Salma Hayek's Eyebrows
Have you ever seen a movie that resonated within you like a swarm of bees, that made sleep impossible for all of the buzzing and wild wings beating against your heart, your very essence? Rare is the film that does that to me, and last night I experienced one such film --
Frida, starring (and co-produced by) Salma Hayek as Frida Kahlo, the Mexican/communist/bisexual/totally intoxicating/tragic/divine surrealist painter who made her mark in the thirties.
I’m ashamed to admit that I’d not heard of Frida Kahlo before Ms. Hayek’s critically acclaimed portrayal -- I’m woefully ignorant of the artworld -- but was curious to see this film based on (and this is really embarrassing) the eyebrows.
Yes, the eyebrows fascinated me to no end; though I’d not heard of the amazing Frida Kahlo, the notion that Salma Hayek would paste a carpet to her forehead intrigued me. As it turns out, it is so much more than the eyebrows. Pardon the humungous understatement.
Salma Hayek proved, to me at least, that this woman is much deeper, darker than her celebrity face, that she is capable of pulling out the demons within and making them dance for our entertainment with an ease that is both disturbing and disarming. And with
Frida, Salma Hayek shows the world that she’s a chick to be reckoned with. She’s no ball of exotic fluff, rather she’s an intense, passionate, crazy-smart individual who has the shiny brass not to allow the box of generic Hollywood sex goddess be closed up around her.
She takes risks and does so with a relish not seen since...well, forever. Sure, actors like Charlize Theron (who I adore) display some mighty chops when given the chance (few and far between, unfortunately -- Hollywood likes to keep its pretty young things nice and unthreatening, male-friendly, if you will), but Salma Hayek, particularly in
Frida, blows a big hole in the theory that women can’t be dominating, visceral geniuses who also happen to be the ultimate male fantasy.
Put Pamela Anderson side by side with Salma Hayek, and I guarantee that any man with at least five working brain cells would immediately drop to his knees before Salma. She deserves to be worshipped, not for her preternatural outer beauty, but for what burns within her. To put it simply, her performance in
Frida is outstanding, unusual, gut-wrenching and inspirational. She peels back the feminine mystique with grace and spectacular aplomb, yet stirs it all up with down and dirty stark realism, with raw sexuality and blinding presence. She brought Frida to life, made her familiar, as if I’d always known of this great artist, and by its conclusion, Frida Kahlo became my hero.
Could another actor have pulled this off? Maybe, but I doubt it.
It was well after midnight when the film ended, yet I couldn’t help but go online and look up everything Frida. I devoured thumbnails of her art, stories about her remarkable life, until two a.m.. I had to stop myself from staying up the rest of the night.
Ms. Hayek’s got herself a brand new admirer, and because of her, so does Frida Kahlo.
Why Are Some People So Damn Stupid? Why Do They Exist? Why, God, Why?
Jesus H. Christ, he did it again.
This asshole
[URL deleted -- for the time being], the plagiarist who stole my work last month has reposted my work under a different title. I wouldn’t have known if someone hadn’t just informed me of this. Thanks to that kind soul.
I am at my wits’ end. Now this dick has actually insinuated that
I plagiarized
him?
This is the letter I just posted on his blog:
DELETE MY WORK FROM YOUR BLOG, PLAGIARIST!
You initially took my work down (you originally retitled my post, [title deleted] to [title deleted]), yet someone has recently informed me that my post is still up. Indeed it is, retitled yet again as [title deleted].
Then, to add insult to injury, you dare add a disclaimer insinuating that I plagiarized YOU?! Are you freaking kidding me?
Look, you retarded mass of donkey testicles, I was nice at first, wrote to you that it was cool if you wanted to quote my words, or even post my entry in full, as long as you gave me credit, but you ignored me until you were pressured by others. I thought the matter was over with. And now I see that you not only republished my words as your own, but added that laughable and entirely preposterous disclaimer?! And the sick thing is that you actually have this posted on here:
“Copyright and courtesy
Never ask someone to make you a layout, to help with your site or show you how to do a certain script or graphic effect that they have on their site, unless they specifically offer their help. There are plenty of tutorials available to help you, just use a search engine to find what you need.
