The definition of plagiarism
: plagiarism is using others' ideas and words without clearly acknowledging the source of that information.
I'm flattered if someone enjoys my posts enough to e-mail them to friends, leave me comments, or write me directly -- I'm extra flattered if someone even goes to the trouble of posting something I've written on their
blog -- but kids, if someone's posting my shit word for word on their blog without
giving me credit, it's called plagiarism. Even if they add their own parenthetical quips, even if they change the title.
Most of you wouldn't think of doing such a thing, mainly because you have your own vivid imaginations, your own wonderful way with words...but there are some who obviously do not. And you know who you are.
Plagiarism is wrong, sunshine, both legally and morally, and it hurts Ms. Lori's feelings.
It makes me want to kill you.
That is all.
'Kay. The problem has been resolved, so I deleted the plagiarist's site link from this entry. Thanks to all who commented or e-mailed me -- much appreciated!
But Mr. President, What About Those in Need, Our Disadvantaged? Our Air and Our Water? The Future of Our Children? What About World Peace?
Yet More Indications That I Am Not Well
I just spent an hour writing about my inevitable descent into the murky underworld known as Kookooland (no, I'm not talking about Australia, even though Mel Gibson was
raised there), but it was lost, as many of my writings are, due to "a serious error" with Microsoft Works Word. It shuts down, and I lose everything.
So I'm rewriting this, and to be honest, it isn't half as good as the first go around. Oh, and lookee here -- Blogger's on the fritz again and won't let me publish. [This entry was written around 10:00 a.m. -- it is only now going live -- it's almost 5:00 p.m. Blogger can bite me.]
This really isn't helping my desperate attempt to hold on reality.
So not only am I sleep-deprived beyond what any human could possibly handle without completely chewing one's own arm off, but I must deal with the stress of not being able to write freely, without fear, and that's bad. Between the aforementioned, my cough, my hatred of the current administration, I am ready to slip into that white jacket and spend the rest of my days rocking in a corner.
The following incidents are yet more proof:
1) While stealing one of my kids' Halloween cupcakes late last night, I sang a little song of praise to my treat. And as I sang my song in whispery, tremulous voice (cupcake, cup of cake, I love you), I was startled by my oldest daughter's raucous laughter. I whirled around, cupcake pressed against my nose (I smell my food before consuming, though I try not to do that in front of others), and ran from the kitchen, humiliated, full of shame, and convinced that the end is nigh.
Normal people do not sing to their food.
You might be saying to yourself, "Well, that's not so
bad," but wait...there's more.
2) Dinnertime can be an especially stressful event in my household -- too many people to feed, all with very specific likes and dislikes, all whiny and tired and hating what I've prepared -- and the night before last was one such stressful time. The kids were fighting, Mr. Butler turned up the T.V. volume to an ear-blasting level, my husband was applying a finishing touch to the new fireplace/entertainment center thing he'd built, and the fumes were making me gag. No one would come get their dinner, so, after ten minutes of repeatedly asking everyone to come and get it without result, I screamed obscenities and threw a porkchop across the room.
Remember now, I'm severely sleep deprived. It's not in my nature to assault porkchops.
Well, that got the family's attention, and they all trickled in, my husband sheepishly folding napkins, putting out silverware, and I continued dishing out food as if nothing had happened. But the T.V. was blasting, the kids still name-calling, Mr. Butler pulling on my sweater and whining for me to "habloo" (which means that he wants me to pick him up -- he's got the vocabulary of a slow twenty-five year old, but he still says "habloo") and I was trembling, seething with rage. My youngest daughter, Ariel, innocently crept up behind me and said, "Is that my plate?" to which I answered with an incomprehensible, shrieking "Indeed
!" spittle flying from my twisted mouth.
? What the hell was that all about?
My husband asked me that very same question. "What are you, a starship commander?" he said.
I am the captain of the Starship Enterprise, and I not only fling porkchops, I sing to my food as well. Tell me that isn't insane.
I'm a Hacker
This looks exactly like me, except I'm not bald and male. Or a cartoon. Still, uncanny resenblence. Notice the spewage, note the look of hatred and disgust on the doctor's face. I do that to people, too.
