Tuesday, April 22, 2008

It's Official.

It's official, y'all.

I am officially - as of this moment - denouncing any and all support I ever had for Hillary Rodham Clinton.

My opinion of the former First Lady had been pretty unwavering up until she became so desperate to win this nomination that she started flinging shit around like an agitated ape.

All of the name-calling; bloviating; dragging cripples, sick children and people whose homes were destroyed in natural disasters into a pity-party for the world to see while telling dreary "down home" tales about how she, Jesus Incarnate, would be able to help those the government has turned its back on - all of this "politics as usual" bullshit would have been fine - if she had been using these tactics to undermine John McCain's campaign.

Instead, she chose to attack a fellow Democrat. We hardly ever hear her saying anything against McCain. It's "Obama called people 'bitter,' isn't that horrifying?" and "Obama is friends with a member of the Weather Underground - couldn't you just die?"

I hate to tell you this, Mrs. Clinton, but in your bid to chip away at Mr. Obama's credibility, you're not only making yourself look like a cretin - you're also making it that much easier for McCain to win in November. All of your vitriol, which you should be using to make people realize what a war-mongering, anti-abortion, big-business, "clean coal" horror McCain is - you've used it against a fellow democrat.

And when Obama gets the nomination, and let's face it - we all know he's going to, all of your smear tactics are still going to be lingering out there in the public's minds, tainting what should have been a Democratic landslide election.

And now you've gone and done what I have hated most about the current Junta that has usurped our country from us. You've gone and invoked fear in order to scare people into voting for the "tough guy."

Fear is what has dragged us into this mess we're in right now. Bush crammed fear down our throats so stridently, falsely and unabashedly that he actually got us to go to war with a country that hadn't DONE anything. And look what that got us.

If you're so desperate to get elected that you'll lower yourself to Bush-like tactics, I don't want you to run things.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay.

Accused publick restroom sodomite, Senator Larry Craig, in his arrest mugshot. He's a patriotic American. He's wearing a lapel pin.
There is only one word to describe the current situation in the Democratic race for the Presidency - Gay.

I cannot stress to you enough how sick I am of this race. People continually avoid real topics in their debates and interviews, and instead ask mundane, completely idiotic questions like this one, sent in via video by some dipshit voter in Pennsylvania during the debate on April 16th, geared specifically toward Barack Obama:
"I want to know if you believe in the American Flag."
Ooh. Barack Obama doesn't have a tacky American Flag lapel pin - he must be anti-American.

Seriously - what the fuck is wrong with you people? Why is it even an issue that Barack Obama chooses not to wear a god damn lapel pin? Maybe he doesn't want to puncture the fabric on his expensive, tailored Italian suits. Maybe he just hasn't gotten around to purchasing one of the tacky accessories. Maybe - just maybe - he realizes that there are more important ways to show patriotism than by wearing a lapel pin.

Charles Manson could put an American Flag lapel pin on his prison jumper. Would that make him a more viable candidate than Barack Obama? Were Mr. Manson to stand in debate against Hillary Rodham Clinton shrieking, "In my mind's eye my thoughts light fires in your cities," would you find that acceptable so long as he were displaying his American Pride™ for the world to see?

The American public at large must be pretty god damn stupid if they can actually take something so microscopic and pointless and turn it into an issue such as this has become. Really - think about it. How can anyone question a man's patriotism simply because he's missing an accessory most of the bloviating, fatass politicians in the country seem to think proves their loyalty to the Constitution?

I bet Newt Gingrich was wearing an American Flag lapel pin as he cheated on his wife while impeaching Bill Clinton for cheating on HIS wife. I am quite sure that George W. Bush was wearing a flag pin on his lapel during his willing participation in each and every single one of the crimes his administration has perpetrated against the American people, our environment and animals, and the world in general.

A pin is a pin. It means nothing at all. To those of you who think that it does - I would suggest rethinking your life. Clearly you took a giant wrong step somewhere.