Never use anything off a person's site, be it writing, images or html code, unless they say otherwise. People are very attached to their work and don't usually respond well when others help themselves to it.
Copyright is protected by law and in effect the minute something is created, whether the author has a © notice or not. There are online tools where you can learn about copyright laws like What is Copyright? and Redistribution In Graphics Has To Stop.”
Listen to me, freak, and listen good -- not for nothing, but I’m a well-published writer who gets PAID for my work, [OMG, could I possibly sound more pompous?] who respects the written word much too much to even entertain the idea of plagiarism -- your accusations are not only laughable, they are grounds for a defamation suit.
My blog is my marketing tool, my way of reaching out to my readers. [Again, someone hit me the pomposity stick] You tread on dangerous territory here, bitch. [Look how tough I am!]
Plagiarists are scum, and your behavior regarding this whole matter is proof of how disillusioned and unimaginative you really are. You should be ashamed of yourself. Your mother should be ashamed. You should get a life and do something original and positive with it rather than making others miserable.
Addendum: He removed my work from his blog -- for the time being -- so I erased his name, website and the blog titles. For the time being, of course. 'Cause, you know, I'm cool like that.
Bah, Humbug!
Yeah, that's right, bitches, I'm the Scrooge of Thanksgiving. And, as per usual, I'm expecting three visitors tonight, which is why I'm now drinking heavily in anticipation.
That one ghost with the chains scares me most of all, but he is the most necessary of the three. He looks like Bill O'Reilly, only with dreadlocks, and he forces me to eat suspicious-smelling pie while regaling me with stories about his penis, Frankie Joe. It's highly entertaining psychological horror at its best, and it teaches me a lesson about how I should appreciate my good fortune, my family and health. I always but always give thanks --
sincerely give thanks -- after he visits.
Excellent. Now that the obligatory Thanksgiving talk is out of the way, I must now order you to go forth and read
this.
My lovely soul sister, O, be the author, and this little flash kicked my Scroogy ass.
Go and show her some love, why don't you?
Spyware Violates My Whore!
Humph. Been a very hard past couple of days, brothers and sisters. Been fighting persistent Satanic crap that was, as always, downloaded via my daughters' favorite kiddie sites, and let me tell you now -- I'm ready for my nineteenth nervous breakdown.
My computer never was one to run smoothly and nice-nice. My computer (who I've affectionately named Whore), tries her slutty best to get up off her back and do some work despite the fact she comes from bad blood -- the HP Pavilion family -- and wears dial-up rags instead of DSL couture, but my poor Whore is invariably knocked back down and ravished by spyware and the like every single time. I'm beginning to think she likes it.
Companies that force themselves on our Whores should be violated in return. It is a grave invasion of privacy, a serious, intrusive act that costs millions of us money, time, and sanity. It's not just the pop-ups or the fact that some of these bastards are able to track our every move, perhaps even gather personal and financial information that could be used for nefarious purposes, it's also what their products do to the well-being of our Whores. It makes our Whores skittish, untrustworthy, undependable -- they never do return to pre-assault behavior. Gang rape on a regular basis will do that, I suppose.
I'd like to see a law passed that punishes these violators but good. I'm appalled that their criminal, immoral activities have been allowed to continue thus far without serious repercussions. I propose that these behemoth pigs, who I always imagine as looking somewhat inbred with their crossed eyes and hanging noses, their lips dripping with shit, be subject to the following:
1) Immediate seizure of company assets
2) Public whipping
3) Public humiliation, which would include branding of foreheads with the word "Asshole," and, if male, forced Brazilian waxes. Female violators will be ordered to wear large black beards which will be sewn on offenders' chins by government sanctioned seamstress cum dominatrix.