I think I have pneumonia.
Anyway, I had this dream last night that made me question my sanity. I dreamt that I was a lawnguy for some rich somebody 'r other, and Angelina Jolie was one of my employees. My lawn business must've been doing quite well.
So I was going about my business, pulling weeds and whatnot, coughing, and Angelina showed up riding a tractor mower, and she was wearing nothing but a tiny white bikini. I couldn't stop staring at her flat, tanned tummy, her long legs and perfect toes. And then, the most appalling thing happened -- I grabbed her from the mower, threw her down, and proceeded to ravish her like the manly brute I was. I kept saying, "I love you, Angelina," in the most frightening baritone I have ever heard come from a human being. Think Linda Blair in the Exorcist.
It's obvious that this dream symbolizes my hatred of perfect-looking young women whose tummies will never sag due to childbirth, as well as my fear of having my voice drop eighteen octaves when I'm old, like my Great Aunt Esther's did.
Or, it's just one more indication that Ms. Lori is not well. Not well at all.
Well, Yes, That Is Special!
The apparent source of inspiration for Dana Carvey's wonderful Saturday Night Live "Church Lady" character has been revealed, and she's even more horrible than he portrayed her.
Steven Farkas, Democratic candidate for mayor of Howell, NJ, is being gleefully vilified by the local Republican party for writing horror fiction.
And Church Lady appears to be the leader of the holy pack.
Norine Kelly, chairwoman of the municipal GOP club, had her silver cross at the ready, her Bible firmly in hand when she stated in part: "Some people have said Stephen King has become popular with horror stories, but in my opinion Stephen King writes a lot of Satanic books."
Which, of course, is apropos of nothing.
Norine, Norine, Norine. Woman, you slay me.
Give 'em Hell
Ashlee Simpson Don't Figger in Dis Equation
A few things I feel all warm and fuzzy about today:
1) Randy Chandler, horrormeister extraordinaire, good friend, hunka man, and all around great guy. I dunno. I just love him. Check out his latest offering, "Bad Juju."
If you like creepy, weird stories that are not only extremely well-written but fun
(Meeester Chandler will make you laugh even as you gag), then check this out. It's got sinkholes, man. What could be creepier than sinkholes?
2) I have discovered that One Whipped Mother is 14 out of 181,000
in Yahoo's engine for "mother daughter f#ck." My thanks to the obviously twisted Brit who has brought this to my attention. I shall forever be in your debt.
3) Hot Pockets with egg, ham and cheese. What a luscious way to enlarge my already generous ass. Think I'll go have another!
4) Mr. Butler's latest cuter-than-hell toddlerism. Today, after he finished having a coughing fit (poor phlumpy is sick), he looked up at me and said, "Mommy, I gotta frog in my froat. Please get it out now." Then he proceeded to have a tantrum because Mommy wouldn't stick her hand down his throat and retrieve said frog.
Isn't that the cutest thing you ever heard?
Oh, fluck you, too.
5) My brand new diamond nose stud. I feel like a woman.
A Buttful of Blogs!
So I joined this thing
the other day, and true to its promise, I have received many new visitors here at OWM -- thing is, most of those visitors are just passing acquaintances, not long term lovers. Get what I'm saying? They surf out as quickly as they surf in, and really, I'm glad of this -- based on the blogs I've visited thus far, I'd estimate 80% of those who leave quickly are:
A) Religious-faaaar-right Republicans.
B) Sixteen year olds hankering for some boobies.
C) Old ladies hankering for some knitting talk.
D) Old men hankering for some boobies.
E) African-Americans who believe the Democratic party is akin to the KKK.
F) Young ladies hankering for some knitting talk.
G) Overwhelmed stay-at-home mommies hankering for some X (I kid).
H) Named Billy-Jack or Susie-Peggy -- and they like their guns, garsh durnit.
I) Incredibly intelligent boys from India who write astonishingly well, but love their aunties way too much.
K) Poets who write astonishingly bad poetry.
L) Dog people (nothing wrong with dogs, but I can do without the blogs written in "dog voice").
