?!) the execs to give half (half?!?!) back. In doing this, it seems he is trying to show the public he "knows" the bonuses were wrong at a time like this, but still smooching some executive ass by a) giving them an option, and b) only asking for half. In short, his only concern seems to be getting in trouble with his parents.
Last week, a friend and I were watching Adventures in Babysitting (1987) and she made the excellent point that for all the serious trouble those kids get into in that movie--with the law, with the mob, with street gangs--their main concern throughout the entire movie is getting into trouble with their parents. The main goal is picking up Brenda at the bus station, then returning home before Mom and Dad do, because getting in trouble with them would be the absolute worst thing that could happen. Forget the knifing on the subway. Forget the run in with the mob. Forget a ten year old girl hanging on by a thread outside of a skyscraper. They just can not afford to anger Mom and Dad. Even though Mom and Dad appear clueless. Even though Mom and Dad already seem lax with their rules. And even though Mom and Dad are the ones who left their children in the care of an unstable 18 year old in the first place. Their (unjustified) wrath would be the worst case scenario.
And we wouldn't want that, now would we?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Economy Makes Me Feel... and Back to the Future, Part II
The economy makes me feel...around in the couch cushions for the remote control.
So today's iReport on CNN.com features a slew of pissed off potatoes opining about how the "economy" makes them "feel." For some, it's "desperate." Others are "scared." A handful are "hopeful." And one lucky young man from Chattanooga is "kinda horny." (Okay, I made that last one up. Apparently the economy makes me feel "juvenile.")
One of the comments posted is by a guy named Brad, and Brad is warning us that we seriously need to "recognize." He points out that we are a very far financial cry from the downward spiral into third world nation-dom, and "economic struggle" means an inability to buy an apple, not an inability to buy an Apple gadget.
I'm all on board with the idea that the economy has hit a bleak streak, but I am intrigued by Brad's comments. Look, I'm in an artistic field. So I am never out of debt--the consummate Lady in (the) Red. This economy is pretty much business as usual for me, as I never really had money. And certainly, I'm not alone. Starving artists, struggling single moms, one hit wonders--we all feel this crunch every day. We don't really know what the alternative is, or how the better way of life feels, because this is all we know as reality.
I think now is the perfect time to bring up Back to the Future, Part II (1989). As we know, this installment of the BTTF trilogy actually takes us into the year 2015, where after a series of mishaps, Biff gets his hands on Grey's Sports Almanac and the DeLorean, and travels back to 1955 to give it to his younger self. As a result, 1985 becomes corrupt and ugly--Biff is rich and powerful and the rest of the world is full of alcoholic trophy wives, constantly backfiring engines, and "I Can't Drive 55". However, the only ones who know that this alternate 1985 is in fact "alternate" are Marty, Doc, and Einstein, the dog. As Doc illustrates:
"Here's the present, 1985...the future...and the past. Prior to this point in time...somewhere in the past, the timeline skewed into this tangent, creating an alternate 1985. Alternate to you, me and Einstein. But reality for everyone else."
In a nutshell, I think this is where the divide is in the current economic situation. There are those of us always living in the alternate "Biff" 1985, and those lucky few who know what a more comfortable "non-Biff" 1985 feels like. I'll admit, it would be nice to hold company with all you non-Biffers, but truth be told, it's probably a little easier for the lifelong Biffers now--those of us who are used to getting creative, cutting the fat, and living on little.
Never before has having "plenty of nothing" been such a valuable asset.
So today's iReport on CNN.com features a slew of pissed off potatoes opining about how the "economy" makes them "feel." For some, it's "desperate." Others are "scared." A handful are "hopeful." And one lucky young man from Chattanooga is "kinda horny." (Okay, I made that last one up. Apparently the economy makes me feel "juvenile.")
One of the comments posted is by a guy named Brad, and Brad is warning us that we seriously need to "recognize." He points out that we are a very far financial cry from the downward spiral into third world nation-dom, and "economic struggle" means an inability to buy an apple, not an inability to buy an Apple gadget.
I'm all on board with the idea that the economy has hit a bleak streak, but I am intrigued by Brad's comments. Look, I'm in an artistic field. So I am never out of debt--the consummate Lady in (the) Red. This economy is pretty much business as usual for me, as I never really had money. And certainly, I'm not alone. Starving artists, struggling single moms, one hit wonders--we all feel this crunch every day. We don't really know what the alternative is, or how the better way of life feels, because this is all we know as reality.