I plan on writing my congresswoman, Louise Slaughter, detailing what I have just proposed, and I urge you all to do the same. If there is a God, my little fantasy will soon become reality.
Nipples!
I'm sure you all will be pleased to know that I was bombarded by nipples this past weekend. It started innocently enough, this nipple bombardment, with my boy, Mr. Butler, approaching me on Friday with the fear that his nipple had somehow disappeared. I laughed it off, of course, because really, aside from David Blaine's famous nipple-melting illusion, how could a nipple disappear into thin air?
So I continued making the beds, feeding the animals, wiping counters, all the while Mr. Butler following me around from task to task repeatedly complaining about his lost nipple. Well, after about forty minutes or so, Mr. B ceased to be satisfied with my "mmmm hmmm's" and "yes, honey, your nipple went bye-bye, didn't it?" and he proceeded to throw a fit, throwing his arms, stomping his fat little feet and screaming, “Stupid Mommy! No nipple! No nipple, Mommy!
Wahhhhh!”
I was embarrassed for him and his divaesque behavior -- Momma didn’t raise no Elton John.
I'd had enough of this nipple talk, and my hands were shaking with Windex withdrawal -- I knew that if I didn’t appease my tiny Elton, I might not get my Windex fix until later in the day, and that just wouldn’t do. So I bent down before him and inspected his nippleage. And true to Christ, if he didn’t lose a nipple.
Mr. Butler lost a nipple.
The one nipple was fine -- tiny pink nub of nothing, but fine -- the other, however, was but a miniscule dent, a pale slash, like the head of screw. Dismayed, I lay with Mr. B on the couch and willed the lost nipple to reappear, attempted to locate the nipple with my nipple-raising super powers. Alas, the nipple remained inverted. I tried gently poking at it, talking to it, telling it jokes, but it refused to come out of hiding.
It was then that I felt myself enter the horrible vortex known as Irrational Paranoid Hypochondria by Proxy (IPHP). Some of you may know what I’m talking about. My mommy instinct bellowed “cancer!” and due to the confusing effects of the vortex, it seemed completely plausible that my two-year-old would develop a case of breast cancer.
I wasn’t thinking in my right mind, obviously, and it wasn’t until after I’d put Mr. B in the bathtub on that chilly morning, that I realized how far gone I was -- the nipple emerged soon as Mr. B hit the water. My son was ecstatic, delighted with his impish little friend, and I collapsed in a heap of relief while clutching my Windex bottle.
And if that wasn't enough to put me off nipples for the rest of my life, Saturday night brought with it
nipple hell.
My brother's fault entirely. It was he who thought it would be a good idea to watch a movie titled
Blood Gnome, and I regret not going with my gut and insisting on
Night of the Lepus instead.
I was and still am traumatized by the lead actor's nipples. They were abominable, damnable, revolting trash can lid-size slabs of rectum-colored flesh surrounded by black swatches of thick, straight hair. They were hideous things, and that actor should be ashamed of himself. If that unfortunate, shameless man should ever come across this post (and by God, he
should read this for his own good as well as that of all humanity), I'd like him to read this in the spirit it’s intended -- good will.
Mr. Grody Nipple Man, sir, please seriously consider a nipple reduction, a waxing, perhaps even a total nipplectomy. If surgery isn't feasible, then please, for the love of all that is holy, keep your shirt on, man.
Keep it on. Even while swimming. Especially on camera. Keep. It. On.
Thank you.
May the Magic Continue...
As per my good friend Angie‘s request, I will now take advantage of my blog’s supernatural abilities and write about our winning the lottery. As history has shown, whenever I write about something I’m wishing for, my wish is granted soon afterward, so I expect the lottery wins to occur anywhere between today and next Wednesday.
I really, really, really want to win the lottery. So does my good friend Angie. You see, My good friend Angie and I are not greedy sorts -- not at all. We are philanthropists who believe that good fortune should be shared, and so will use the ill-gotten spoils for the betterment of mankind only. (As any God-fearing evangelical Christian worth their pillar of salt knows, Jesus hates gambling, but I must reiterate that the money will be used for clean,
Godly purposes.)