While I'm at it, I would also like to point out to all y'all that Barack Obama is not - no, he is NOT - a Muslim. But if he were, it's really none of your fucking business. This is not a Christian nation, despite what fat, ululating, right-wing dicks continue to say. No. It is not.

Freedom of religion - that's one of the bases for our country's very existence, and you gung-ho lapel-pin-wearing "Patriotic Americans" should know that. Islam is not, as some people have stated, "the greatest threat against the American people today." Stupidity is.

Al Queda is a sect of stupid people. There are stupid Christians, too. Take a gander at those anti-abortion schmucks who blow up clinics. Or how about those "Baptist" assholes who picket soldiers' funerals? They're terrorists right here in America.

Ask real questions and use your brains. Talk about the war, the environment, the impending food and water nightmare, fuel, our economy, anything - just leave him the fuck alone about his religion and his decorative minimalism. Jesus, what a waste of time this has all been. While you people continue to ask Obama about his jewelry, his former pastor and his alleged status as a Muslim, McCain is out there quietly promoting himself.

I want this election to get back on track right now. All of this inane bickering is going to get that warmongering, gopher-cheeked, big business, "clean coal" schmegeggy elected, and then we're done for.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Nothing Bad Is Ever Gonna Happen Again

Miracles CAN happen.

As readers are aware, my first experience with the new musical adaptation of John Waters' whimsical film Cry-Baby was, to put it gently, a horrific nightmare of gargantuan proportions that left me a staggering zombie, drooling and trembling in the face of an impending theatrical apocalypse.

If this could make it to broadway - anything could. Soon, we'd be seeing three hours (including intermission) of American Idol rejects flinging dung at each other (it's not that far off, y'all. American Idol rejects are lending their dubious "talents" to many a Broadway show - and tourists from Akron and Walla Walla are LAPPING IT UP).

As readers are also aware, I had purchased tickets to two - yes, two - evenings of Cry-Baby: The Musical sight unseen, based solely on my adoration for its Creator and Son of God, Mr. John Waters.

After the first excursion into what seemed like an impromptu skit put on by the Drama Club at a school for the deaf, I was NOT - I repeat, NOT - looking forward to sitting through a second evening of these mediocre shenanigans.

All that being said, I was curious to see how much of this show had changed since the night Norn and I had seen it, which was the opening night of previews, so at least the experience would be intriguing in that regard.

Norn, LIzz and I met at a deee-liteful vegetarian Indian restaurant called Chennai Garden, and y'all - I cannot recommend this lounge enough. It's cheap as FUCK. Dinner for three - not $100, not $60 - FORTY-FIVE dollars. You read that correctly. And that included appetizers. The dosas are the size of a small child, and they are mmm-mmm Divine.

We then took a leisurely stroll up Lexington Avenue, and much to my delight, I discovered that Lizz slings invective about as freely and harshly as I'm prone to do, so we giggled and insulted random strangers the entire way to the thee-yay-ter.

Our conversation took a darker turn as we made our way into New York's Heart of Darkness, known to the uninitiated as Times Square. Fighting our way through fat, inappropriate tourists shrieking asinine comments to their companions like, "Oh wow, they've got an Olive Garden, Donald!" and the like, our hearts sank.

It was a fortunate fact that our walk through this undulating atoll of idiocy was very brief as I had mapped out a route that would least expose us to random morons. We approached our final destination and were assaulted by tourists' misguided attempts to "dress for the theater" - spaghetti straps, stirrup pants with leopard print accents, sequined, bedazzled pantsuits - and those were the attractive outfits. But at least they were trying.

Now, it always baffles me how quickly we as a society have become utterly dependent on cellular telephones and the constant need to be "in touch." Much like Gollum did with his "precious," we cling to our wireless devices, peering at their eerie light every sixteen to twenty seconds, hoping and praying that someone - ANYONE - has contacted us. It is a sad state of affairs, and to see the gaggle of people in the theater over the age of sixty staring devotedly into the faces of their cellular telephones filled my heart with a sense of hopelessness. Think about it - when these people were born there were no fax machines, photocopiers, desktop computers, or even touchtone phones, for God's sake. These people knew what it was like to wait - it just makes things BETTER. But they too had been dragged down into the silt with everyone else.