I think now is the perfect time to bring up Back to the Future, Part II (1989). As we know, this installment of the BTTF trilogy actually takes us into the year 2015, where after a series of mishaps, Biff gets his hands on Grey's Sports Almanac and the DeLorean, and travels back to 1955 to give it to his younger self. As a result, 1985 becomes corrupt and ugly--Biff is rich and powerful and the rest of the world is full of alcoholic trophy wives, constantly backfiring engines, and "I Can't Drive 55". However, the only ones who know that this alternate 1985 is in fact "alternate" are Marty, Doc, and Einstein, the dog. As Doc illustrates:
"Here's the present, 1985...the future...and the past. Prior to this point in time...somewhere in the past, the timeline skewed into this tangent, creating an alternate 1985. Alternate to you, me and Einstein. But reality for everyone else."
In a nutshell, I think this is where the divide is in the current economic situation. There are those of us always living in the alternate "Biff" 1985, and those lucky few who know what a more comfortable "non-Biff" 1985 feels like. I'll admit, it would be nice to hold company with all you non-Biffers, but truth be told, it's probably a little easier for the lifelong Biffers now--those of us who are used to getting creative, cutting the fat, and living on little.
Never before has having "plenty of nothing" been such a valuable asset.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
"I hope he fails" and Uncle Buck
The Party has been in recess for the last few months, but we're back. And so begins year two of the Party in the Back--How Current Events Mirror 80s Cinema.
It's El Presidente's second full day on the job, and the entire country is still basking in the glorious afterglow of Tuesday--smoking a cigarette, and coyly asking Obama, "So, whatcha thinkin'?" The first few days on any job can be beyond exhausting, but consider this factor. Say you're the new guy at work, and so far, everyone just can not get enough of you. Everyone loves your intelligence, your charisma, and your already evident leadership. They look to you as their new hope, the man who can effortlessly work the copier, dissolve all water cooler conflicts, and successfully execute flattering yet eerily accurate impersonations of the guys in middle management. You're thrilled to start on this exciting new adventure, if only it weren't for the hateful, angry, fat, loud, proudly ignorant and wildly nonsensical guy in the last cube, hell bent on welcoming the day that you fail.
So today, Rush Limbaugh (loud, angry, ignorant, hateful, nonsensical--but HE still has a job) stated on his radio show that he hopes President Obama fails. Sigh. Okay, you know what? Fine. I get it. You're upset because you didn't win. Because all the girls like someone else better. Because you didn't get your way, and now only kids under a certain weight are allowed on the teeter totter. But you know what? Basically, what you're saying when you say "I hope a leader fails" is "I hope we all fail. I hope we plunge further into the depths of debt and despair more than we already are." All in the name of you being right--you told us so. I hope that makes you feel good--knowing you're right will certainly make hell feel all that much more balmy.
So Uncle Buck (1989). Uncle Buck is the Russells' only option as a babysitter for their children when they're called away on a family emergency. And because she's pissed that SHE wasn't asked to watch the kids while her parents were away, Tia, the eldest daughter, tries everything in her book of teenage trickery to paint Uncle Buck as an unfit caretaker. Forget that he's unorthodox and therefore, fun. Forget that he's trying. Forget that the younger kids just love him. Forget that he makes HUGE pancakes. Tia wants him to fail, because she didn't get her way. She wanted to take care of her brother and sister, Miles and Maizy. But, if she really cared about the well being of her brother and sister, then would she be trying to sabotage the person put in charge? Would she want him to fail? Because if he fails, then the kids would be the ones to suffer.
So I'm not the first and surely won't be the last to say this. Shut it, Limbaugh. And take your grubby hands off our huge pancake. It's ours. It's grotesquely evident that you've already had your share.