M) Fiction writers who write astonishingly bad fiction.
N) Astonishingly bad writers.
0) Astonished people.
P) Crafty folk. Like dried flowers and hot glue gun crafty folk. Or empty milk jug and tin can crafty folk. Make angels out of old pantyhose crafty folk. Dreamcatchers out of old chicken bones crafty folk.
R) Girls who believe themselves possessed of the darkest soul on earth.
S) Proud owners of...whatever. They are very, very, very proud, and their blogs reflect that.
T) Boys who believe themselves possessed of the most tender soul on earth.
U) Grown women who are disturbingly little-girlish -- their blog skins are always pink and sparkly, like their lips.
V) Grown men who collect McDonald's Happy Meal toys.
W) White, wealthy, male, and apparently so.
X) Lollies, as in "LOL" people. They laugh and laugh and laugh, and they must die.
Y) Science Fiction geeks who believe William Shatner is their real father.
Z) Cereal eaters who watch the weather, as in "Today I ate some Cheerios while I watched the rain plonk against my kitchen window." Or “Yesterday was fun. I ate a bowl of Corn Flakes -- with sugar! -- while I watched the snow drift down from heaven.”
But, despite all of that, I have discovered quite a few interesting, engaging, delicious, naughty, bold, intelligent blogs, so I guess this
isn’t such a bad thing after all.
Quickies Are Sometimes More Fun
I sold my story "Two-Faced Woman" to Brutarian Quarterly (gorgeous, cutting edge pro mag) today. Should be in the Spring issue (March).
Contract's on the way; O happy day.
In other writing news: Received the third check (paperback advance) from Warner Books.
Ms. Lori's gettin' a new bra. Wheeee!
It's Beverage-Spewing Time!
A few things that made me laugh recently:
1) Pat Robertson, the most wishy-washy hypocrite of all, amuses me to no end. Sure, he‘s got that friendly preacher face and all, but man, oh, man,
What an ambivalent wiener-eater that boy is.
Typical R-R ding-dong who would drink funny-smelling Kool Aid if the current monkey-in-chief told him to (God‘s will, y‘all). Oh, he might protest a bit, maybe whimper for mercy, but he’d drink that shit up, all right.
I, of course, agree with his stance on the current abhorrent mess in Iraq, but see, unlike Robertson’s god, my
god is one of wisdom; my
god whispers in my
ear each night that, for the sake of all mankind, Bush must go. God also once told me, after I’d indulged in an entire bottle of Dom Perignon, that Bush pleasures himself with mayonnaise while reading the “good” parts of the Bible. God is too much of a gentlewoman to go into salacious detail, but I know what she meant by “good“ parts.
2) Triumph the Insult Comic Dog is a brilliant example of perverse, intelligent, raunchy-yet-adorable comedy. I think I peed my pants while watching him roast the post-debate spin doctors on Late Night with Conan O’Brien last night, but I’m not sure as it might’ve just been the beer I spewed all over my bed (which I am wont to do -- see my “Bend Over and Kiss Your Ass Goodbye” entry for August 30) when watching Joe Lockhart throw back his head with genuine, hearty laughter in response to Triumph’s Cheney/puppet quip.
Most of the Demo-doctors appeared to have a fab sense of humor, unlike their Republican counterparts, who, when confronted with the salty-mouthed sock puppet, seemed uncomfortable and put-upon as well as horrified and bordering on brain damaged, yet they grudgingly spoke with Triumph (rambled spin like Reverend Moon disciples) for the apparent fear of the Democrats getting all the camera time (Hey! We have a sense of humor, too!). Well, to be fair, one guy, forget his name, did take Triumph’s poop-slinging with good humor. The one lady, forget her name, by gosh, whom Triumph bid adieu with a casual “Have a safe trip back to Stepford“ looked as if she might shoot him in the face with the AK-47 she legally purchased at Jimmy-Bob’s Gun Show last week. Anyway, funny, funny stuff.
3) Is there anything funnier than Fidel Castro doing classic slapstick?
I think not.