I vowed that if one of those contraptions so much as caused my attention to be distracted from the stage for a split second during the performance, I would yank it clean out of its owner's hand and hurl it into the nether regions of the theater. I've had it with these rude-ass motherfuckers. I really have.

Meanwhile, the show started. The opening number - again - was hilariously funny, similar in scope to the opening sequence of the film. Polio vaccines were being passed out to the upper class, and Mrs. Vernon-Williams was taking charge of the proceedings.

Now, the first time I sat through this play, the opening number was the one and only shining moment for me. It was the only time I even smiled. But, as I kept waiting - and WAITING - to get that sense of overwhelming boredom that ensued after the "Polio Vaccination Picnic," I realized that it just wasn't happening. I was engrossed by the show.

It seems as if Mr. Waters and the creative staff of this production leafed through the notes I posted regarding my previous trip to their little show and personally addressed each and every one of my grievances (save one). It was a completely different show - no horrid lulls, less superfluous dance routines (thank CHRIST that gas mask dance is gone!), and Mrs. Vernon-Williams' endless monologue spelling out to the dipshits in the audience exactly what the fuck was going on - even that seemed less tragic in its blandness.

  • Carly Jibson - HILARIOUS. If only her role were larger.
  • Allison Vernon-Williams was finally portrayed as a bubbling cauldron of sexuality poorly hidden beneath a thin layer of upper-crust snobbery.
  • Many of the numbers that had made my blood curdle in the first viewing were reworked or gone, making this show flow o so much better.
  • Damn, Cry-Baby's backup dancers have some nice gams, crappers and stomachs. Homo-eroticism - this play's got plen-tee.
  • Lenora is so fucking funny I can barely stand it. I could watch a three-hour show of nothing but her jumping up and down psychotically as she does in that one number, the name of which I am failing to recall at the moment. You'll know it when you see it. Precious - she's just precious.
  • Mrs. Vernon-Williams is NOT ANNOYING this go-round!
  • The final number has been reworked to be political - and aggressively, liberally so - making it much more relevant. And it works very well.
  • Most importantly - they made it so the show doesn't suck. And that's what really matters to me.

  • Norn and I left the show feeling much better about the world around us. As ardent believers in Mr. Waters and his oeuvre, we were despondent at the end of our first viewing. What the fuck had we just witnessed? We knew deep down in our hearts that Unka John could do no wrong, and this second chance proved what we had sensed all along. And Lizz enjoyed the show very much - so it had been a thoroughly successful evening at the theater.

    The audience, for the most part, had been much more well-behaved than our aforementioned trek into damnation, except for one dildo who insisted on talking as if she were in front of her television. "SHUT UP!" Lizz screamed at her, putting her in her place.

    Is Cry-Baby: The Musical an intellectual tour de force likely to crush conventions of Western Culture and set a new standard in theater production? Absolutely not. It is retarded and completely devoid of any redeeming value, but don't we all need a little retardation to distract us from the utter and complete hell and devastation that is overtaking our daily lives whether we realize it or not?

    I think you know the answer to that.

    Thursday, April 3, 2008

    Fat, Dumb Jesus Freak Attracts Fat, Dumb Jesus Freaks

    I know I shouldn't even be dignifying this rotund, braindead turd's existence by writing about her, but dang, if stupid shit like this just doesn't set my blood to boiling.

    This waddling offal - an elected official, no less - stated recently in a talk that was captured on youtube that "gay people pose a bigger threat to America than terrorists" or some such completely unintelligent jibber-jabber.