Listed below are some of the things my good friend Angie and I have planned:
1) Build safehouses for all the disenfranchised voters who are embroiled in abusive relationships with their red states.
2) Give Manolo Blahnik shoes, one year of weekly massages, and wardrobes from the designer of their choice to all single mothers in our respective states who are valiantly trying to make ends meet on current minimum wages. It is important that these women experience the decadence of Paris Hilton at least once during their lifetimes.
3) Buy Bush a fucking clue. Unfortunately, even with our combined winnings, there may not be enough funds to procure this, but we’ll see.
4) Declare November 8 as Women’s Day, a day in which all women will be given the respect and worship they deserve. Women's Day will be observed annually on November 8, and occasionally February 15 as well, dependant upon the whim of benefactors. The fact that November 8 is also my birth date is pure coincidence -- when God tells me this is to be, who am I to argue? On this day, women will be excused from all daily duties, some of which may include:
a) Child rearing
b) Cleaning house
c) Cooking
d) Wearing uniforms whose sole purpose is to put legs and breasts on display
e) Shaving legs
f) Pretending that their male bosses are the most humorous and intelligent humans on earth.
g) Making coffee for aforementioned dickhead.
h) Pretending that it doesn’t hurt when their heads hit the glass ceiling.
i) Dieting to achieve the impossible perfection required of them by American patriarchal society.
j) Saying “yes.”
For the holiday’s inaugural year, all women over the age of eighteen in the Continental United States, Hawaii, and Canada will receive a package on or before November 8 that contains one XX Large T-shirt (this will be
their day, so comfort is of the utmost) that reads “Bow Before the One You Serve.” It’s gonna be a good day.
I can hardly wait.
These are but a few of the many exciting events my good friend Angie and I have planned -- the list of all good works will be announced in its entirety shortly after lottery payments commence, so stay tuned.
And Sometimes Quickies Aren't Very Satisfying
Just had to get a few things of my chest. You know, before I die of suffocation:
1)
Plagiarists are shit-eaters!
2)
The thing I hate most about being a writer is the waiting. Sick of it, do you hear me?
3)
Condoleezza Rice is a big dork.
4)
My ass is super fat today.
5)
I want to stay home this Thanksgiving with my husband and children, have a friend and her daughter come eat turkey and stuffing with us (I make a righteous turkey), then get totally stupid on Corona after the kids are in bed, watch some movies, laugh, eat pie. But I can't. Obligations, obligations. How I hate obligations.
YEAH! I feel a bit lighter having removed those stones from my heaving bosoms. Not.
AddenDumDeDum Wow. This blogging business just may be magical -- first my nighttime weirdness goes away, and now this: almost immediately after posting the current entry, I heard from an editor regarding a story of mine that will be appearing in the mag's next issue. Excellent. Two wishes down, sixty thousand to go, then.
Maybe I should write an entry about how badly I want to win the lottery...
I invite all and sundry to rub my blog, if you're so inclined.
GLORY!
I have not pulled even one lash while sleeping since I posted about that dreadful occurrence. It may be that the mere act of writing about it has purged the evil compulsion from my brain, but I tend to believe it's because of the Lord's merciful grace. I've been spending a holy amount of time over at
Landover Baptist Church lately, and the Lord's spirit has slowly but surely passed its infinite cleanliness over my weary, eyelash-plucking soul. PRAISE!
Forgive me my religious fervor, but I'm happier than a clam on crack.
I'd known of Landover for a couple of years now, thanks to my good friend Brother Terry, but I guess I wasn't quite ready to take the plunge into full tithing glory until our Lord and Savior, G.W. Bush, was re-elected. God, in all His wisdom, spoke to me that wondrous night and told me that it was finally time.
18:17 If he refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church; and if he refuses to listen even to the church, treat him as you would a pagan or a tax collector.