When I saw this clip this morning, I spewed not beer this time, but coffee, and I enjoyed myself immensely. The tan stain on the crotch of my jammy pants will always be there to remind me of that enjoyable time, so I’m not too upset.
Father of Lies
Because I’m still sick with the flu, as is my eight-year-old daughter, I’m even more angry with the burning Bush (liar, liar, pants on fire), and instead of taking it lying down (heh), I decided to write this entry for the benefit of those who may still be undecided voters in the upcoming election (I know that it’s pointless to even try and sway my ’Publican friends -- lordy, do I know).
Let’s forget, for the moment, all of the horrors enacted by Bush upon the U.S. and the world. Difficult, yes, but let’s try, shall we? Let’s put aside the fact that Bush and his cronies have allowed a baby Armageddon to toddle across the globe, that our kids are being spat on, that our water and air are being shat into, and that world peace is but a joke, ‘kay? Okay.
How about we talk flu here, then. Flu. Influenza, an easily
controlled thing that can easily
kill if precautions are not taken. And now, thanks to Bush and his corporate-sucking administration, it is killing, Because there are no vaccines. Yeah, I realize everybody and their Uncle Dick know that there is a shortage -- but do they know the facts
? Do they know why
Here are the facts, everybody -- and please do pass this information on to your Uncle Dick:
During the last presidential debate, Bush said
the problem was that "we relied upon a company out of England.”
Wrong. Yet correct. Wah?
Bacterial contamination led British regulators to suspend the license of a vaccine plant in Liverpool on which the United States was depending for 46 million to 48 million doses, nearly half of America's supply. The plant is owned by Chiron, an American company
. [My italics.]
NY Times calls Bush on his convenient confusion.
Chiron Corp., the company whose vaccine plant was contaminated, is a California company -- subject to regulation by the U.S. government -- that operates a factory in England.
Yay for outsourcing! Uh, did I just say that? Anyway...
During the debate, President Bush also said, "We took the right action and didn't allow contaminated medicine into our country."
Wrong. As stated above, it was the British
authorities who, after inspecting the plant, revoked the factory's license on October 5th.
In June 2003, the United States Food and Drug Administration inspected the Chiron plant. Initially, the FDA found that the plant was contaminated with bacteria but later announced, "the problems were corrected to their satisfaction," and allowed the plant to continue to operate.
Of course it was.
The Philadelphia Inquirer reveals the administration's incompetence.
And so, before I go lie down, I shall leave you with this (pay special attention, you religious right-wingers):
"You are of your father the devil, and you want to do the desires of your father. He was a murderer from the beginning, and does not stand in the truth because there is no truth in him. Whenever he speaks a lie, he speaks from his own nature, for he is a liar and the father of lies."
"Now there was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan also came among them."
“For such men are false apostles, deceitful workers, disguising themselves as apostles of Christ. “
These Dreams That Sleep When it's Cold Outside
So last night I woke from a dream with tears running down my face. In this dream, I knew that I was crying, and I hated it -- the sadness was almost too much to bear -- so I forced myself out of the dream by shaking my head back and forth (lucid dreamers know this trick well), then lay awake until Mr. Butler’s “good morning!” shrieks echoed throughout the early morning darkness..
What could possibly have been so sad and so disturbing as to make Ms. Lori cry? Old, bitter crones, that’s what.
I dreamt that I was observing a mother and daughter as they searched through boxes of mementoes. The mother was about my age, perhaps a little older, I guess, and her daughter was in her late teens, maybe sixteen, seventeen, the both of them attractive in an ordinary way, light brown hair, slim, no real distinguishing features, and they sat in a bedroom -- whose, bedroom, I don’t know, but I will say that it wasn’t to my taste: traditional furniture, frilly bedspread, canopy; lovely, clean, but not my style at all -- looking through boxes, opening letters, unfolding drawings...and it was weird, because I was both the mother and
the daughter, like, inside
each of them, even though I was an outside observer. I could feel the papers and knickknacks in their hands, looked at the memorabilia through their eyes, even as I floated beside them.