It's El Presidente's second full day on the job, and the entire country is still basking in the glorious afterglow of Tuesday--smoking a cigarette, and coyly asking Obama, "So, whatcha thinkin'?" The first few days on any job can be beyond exhausting, but consider this factor. Say you're the new guy at work, and so far, everyone just can not get enough of you. Everyone loves your intelligence, your charisma, and your already evident leadership. They look to you as their new hope, the man who can effortlessly work the copier, dissolve all water cooler conflicts, and successfully execute flattering yet eerily accurate impersonations of the guys in middle management. You're thrilled to start on this exciting new adventure, if only it weren't for the hateful, angry, fat, loud, proudly ignorant and wildly nonsensical guy in the last cube, hell bent on welcoming the day that you fail.
So today, Rush Limbaugh (loud, angry, ignorant, hateful, nonsensical--but HE still has a job) stated on his radio show that he hopes President Obama fails. Sigh. Okay, you know what? Fine. I get it. You're upset because you didn't win. Because all the girls like someone else better. Because you didn't get your way, and now only kids under a certain weight are allowed on the teeter totter. But you know what? Basically, what you're saying when you say "I hope a leader fails" is "I hope we all fail. I hope we plunge further into the depths of debt and despair more than we already are." All in the name of you being right--you told us so. I hope that makes you feel good--knowing you're right will certainly make hell feel all that much more balmy.
So Uncle Buck (1989). Uncle Buck is the Russells' only option as a babysitter for their children when they're called away on a family emergency. And because she's pissed that SHE wasn't asked to watch the kids while her parents were away, Tia, the eldest daughter, tries everything in her book of teenage trickery to paint Uncle Buck as an unfit caretaker. Forget that he's unorthodox and therefore, fun. Forget that he's trying. Forget that the younger kids just love him. Forget that he makes HUGE pancakes. Tia wants him to fail, because she didn't get her way. She wanted to take care of her brother and sister, Miles and Maizy. But, if she really cared about the well being of her brother and sister, then would she be trying to sabotage the person put in charge? Would she want him to fail? Because if he fails, then the kids would be the ones to suffer.
So I'm not the first and surely won't be the last to say this. Shut it, Limbaugh. And take your grubby hands off our huge pancake. It's ours. It's grotesquely evident that you've already had your share.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Cats Pooping to Vote and The Goonies
My friend and I have this theory. Let any conversation, no matter what the topic, go on long enough, and it will eventually disintegrate into a conversation about farting and pooping. On that note, I give you CNN.com's iReport.
I guess we've officially been talking about the election long enough. Because today, iReport featured cats voting in a "Kitty Caucus" in Ohio. And how exactly did they exercise the right that taxes and jury duty paid for? I'm glad you asked. They pooped in the box that bore the label of their candidate of choice. Cats...took a dump...on their candidate.
There is video, so you can actually watch cats drop patriotic anchor. And people can't stop commenting on how cute this is. And I am inconsolable.
But the harsh reality is that this about sums up how we view our own voting process, how much of a joke it's become, and how because of it, we can never again wonder how the wrong people get into office. How can we take the real thing seriously, when we have the presence of mind to even think of creating such a parody? It's a sad day for those of us who still really do have the utmost respect for our own right to vote.
But the Goonies. The Goonies fight for what's important to them. The Goonies know that people before them died trying. The Goonies still believe in the passion, the magic, and the glory. The Goonies know what it means to have respect and reverance for what shouldn't be touched. They take all they can handle in gold, but keep their grubby little hands off of One Eyed Willie's personal booty.
And the Goonies never say die.
I guess we've officially been talking about the election long enough. Because today, iReport featured cats voting in a "Kitty Caucus" in Ohio. And how exactly did they exercise the right that taxes and jury duty paid for? I'm glad you asked. They pooped in the box that bore the label of their candidate of choice. Cats...took a dump...on their candidate.
There is video, so you can actually watch cats drop patriotic anchor. And people can't stop commenting on how cute this is. And I am inconsolable.
But the harsh reality is that this about sums up how we view our own voting process, how much of a joke it's become, and how because of it, we can never again wonder how the wrong people get into office. How can we take the real thing seriously, when we have the presence of mind to even think of creating such a parody? It's a sad day for those of us who still really do have the utmost respect for our own right to vote.
But the Goonies. The Goonies fight for what's important to them. The Goonies know that people before them died trying. The Goonies still believe in the passion, the magic, and the glory. The Goonies know what it means to have respect and reverance for what shouldn't be touched. They take all they can handle in gold, but keep their grubby little hands off of One Eyed Willie's personal booty.
And the Goonies never say die.
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