AMEN!
I Have No Eyelashes and I Must Scream
Dear lord. Yet
more proof that I am not well. Not well at all...Listen up, yo. It ain't pretty.
This is humiliating to admit, but, as my longtime readers know, I love humiliating myself (and
comment once in a while, will ya? Geez, I know Blogger's commenting system sucks Beluga, but c'mon and gimme some love every so often, albeit as "anonymous").
For example, just 'cause I love to digress, too, did I ever tell you about the time I told the handsome, funny, and righteous horror writer, Jack Ketchum (Stephen King's a big fan), that it looked as if a dog had pissed in his hair? Oh, the look of fright and confusion that passed over that man's lovely face...
It's true! And I still feel the sensuous burn of that particular humiliation more than a year later. YEAH! I so kick ass.
'Kay, back to my latest humiliating confession. Ready? 'Kay.
I pull my eyelashes out. That's right, I wake up in the middle of the night
pulling out my eyelashes! WTF? Seriously,
WTF?
This started happening, oh, about a week ago or so. Just woke up one night pulling out my lashes, and there are no signs that this behavior will end any time soon. It's not a conscious thing that I'm doing, not at all -- I'm
asleep, then wake during the act. I am, of course, horrified. Good thing I have lots of lashes (long and purty, I might add), but I fear that my eyes may be bald soon if this bizarre nighttime compulsion doesn't go away.
Have you ever heard of such a thing?
Also, as I've mentioned in previous posts, I am a spewer of beverages. Laughter is the main cause, but occasionally I spew just for the hell of it.
Not this morning, though. This morning was an accidental spewing that nearly took my life. There I was, reading e-mail, smoking, drinking coffee, when
WHAM! my throat closed up, my lungs collapsed, and coffee spewed all over my computer screen
and my printer. Then I gagged and gasped for air for, like, ten minutes, even as I ran around with paper towel and Windex cleaning up the mess. Hey, if I'm going to die, I want the paramedics to find a clean death scene. I want to leave this earth knowing that the paramedics and police would think to themselves, "Wow. That dead woman was a clean, tidy, and considerate woman."
Well, so. My throat eventually opened up again, my lungs puffed up nicely, and after much weeping and shaking, I finally calmed down, lit another cigarette, and continued reading my e-mail.
Perhaps I should cut down on the coffee?
Ms. Lori's List of Hate
1)
Bodily functions. I wish I were a robot, a nice, clean, smooth mass of steel and circuits. Alas, I am not, and I disgust myself.
2)
Eating noises. I despise slurps, chomps, smacks and mmmmphlerps. Crunching's okay, though.
3)
Saliva strings and smoochy sound effects during kissing scenes in films. This is not only unnecessary, it is stomach-turning. As are the spitty actors who engage in this vile behavior.
4)
"Woody" broccoli. In this day and age, there is no good reason for hard splinters in my well-cooked
Bird's Eye broccoli (high-end vegetable product? I think not). Bird's Eye, you should be ashamed.
5)
Religious pamphleteers who come a knockin'. Leave me alone, ye fuckers.
6)
Donald Trump. There are no words.
7)
People who invade my space. When I'm having a conversation with someone, especially if it's only an acquaintance, I'd appreciate it very much if they would not sit in my lap and gaze adoringly into my eyes. Stay back, bitches.
8)
Dog smell. Look, I like dogs, really I do -- my favorite pet as a child was a dog, a beautiful fawn boxer named Cindy (who I still miss to this day) -- but the reason I don't own a dog now is a simple one: they stink.
9)
Shizzle my fizzle bizzle woo-woo, den axe my nipple what up. If you refuse to speak English correctly, I refuse to listen to you.
10)
When my cat hisses and runs around with her tail puffed up at two in the morning. Could be a prowler lurking outside, could be a ghost. Or, it could just be that she's out of her freaking mind. Whatever her reasons, I wish she would stop doing that.