Then something strange happened with the mother/me character....she/I was holding a piece of artwork (obviously made by her daughter when she was very young), and as the mother/I stared at the drawing, a simple stick figure with typical pie-plate hands and spaghetti hair, over-size yellow sun at the top of the page, her/my hands began to change form. Her/my relatively young-looking hands began to morph into gnarled, veiny old lady hands, and as that happened, the child’s drawing spun round and round on the page, first slowly, then faster, faster, until the page was filled with moving images, crackling images -- an old black and white film full of shadows and blobs of light. At first, it was hard to make out what I was watching, but as the film slowed down and evened out, I could see a little girl of about two or three running around in a suburban backyard, a backyard full of trees, a playset, a sandbox, and she was smiling at the camera, holding wild flowers up to the lens, mugging...And then she changed, too, like the mother’s/my hands, grew older by the millisecond, first losing her baby-fat cheeks, then growing breasts, her innocent smile giving way to a knowing smirk, then, finally, to a thin-lipped grimace as she became older, then older still.
The mother/I was watching the daughter turn into an old crone, and ohmygod, did it suck.
The mother/I felt helpless, indescribably sad, and angry
that she/I was forced to witness the destruction of her/my child, to feel the loneliness of the child in her last years, the isolation, the resignation, with no way to comfort the daughter because, well, I/the mother was dead...But what really confused me was that the daughter was also the mother/me. The mother/me watched ourselves, watched the daughter as she/we withered away, and we all were filled with heavy regret
I dunno. It just sucked so bad, I can’t even tell you.
I think this dream represents my fear of getting old -- am I right Freud? So the first thing I did this morning was go online and order the cutest little diamond nose stud, because, goddammit, I stopped wearing a nose ring for fear of appearing ridiculous. Because there’s nothing more pathetic than some old fuck trying to look young (think of seventy-five year old Donna Douglas, a.k.a. Ellie May Clampett, still sporting baby doll hair and hot-pink cheeks). I don’t know how I got all of this out of my dream, but it made me realize that I’ve stopped doing a lot of things that make me me
for no other reason than fear. And that in and of itself is ridiculous.
I am not a seventy-five year old Ellie May, but I am a woman who has given in to too much self-criticism, too much of the stereotypical hype of what a suburban housewife should be, and way, way too much faux complacency.
I’m thinking that when I once again see that tiny sparkle in my left nostril, I will be reminded of who I really am, and that I won't let myself slip away. And yeah, that diamond’s gonna stay there until I’m seventy-five. Hopefully beyond.
Mr. Butler's World! Episode II: The Beaver
Mommy says that she has a beaver, and I'm at a loss as to what to do about that problem. All I can
do, I suppose, is offer Mommy comfort, be a good boy and not stick Play Doh up my nose like I did last week. So this morning, I patted her arm and said, "I love you, Mommy. You have a big beaver?"
Mommy said, "Yes, phlumpy pie, I have a big beaver, and it's just awful. It won't go down at all." After she said that, a strange look passed across her poor, white face (I don't like Mommy without make-up), a look that I can't possibly describe with my limited vocabulary.
Then she laughed loud and long. Why, I haven't a clue. Perhaps, as Mommy threatens quite often enough, she has finally lost her mind. I know that Daffy Duck loses his mind all the time, and it makes him laugh a lot. But I see nothing funny about big beavers. Especially when they make Mommy feel sick. They are scary.
I feel so badly for Mommy, really I do. I heard Mommy tell Daddy that beavers can be dangerous if they cost more than 105 degrees. Mommy's costs 102 degrees, I think. Why do beavers do that to people? I wish they would just stop costing so much.
Last night, while I attempted to fall asleep, Mommy and Daddy were laughing and laughing at something on T.V. Mommy said, "Oh, my God! I can't stop laughing at his face!" And Daddy said, "I know. He's especially cartoonish tonight."
Then it was quiet for a long time, and I began to get sleepy, but Mommy made my eyes snap open by laughing so hard, she started coughing and couldn't stop for, like, forty-eleven minutes. After her coughing fit passed, she said, "Lar, you do realize that if he wins, we must
go ahead as planned. Don't wimp out on me, okay?"