    Now she has drawn approximately 1,000 people in a rally to show support for her hateful, turkey-necked ways. What does it prove? That there are at least 1,000 ignorant shitheads in Oklahoma City.

    No big surprise there.

    She won't apologize for what she said. I don't expect her to - any apology would be fake anyway. She's smug in her opinion, set in her ways. As she and her husband perambulate Oklahoma City-area grocery stores, filling their carts up with honey-baked hams, pizza bites, Twinkies, individually-wrapped "snack size" treats, jerky, and a variety of other foods self-righteous idiots gobble up with abandon, she's helping perpetuate a nation of hatred and fear.

    This comes up again and again. What I want to know is this - seriously - what does a person's activity in his or her bedroom have to do with the security of this country? Is a man sucking dick any different from a woman sucking dick? Is a woman digging digits into the tunnel of love any better or worse than a man doing it?

    What gay people do in their homes is of no one's concern but their own, and that's just the reality of the situation. People's inability to deal with the truth that - yes - there are, in fact, men who enjoy looking at penises and women who enjoy looking at bosoms says a HELL of a lot more about the people who are worried about it than the gay people themselves.

    So this bowel movement of an elected official, one Ms. Sally Kern, is getting press for being yet another crotch scab in a long list of ignorant, pontificating jackasses who think that two DREARY passages in a book prove that homosexuality is an abomination.

    Genesis 19:5 And they called unto Lot, and said unto him, Where are the men which came in to thee this night? bring them out unto us, that we may know them.
    "Know." You can translate that any way you want to. Did they want to introduce themselves to these angels because they were nosy? Did they want to invite them to a candle party? Did they want to drill down deep in those angels' orifices? Who the fuck knows. The danger of radical religion is that they can take their sacred texts and do with them whatever they want. Generalizations translated to spread ignorance and hatred.

    I will stress this again - NOWHERE in the story of Lot does it say that the men of Sodom are homosexuals. What it DOES say is that Lot offers his two virgin daughters to the angry mob in the place of the strangers. "Here - rape my daughters! They're virgins!" And this is the story FOOLS quote as an argument against homosexuals? Are you people INSANE?

    I will also stress THIS again - since you dingbats are so gung-ho on using Leviticus as your main source with which to rail against homosexuality - when was the last time you waddled your fat god damn ass out into the desert and went into exile for seven days after you had your period? When was the last time you sat in solitary penance for seven days after having a sexual emission?

    What was that? Never? Hypocrites.

    You want to know what the REAL threat to America is? It's people just like you. Your fear, ignorance and stupidity are what have dragged this place down to the dumpster level it's at right now.

    I hope with every ounce of my being that our next elected official, whoever he or she may be, is going to be above pandering to your stupid, hateful agenda. I'm fed up with it.

    Tuesday, April 1, 2008

    My Life As a Garbageman Part Three

    To the uninitiated, trash and garbage are la même chose. But nothing could be further from the truth.

    Most households these days are supplied with a large garbage container that they place at the curb once or twice a week. These cans are picked up by a truck that has a hydraulic arm - a "side loader," as they're known in the business. Other debris - yard clippings, recycling, old furniture, appliances, carpet, tile, roofing - anything that won't fit into that container picked up by the side loader - that's trash.

    The Clearwater Division of Solid Waste, at the time I worked there, supplied trash pickup via side AND rear loader for most of the city, meaning that a side loader truck would pick up its assigned can at a home, and the rear loader crew would pick up the bulkier detritus.

    Some neighborhoods, though, were built with streets that are too narrow for side loader trucks to navigate. Those homes would place ALL of their household waste into garbage bags and put them at the curb in front of their houses, either in cans or out in the open for the world to see, along with the bulkier stuff. The rear loaders had to pick up EVERYTHING in these neighborhoods.

    Garbage. Those bags contain everything - food items, things you'd rather not ever see in your entire life, wipes, diapers, unheard of goo. These bags tend to be damp and they're almost always foul.