'Kay, I'll give this a rest for now, even though my list of hate is as long as Ben Affleck's chin and as obscene as his gummy smile.
White Man Talkin' Dat Jive: A Haunting Ball O' Nostalgic Funk, Y'all. Mercy!
BAD BLOOD
--
Neil Sedaka, 1975 (Spent three weeks at number one on the Billboard charts)
It could've been me, but it was you.
Who went and bit off a little bit more than he could chew
You said that you had it made, but you been had
The woman no good, no how, thinkin' maybe the blood is bad
Bad (bad) blood (blood)
The woman was born to lie
Makes promises she can't keep
With the wink on an eye
Bad (bad) blood (blood)
Brother, you've been deceived
It's bound to change you mind
About all you believe
From where I stand, it looks mighty strange
How you let a woman like that treat you like small change
I don't understand what you're lookin' to find
The only thing bad blood do is mess up a good man's mind
SPOKEN: Hear me talkin' now
Bad (bad) blood (blood)
The bitch is in her smile
The lie is on her lips
Such an evil child
Bad (bad) blood (blood)
Is takin' you for a ride
The only thing good about bad blood
Is lettin' it slide
Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, dit, do-ron-ron
Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, dit, do-ron-ron
Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, dit, do-ron-ron
Bad blood, talkin' 'bout bad blood
Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, dit, do-ron-ron
Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, dit, do-ron-ron
Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, dit, do-ron-ron
Bad blood
SPOKEN: Here we go
Bad (bad) blood (blood)
The bitch is in her smile
The lie is on her lips
Such an evil child
Bad (bad) blood (blood)
Is takin' you for a ride
The only thing good about bad blood
Is lettin' it slide
The only thing good about bad blood
Is lettin' it slide
Those With a Conscience Apologize For Those Without.
See more apologies from all over the United States at:
Sorry Everybody.
But I doubt that anyone could apologize enough for Jerry Falwell.
An
army to “fight“ gays? Dude, you and your retarded mass of Jesus-twisters really must get stoned. And I ain’t talking wacky weed.
Speaking of Poop...
The following message is intended for a couple of so-called friends who didn't send me a birthday greeting yesterday. They didn't even call. Or buy me diamonds, the bitches.
Better don your helmets and face masks, because the green poop is gonna hit the fan. Starting....
Now! --------------------------------------------->
To those who didn't send
me, Ms. Lori,
most excellent friend, darling angel who was sent from heaven in order to spread joy and wonder to the miserable people of earth, a birthday greeting, I hereby pronounce you dead.
Bastard Birthdays and the Bitch Who Loves Them
Things I have learned during my eighty-two years on this earth:
Men who name their penises should be avoided at all costs. Trust me on this.
Drink one glass of water for every two beers you consume.
If you think you look good, others will think so, too.
Coffee will keep you regular.
Women named Lisa are usually beautiful, but they tend to be two-faced and mean. If your name happens to be Lisa, forgive me, but you have my utter disdain.
You don't have to like your parents.
There will be at least one incident where you will giggle uncontrollably during a wedding or funeral service.
Caviar does not taste good, nor will it ever taste good. If someone tells you they like it, they are lying.
Male science teachers often touch themselves while explaining thermonuclear dynamics.
People who don't smile easily are usually the most trustworthy.
Monkeys and apes should not be held in captivity. That's akin to putting your Uncle Joe in a cage and keeping him in your basement.
All children deserve respect. And if you don't believe that, you are an asshole.
While you are giving birth, your doctor's face will invariably morph into that of an evil clown.
Baby heads and feet are, without a doubt, the most precious, godly objects one will ever gaze upon in this lifetime.
Jealousy is the sickest emotion.
Hate is futile.
Potatoes are the perfect food.
No matter how bad today is, it will pass. Better days truly are just around the corner. I guarentee it.
A funny man is a sexy man.
A funny woman is a sexy woman.
Looks don't mean dick -- confidence, excellent personal hygiene, compassion, and humor mean everything. Money is gravy.