And Daddy said, "Canada has really good beer, baby. Don't you worry about a thing."
Then I fell asleep until Cookie Monster knocked on my window. Cookie Monster is as bad, if not worse, than a big beaver.
R.I.P., Christopher Reeve
From Reader's Digest.com:
RD: How have political decisions slowed stem cell research?
Reeve: The religious right has had quite an influence on the debate. I don't think that's appropriate. When we're setting public policy, no one segment of society deserves the only seat at the table. That's the way it's set in the Constitution. So debate all we want, hear from everybody. And then allow our representatives to weigh the factors and make laws that are going to be ethically sound, moral, responsible, but not the result of undue pressure from any particular entity.
RD: Is it hard to be patient?
Reeve: I've lasted more than nine years, so I can wait a little longer. I also realize that a lot of people are watching me, to see what I'm going to do. I want to make sure I'm making a smart choice. I'm not at a point of desperation where I'd say, "Just somebody fix me, anywhere."
Apparently, Mr. Bush, Christopher Reeve wore out his wait.
To donate to stem cell research, please go here: Stem Cell Research Foundation
Give what you can. There are millions of men, women and children who are waiting “a little longer.”
OhoooowoooowooooOhooooo! Help me, Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Yo' Mama -- anyone! I'm so sick I can't even see straight. My throat hurts, my head hurts, I'm dizzy, nauseated, sweating, shivering, coughing and mad as the proverbial hatter.
And I sincerely mean that.
It's as if I drank a bottle of Wild Turkey in one sitting, then shoved a wild boar tusk down my throat while sitting on a block of ice in a sauna next to some huge, hairy naked guy that smells of salami (God, I'm gonna hurl).
Been a long time since I've been this sick. Like, can't get out of bed
I did, however, watch the debates last night, forced myself to stay awake despite the gallons of Nyquil and the tissues stuffed up each nostril.
Now, either I was delirious with fever or Bush actually made it through the entire debate without looking foolish. I tend to believe it was the delirium. I was so delirious that I thought I heard Bush make some funnies -- and this is just how sick I really am: I giggled. I smiled. I felt the need to touch him, wrap my arms around him, smell his hair, kiss his glaringly red neck...
I must be dying. I am not thinking in a rational manner, and I am filled with affection toward mine enemies, which, I've heard told, is the first symptom one experiences before entering the long, dark tunnel, the first warning sign that one will soon be speeding toward that bright and loving light.
So, I will say goodbye now.
But not before I state how angry I am that Google no longer lists my two-months-old website. Been over a week with no listing, though my blog is listed (and the cache regularly updated). My hits have gone down considerably this week (well, a DUH!), and I am angry. But I know why my site isn't being listed, and it's a simple reason at that: people are linking to my blog and not to my site. And there's another simple reason for that as well: I have no "links" page on my site, so I'm not linking to folks outside of my blogroll, hence no reciprocation.
Why, you may ask, do I not have a links page? Well, it's basically because my web designer didn't put one in (negligence on my part), so I've attempted to build a links page myself.
Hahahahahaaaaaaaaaa! Woo! Heehaw!
Ain't gonna happen. Not in this lifetime it ain't. I am sadly incompetent.
And I can't get hold of my web designer. So I shall remain linkpage-less until I do. Which means I shall probably remain unlisted on Google as well as various inferior search engines that I can't believe people actually use. I mean, c'mon, why do Yahoo, Dogpile and the rest even bother? You throw something in their engines and you get fifty unrelated pages. Or you get absolute shit. "Dogpile" indeed.
What the hell was I talking about, anyway? Oh, yes, the debates...
Kerry's head popped out of my T.V. last night, bounced along my bedroom floor and up onto my bed while I screamed and screamed and screamed. The head was not pleased with my Bush-affection, you see. It snuggled down into my pillow, turned to face me with its wild eyes and repeated "I believe in science, I have a plan" over and over again until I passed out.
Can you tell I'm delirious?
I see pretty rainbows and sparkly pink beings named Jed floating in my midst. I smell burnt cherry candy, and I hear bluejays screaming my name.
Now can you tell?