    I had been working at the Clearwater Division of Solid Waste for a good three to four weeks and had gone from "sorry" in the eyes of the garbagemen to slightly below par.

    My pace had increased as had my strength, and I was now lifting moderately heavier piles. I had grasped the basics of the job. I now knew how to operate the packer that pushed all of the trash up into the belly of the garbage truck. I experienced the joy of grasping onto the handles and standing on the riding panel toward the rear of the truck as the driver roared at top speed down busy streets. And yes - I had even learned how to pee into the back of the truck while it was moving and not make my actions known to passersby. I felt a sense of accomplishment.

    In addition to improving physically, I had made many friends during my several weeks at the Sanitation Divison. Initially, communicating with them had been a Herculian task. Though I eventually overcame my issues, in the beginning I felt as if I had been transported to a foreign country without the aid of a translator.

    Glassy eyed, I would stare at them as they spoke energetically, saying things like, "Dissy cheunh hat been da packuh. Pool dan on dissy cheunh luvvuh an dat fwine pat dat traysh." (Translation - "This is the packer. Pull down on this lever and it will pack the trash.") Over time, I managed to decipher some words - "Cheunh" meant "here," "ernge" was the equivalent of "orange," and "boolshih," of course, translated into "bullshit."

    There were a few words that were the same in both languages - "beer," pussy," and "fuck." Happy with myself in the knowledge that I would, eventually, be able to have complex discussions with these fellows, I took to nodding "yes" to everything they said. They could have been asking me to have anal intercourse with a roadkill kitten for all I knew, but as long as I acknowledged what they were saying, they all seemed sated.

    Conversely, they had little difficulty understanding what I was saying to them, so our one-way communication system seemed to be fragile, yet operationational.

    After forging a seemingly permanent assignment with two people whose company I enjoyed immensely, I was informed by the supervisor that I was needed on the "garbage run." This route, I soon learned, was the test to see if you were really garbageman material - if you could pass this exam, you were set for life in the eyes of the division.

    The driver was a huge man who never said a word and always had a cigar shoved between his lips. You could tell from looking at him that he was working things out in his mind. He was judging you - make no mistake about it. I was petrified. To make matters worse, I was assigned to work with a man who had just been released from prison, and whose temper was legendary. Before we disembarked from the sanitation yard, I knew I was headed into the Heart of Darkness.

    The garbage run started out rather innocently as we made the turn into an old school Florida neighborhood, the kind that makes me yearn for my homeland.

    Lawns that, surprisingly, had not been sanitized with carpets of sod and alien plantlife that required daily watering led up to modest homes boasting jalousie windows complemented on both sides by vanity shutters carved with Flamingo or Palm Tree designs. Most had screen porches. Majestic oaks sprinkled the edges of the streets, spanish moss dangling lazily from old branches.

    It was a soothing sight, this neighborhood. And then I saw the mounds of garbage lining the asphalt, curbless street. "Oh hell no," I thought to myself as my coworker jumped down.

    "You take that side, I take this side," he ordered, pointing to my left toward a pile of milky-looking bags.

    "Okay," I managed to whisper, walking over to my first pile. The bags contained what felt like oatmeal. I picked them up, only to feel their liquid contents ooze down around my arms as I waddled over to the back of the truck. Attempting to hurl these oversized water balloons over the edge of the truck, I accidentally punctured one with my finger and felt its thick, viscous contents making their way down my arm.

    I moved to the next pile, but to my chagrin, I was not moving fast enough to make my prison-hardened coworker happy. "Hurry the fuck up!" he shouted. "Damn!"

    This garbageman, I discovered, was so bent on getting done on time, if not early, that he would run - FAST - to every can, pile and bag and hurl them - no matter how heavy - over his shoulders directly into the back of the truck. He would then release their contents and toss the now-empty cans back to their owners' lawns before sprinting on to the next batch. He never spilled a drop. He expected the same from me.