Hollywood and Madison Avenue are the rectum and urethra of our world.
The Eagles' "Hotel California" produces hallucinations.
Poetry is the word, man. Dig it.
True love: When your significant other wants you to have the biggest piece of cake. Think about that for a moment. That's pretty deep.
There very well may be alien life forms, a God, sea monsters, bigfoots, ghosts, reincarnated souls, demonic spirits, other planes of existence, and life after death. Or not. I pity the fool who is so arrogant they can't imagine the possibilities.
I am fabulous because I said so, and that's good enough for me.
Oh, The Things I Say!
So this morning I was running around like a crazy woman, as per usual, doing things that mothers do like vacuuming, wiping counters and butts, serving breakfast, making beds, breaking up fights, smoking some crack, doing laundry, cleaning unidentified gooey stuff off of the T.V. screen, and in the process, I stubbed my toe on the coffee table. I stubbed it real good, too, and it bled like my liberal heart.
It was awful.
And what came out of my mouth would disgust even the most hardened criminal. If you're easily offended, I would suggest not reading any further.
It really is disturbing.
So, like, go forth and surf to another blog.
I mean it.
Go.
Away.
Now.
'Kay.
After I stubbed my toe, the pain was so shocking, so nightmarish, I actually felt my soul leave my body. And during the interim absence of my soul, Satan slipped in but quick and possessed my vocal chords. The following is not suitable for children under seventeen.
***************************************
I said this:
Flapfuck! God, oh, God, flappyfuck flap flap flap!
Apparently, “flapfuck” is considered the worst of the worst in certain circles of Hell.
I screamed the above while running around the living room on my heels. I did that for exactly two minutes and 34 seconds.
Then I felt better and had some coffee.
Republican Erotica
On His Paper Pillow
Fires rage beneath his lids, smoke of billowing red
And white
With souls purged, cleansed
By his self-appointed ministry
The screams of thousands evaporate into the blue
Vanquished by righteous indignation
He smiles against his paper pillow
Buries his conscience deep, deep
Within its soft, green American weave
He smiles and rolls toward his wife
She of the milk-fed exterior and
Careful poise
Lies open-eyed as he puts his hand
Over her heart
As the screams of thousands
Millions
Echo, spin, thrash
Against impenetrable walls of gold
--L. Lynn Young
What a Fucking Surprise, Eh?
My friend's fiancée was accosted by two men in Canadice, NY when she attempted to exercise her right to vote. The men, who'd emerged from a white SUV as she walked up to the polling place, blocked her entrance and assaulted her with hate-talk, with bold lies and misinformation. They would not listen to her protests, and they would not let her be. They only left her alone after a polling official saw what was happening and came to her aid. She has reported this to the authorities. What good will come of it, I haven't a clue. I'm thinking not much.
Unfortunately, hers is not an isolated case of voter intimidation. But those of you who read with your eyes open already know that.
For those of you who voted for Bush and may have come across OWM by accident, I apologize for my strong language. I respect every American's personal beliefs, political bent, religious affiliation, etcetera, etcetera.
But.
I am now certain that many of you have rocks in your pointy little heads.
I am appalled, frustrated and physically sickened by the
flagrant misconduct happening right in front of our eyes, and I am especially sickened by those who choose not to see it.
Open your eyes, goddammit, and see the truth for once in your life. Open your eyes to the fact that our current administration is the
most corrupt in American history, that the powers that be are not concerned with your welfare, but of their own agendas. We are in the grip of a massive power-hungry, fascist, corporate-run regime that will continue, if allowed, to destroy everything America has stood for since 1776.
They, the current regime, have systematically reduced our civil liberties; brought uncertainty and economic hardship to those of us holding on to middle class by a thread; knocked down the "almost there" class to poverty level; devastated America's integrity; engaged in loophole-loving tactics that empower the top 1% income bracket, thus empowering the regime, thus keeping us little folk down. You know, where we belong.