Hugs and kisses till I return with faculties intact...
I Like Cheney's Face
Gwen Ifill a.k.a., Opinionated Devil in the Blue Dress, surprised and intrigued me by not keeping to the traditional line of questioning and inserting her own personal assumptions and odd, what should have been internal, queries. Case in point:
Gwen (speaking to Edwards): “...There have been suicide bombings, targeted assassinations, mortar attacks, all of this continuing at a time when the United States seems absent in the peace-making process...”
Then she made sure to add “...First of all, do you agree that the United States is absent? Maybe you don't.” Y’know, so the rest of us won’t think she believes that the U.S. has been woefully negligent regarding the escalating Israeli/Palestinian violence. Which, of course, it has. But Gwen, you’re treading dangerous territory by interjecting your obvious personal beliefs within the supposed neutral zone here. Oh, well.
Gwen also glibly stated (speaking to Cheney): “It [question on U.S. joblessness and poverty] goes to the Senator. I see you. I just asked him about Israel, even though we didn't actually talk about it much
.” Wrong, Gwen. Stop thinking out loud.
So Cheney, the Tranquil Robot goes: "I concede the point."
Big audience laughs all around.
Which then forces Edwards to pout (and he did pout, charmingly, I might add) and defend himself like that of a five-year-old whose baby sister just made up a big lie about him stealing her candy so that he’ll get in trouble with Mommy, when in fact it was the baby sister who stole his
candy.: “No, I did talk about it, Israel. He's
the one who didn't talk about it.”
Gwen then reached across the table and smoothed a stray lock of hair from John’s eye while murmuring, “I know, baby. I know you did.. Mommy’s sorry.”
A resounding “awwwww” from the audience echoed throughout the hall.
Really, a touching display.
Cheney was on, I must admit. He came across well, appeared intelligent, commanding, not too snide. I softened when he thanked Edwards for his comments regarding his family (during the question on gay marriage): “Well, Gwen, let me simply thank the senator for the kind words he said about my family and our daughter. I appreciate that very much.” And he seemed very sincere while saying that. He even waived his rebuttal, which, I thought, was classy. Gave me the impression that he mightily agrees with Edwards on Bush’s assholish and unnecessary Constitutional ban wish.
Both candidates, in my opinion, did well, and even though things got a bit heated at times, neither of them appeared foolish or bumbling or condescending -- it was a dignified debate, and I was happy of that.
Too bad Cheney’s a big money-grubbing liar, but hey, at least he doesn't fill me with intense hatred whenever I see his face. His boss, on the other hand...
It's All About Mr. Terry
T.M. Wright is not only one of my favorite authors, he’s an amazing artist as well. Check out the cover art for his soon-to-be released novella “The Eyes of the Carp.”
Sir Wright allowed me the privilege of reading an advanced version of this, but I wouldn’t allow myself to finish because I want the whole experience -- the smell of the paper, the feel of the book, the weight in my hands. I can’t wait to get this lovely in my clutches. Soon, my pretties, soooon.
I’ll say this much: Kevin is one of the weirdest, funniest, creepiest
characters I’ve encountered in a very long time. It may just be that TEofC will surpass my current favorite Wright creation, “Cold House,”
but we’ll see. If you haven’t read “Cold House,” you’ve missed something special, something that is literary yet accessible, dark, beautiful, haunting...
Gawd, go get it already!
Mr. Butler's World! Episode I: The Thing At My Window
Since I kept Mommy and Daddy up again last night, I thought I would show all of you why exactly I did that. Behold the horror:
I have come to realize that it is beyond any reason or rational thought why I should in fact be frightened by such a thing, but the sad fact is, I am. It shames me terribly to admit this. I have apologized over and over to Mommy and Daddy for my admittedly ridiculous phobia, and Lord knows they try to understand the terror Cookie Monster invokes in me, but, alas, they will never truly understand.
How could they possibly know the fear that I experience when Cookie Monster knocks on my window at night, the sick, unadulterated fear that grips my little soul each and every night when Mommy shuts my bedroom door? It waits until Mommy and Daddy are sound asleep, that bad Cookie Monster, to come a-knocking at my window, to sing to me with its satanic growl while wiggling its horrific eyes...It is madness, it is mind-numbing torture, and he knows it.