    Now, up to this point in my life, I think farthest I had ever run was from the car to Camelot Music to get the latest Madonna album. That, for me, was worth running for. This - this was not.

    The torment would go on for the rest of the morning. We passed through trailer and mobile home parks, one-way dirt streets, ancient neighborhoods whose houses looked abandoned (but from the level of garbage placed at the curb, were clearly and very actively occupied), and then we reached the cul-de-sacs in Countryside.

    The trees that had undoubtedly once graced the area that is now Countryside had long since been razed in favor of strip malls, office parks and golf courses. The sun, apparently enjoying my treeless misery, beat down on my red, burning flesh with sadistic glee. There was no breeze to counter its malicious effects.

    I was slimey, caked in God-knows-what, sweating profusely, and on the verge of a heat stroke. I could literally see black spots before my eyes, a bad sign if ever there was one. And yet I was forced to press on.

    These cul-de-sacs were circular and contained about eight to ten houses each, stretching in a vein-like system around a golf course. They had been designed by someone who clearly had not taken the plight of the garbageman into account when mapping them out, for they were Satan-like in their unending and seemingly random sprawl.

    My coworker told me that we would work the cul-de-sacs by taking turns. I would do one while he ran to the next and waited. It seemed fair. He sprinted off to his cul-de-sac and lit a cigarette. I could see him in the distance stamping his feet in anger at my sluggish pace, and his mounting distaste for my performace got the best of me. As I threw a can into the truck and emptied its contents, I tried to pack the garbage up into the truck, but I pushed the lever in the wrong direction, sending the packer forward, knocking ALL of the trash from this particular cul-de-sac spilling out into the street.

    "Damn!" I heard my associate scream from his station across the way. I looked forward to see the stoic driver making his first gesture of the day - he was shaking his head in disgust. I had failed.

    As I attempted to pick up this huge mound of trash, my coworker ran over and very impatiently helped me get the rest of the slime into the truck. "Fuck. What's wrong with you!" He said as he helped me.

    After the cul-de-sacs, we were finished. The garbage run was complete. I thought my trials were over, but my Trek into the long, dark night had just begun.

    We made our way to the Transfer Station, which is where the side loader trucks dumped their hauls. The garbage was dumped from the truck into a huge precipice, which then led to two giant semi trailers. The gargage got loaded into the trailers until full, and then the Semis drove the garbage to the county landfill, where it was incinerated.

    This'll be easy, I thought to myself. Here, I won't have to do anything. The driver backed up to the pit and dumped the garbage out. End of the story, I assumed - I could go home and rid myself of this hideous memory.

    Then my impatient coworker told me to get out of the truck. He handed me a shovel. "Get up in there and scrape that truck out," he told me, pointing to the huge rear compartment of the garbage truck. Yes - the compartment where the diapers, tampons, food, shit, dead animals, melon rinds, grass clippings, broken glass, vomit, and God knows what else of an entire portion of an entire city had been baking for half a day in the midsummer Florida sun. "Get in there!" he screamed again.

    So up I went. Every inch of the interior of that truck was caked in shit-brown slime. As I began scraping out piles of refuse that had clung obstinately to this truck as if unwilling to sacrifice themselves to the incinerator, I noticed that the slime was moving. "What the fuck?" I said, moving in for a closer look.

    Maggots. And not just regular maggots, mind you - not those little white ones. These maggots were about an inch in length, appeared to have the soft beginnings of exoskeletons, and were brown. They were the most horrifying thing I had ever seen in my entire life up to this point.

    Filled with a dread that is generally reserved for those about to be murdered, I scraped the innards of that truck clean in record time and escaped having come into full-body contact with only two of those maggots.

    We had finished the route on time, though not early. My coworker, thoroughly disgusted by my lack of ability, said absolutely nothing to me ever again. The driver hadn't ever said anything to begin with, so his silence wasn't that tragic.

    He stared ahead, sucking on his half-smoked cigar, and drove us back to the Solid Waste plant.

    Plus à venir.