They have lied to us, they have endangered our security beyond measure, have murdered scores and scores and scores of our young men and women, and now, due to dirty tricks so heinous, so unbelievably old-Soviet in nature that even Ronald Reagan would shake his head in disgust (secretly, of course), they will continue to do so.
I do not want this regime to continue killing its own citizens, nor those of other countries.
I do not want this regime to continue its corporate-sucking ways, because, dammit, old folks need medicine as well as food. They should not have to choose.
I do not want this regime to continue leaving children behind. Mr. Bush had already proven with his governorship in Texas, then with his presidency, that despite his claims of "compassionate Conservatism," he practices anything but.
I do not want this regime to continue polluting our air and water.
I do not want this regime to continue on with its sneaky yet obvious (to those with a brain) attempts at keeping women, gays, lesbians, minorities, as well as those who oppose its ideology, in a box. A box where no one can hear them scream.
I do not want this regime to continue its decision-making influenced by the word of God. I think I speak for all who believe our commander-in-chief should always and forever be possessed of intelligence, integrity, presence of mind, and true compassion, not by some imaginary friend they think is "God," when I say that Mr. Bush is unfit for command.
Spirituality is beautiful, insanity is not.
And lastly, I do not want this regime to continue threatening my children's future, the security of my comfort in old age; I do not want this regime to continue destroying my of quality of life. Or yours. I want this regime to go away now, just go away and leave us be.
I want America back.
I Know, I Know -- Preaching to the Choir. But I Can't Help Myself
And so, my friends, on this election day...
GET OFF YOUR ASS AND VOTE!
Or suffer the consequences.
November Reigns
I like October okay -- Halloween is good, the air smells good, the trees look good. October is...good. But November, ah, now November is...
C) My birthday month. November 8th for those kind souls who are just dying to give me a present. I like books (all genres except romance), jewelry (especially diamonds, but cheap, funky shit is great too), chocolate, music (all forms except gangsta crap and country), and cigarettes (anything menthol). I don't have the P.O. Box # on hand right now, but I'll be sure to add that in here a.s.a.p. Get your credit cards ready, yo. I'm fucking serious.
5) Election time. Can't wait to bury my boot up Bush's ass.
6) Thanksgivinglicious. I dream of turkey, potatoes and stuffing smothered in gravy. I dream of pie and cannoli and large bottles of alcohol. Yeah.
N) The first snowfall. I hate snow, but that first snowfall makes me break down and weep tears of wonder every time. It really is beautiful, but I get sick of it quick, like if Brad Pitt were to live in my house 24/7 -- heaven to look at, but after a while, the cold, stark beauty becomes tiresome, especially after it's been sitting around too long and gets all nasty with dog poop. Familiarity breeds contempt.
3) Rainy time. Rain washes all that nastiness away, even if only temporarily. I enjoy the fact that there's no worm smell in November.
Sigh, oh, sigh.
This bit of November silliness isn't what I'd planned on writing about today. I had a much more serious and depressing topic in mind, but I changed my mind as I began typing.
Well, I changed my mind yet again, because I can't get this bastard monkey off my back.
It has to do with betrayal. Has to do with having a knife plunged into my heart by someone close to me, someone who I love, who I trusted (to an extent) regardless of his past. No, it's not my husband, nor is it my children that I'm talking about, but it is someone I've known for a very long time. Someone who, in the spiritual sense, is now dead to me.
He stole money from my purse this past weekend. The man ate my food, drank my beer, enjoyed my hospitality, then went into the bathroom, found my purse, opened my wallet, and stole my money.
As if he had a right.
I was devastated.
But November is my favorite time of year, and I'm filled with good feelings, excited with the new year to come, glad that the old one will soon pass and take with it all the hurt, disappointment and hardship I experienced -- 2005 is gonna be great, I just know it. I refuse to allow my optimism to be taken from me as well.
Oh, God, December 31 is only a calendar flip away. I plan on giving it a big wet kiss, a warm hug, maybe even a dry hump for good measure.
Here's to new beginnings.