Oh, I try to be a nice boy and stay in my bed, I do. I lie there sweating, pee-pee soaking my jammy pants, and I try to not scream, to not run into the blinding light of the hallway shrieking Mommy's name. But Cookie Monster is scary, and I have only so much fortitude in my tiny body.
I am weak.
I hope to one day defeat this dumb poopy-head, to be a man and face my tormenter with solid courage, perhaps while wielding a Tonka truck in one hand and my squirt gun in the other, but until that day, I shall remain terrified and helpless, dependant on Mommy or Daddy to make Cookie Monster go away. For the time being, I can only apologize and beg Mommy and Daddy for their patience. I will be three years old in about four months, which, I've heard mention at the playground, is the turning point for most men -- it is the point at which I will no longer allow my imagined fears to overcome my rationale. It will be a time of great rejoice and lots of cake. I'm looking forward to it.
Till then, I will be armed with Tonka truck by my side, squirt gun under my pillow, both at the ready for that magical turning point when I will be brave enough to use them, like the man in this story:
L A N G H O R N E, Pa., June 21 — A man's plan to have his young daughter meet the Cookie Monster crumbled when he was arrested for allegedly assaulting the furry blue Sesame Street character.
"People started yelling at me that I should be ashamed of myself for hitting Cookie Monster. I did not kick or punch Cookie Monster. The cop did not want to hear my side of the story, and I got arrested," said McPhatter, who described the character as his 3-year-old daughter Mina's favorite.
Read more about this good daddy.
I love him.
The Way I Saw It
Kerry tried as best he could in two minute intervals to lay out an overview of his plans regarding bringing troops home, ensuring homeland security, and enlisting the help of our erstwhile U.N. Friends to finish the job the right way in Iraq as well as his plans to engage in bilateral diplomacy (the six-way talks have proven unsuccessful) to get that snaky, dangerous old man Kim Jong-il to cease and desist with his nuclear weapons program. Kerry also tried as best he could, sans butting in and stealing an extra thirty seconds without asking permission like some other candidate
(really, now, Mr. President, I realize that you feel you’re above most laws and regulations, but the debate rules state...) to repudiate Bush’s tiresome claims that he isn’t consistent with his views on Iraq. Basically he said that the president mislead the American people with his bogus “intelligence,” lies and misinformation meant to frighten and dismay, meant to sway and disarm normally clear-headed, righteous people into backing Bush’s ass in his megalomaniacal quest.
Hell, even I
backed his ass. In the beginning. When I believed the lies. Before he devastated U.S. economy, dug us into the biggest deficit hole in history, and took away funding for everything from school programs to health care to firefighters and police. Before he ignored the number one post-911 priority: homeland
security. Before he allowed assault rifles to once again haunt our cities. Why, that fuck.
But anyway. Kerry tried, and he did better than well. He presented himself as trustworthy, level-headed, determined and very, very presidential.
Bush, on the other stinking hand, appeared the fool, as usual. How embarrassing. What a disgrace. Lie after lie after lie flew from his smirking, constipated face, nothing that was new, nothing that would lead me to believe he knows what he’s doing -- sure, he told
us he knew what he’s doing, he told
us, ad nauseam
, just how consistent a man he is. Yes, of course you are, fool. You’ve been consistent with your lies and delusions, and you’ve been consistent as all mighty hell regarding your determination to continue murdering our ill-equipped young men and women, as well as Iraq’s. You’re determined to stay on the same useless, crumbling path, and you are consistent with your views that the rest of the world, never mind America, need not utter one word of dissent, because really, you just don’t care. You are right, the rest of the world outside your own little privileged cave, is wrong.
Bush has taken America from being an example of respectful, compassionate leadership, a country where milk and honey truly were attainable by everyone
, and buried her beneath bumbling rhetoric and fear, divided her into us
. How sad. How surreal that America has come to this, that half of our people condone and encourage this.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think that he was an evil wizard.