If You Call Me a Cracker, I'll Call You a Fool
Well,
Zoechi, you wouldn't be the first person to accuse me of racism because of something innocuous I’ve written, so that must mean that I am, in fact, a racist! Good call, Barney! Oh, and forgive my assumption here, but…
in·noc·u·ous [i nókyoo əss] adj --
1. unlikely to offend: not intended to cause offense or provoke a strong reaction and unlikely to do so
2. harmless: harmless in effect -- an innocuous white powder Note: That’s “white
powder,” not “power,” m’kay, chief?
It is downright despicable, I agree, to find humor in this oftentimes depressing world we all live in. Would you believe I once even made fun of Paris Hilton's hanging, white ass-flaps! And Condi Rice's curious circa 1953 Barbie hairdo -- I particularly enjoyed writing that one. I've hurled insults at Madonna, and yes, even Puff Daddy, er...Shaun Combs Diddy...I mean, PeePee Doody. Whatever. Can’t stand him and his self-loving,lifting-other-people's-work-and-calling-it-original antics.
Some more “racist” statements to make your hair curl (oops, was that a slur?):
Ebonics = Inexplicable “dialect” that makes the user sound like an idiot.
I think illegal aliens are called “illegal aliens” for a very good reason. My great-grandparents immigrated, assimilated, and produced future generations of Americans
without cheating and lying and thumbing their noses at our laws. Yes, it was difficult for them, but doing things the right way usually is.
I think Louis Farrakhan is a complete moron with an Allah complex.
I believe that anyone who is at least fifty percent Native American should not be required to pay taxes -- ever. The fact that my husband is part Native American has nothing whatsoever to do with that belief, by the way. Well, okay, maybe a tad…
Many years ago, while some friends and I watched a documentary on a certain tribe in Africa, a people that wear plates in their lips, I laughed so hard, I cried. Sure, we’d smoked a bit of weed that night, but men who look like ducks and clack when they talk tend to make me laugh really hard, anyway.
Drug addicts who keep producing children should be sterilized. And perhaps, anyone named “Whitney Houston.”
Scholarships and/or acceptance into university should be based on the quality of the student’s grades, not the color of his or her skin.
I believe that all people are equal, thus do not believe they should be given special treatment based on race. When one group is given preference regarding jobs and education, kind of makes the word “equal” irrelevant, doesn’t it?
Regarding the workplace, an able-bodied man, black or white, or whatever race, has the advantage over an able-bodied, equally qualified woman.
FYI: Women make approximately
eighty cents on every dollar a man makes, despite the fact she often bears total responsibility of child-rearing, household expenses, childcare, etc, due to runaway baby daddies.
“Are We Ready For a Male President?” There’s a headline you won’t ever see.
“President Obama Ends War in Iraq!” And that’s a headline I hope we do see.
I find political correctness to be about as appealing as used toilet paper.
I hate mankind, all of it, and I love it as well. But most of all, I feel very, very sorry for the state of insanity we've settled into -- easily, comfortably, I might add. And that is why I laugh -- so that I don't curl up and cry myself to an early grave.
I laugh because the alternative would be much too easy, and I've never been one to take the easy route.
I strongly suggest you dig in your heels lest you continue on your easy ride down, you fish-eyed fool.
And guess what? I refuse to apologize to any fish-eyed people who may be reading this. People with fish eyes are funny, for Christ's sake!
Dreaming of David Letterman
Okay, so I deleted the posts that had to do with O.J. Satan, because, really, I see no point in having them up now. They were taking up room, and anybody that knows me knows I like a tidy space.
But hey, David Letterman appeared in my dream world last night, which was very welcome indeed. I’ve had a silly crush on that man since I was a wee tot (look, at my age, eighteen or nineteen is wee), yet never dreamt of him before. No, I usually dream of Elton John and old Daddy Bush, occasionally Wolfgang Puck, and once, Ashton Kutcher, but it is the rare delight when my crushes grace me with their celestial presence.
Oh, hang on a sec….I just remembered my Bill Clinton dream, back when he was running the country, and OOOOO-weeeeeeeeeeeeee! that was a hot dream, for sure. I’d been dressed as a Native American maiden, and Bill had nothing on but a rawhide diaper, and I was riding his back like the magnificent stallion he is, and…
Anyway.
I sent Mr. Letterman a video of myself prancing about, striking super model poses in a room of mirrors, all while performing a killer standup routine -- fully clothed, mind you -- and lo and behold, he really, really enjoyed it, so much so, he appeared before me while I was investigating a haunted house here in Rochester.
Thing is, although he
said he enjoyed my video, and I
felt the sexual tension between us, I also felt a strange awareness of being mocked. I studied the gap between his teeth, his lips, his eyebrows, for signs of mockery, but saw only expressions of lust. Yet, something didn’t set right with me, something familiar was tapping at the door of Common Sense Central (an exclusive club located somewhere deep in my brain). It was a recognizable, nostalgic feeling, that finger-down-the-backbone feeling of public humiliation -- you know, like when that group of kids in eighth grade pretended to like you, were nice to you when they weren’t with their posse, but when
in flagrante posse, whispered and snickered when you walked past them in the hall, or when those same kids sat behind you on the bus and shot spitballs into your hair, when only moments before, they‘d asked for your help on a homework assignment?
Yeah,
that feeling.
Before I could fully grasp the reasoning behind my unpleasant feelings of being made fun of, despite Mr. Letterman’s apparent lust for yours truly (and when I say “apparent,” I mean APPARENT), Conan O’Brien stuck his head around the corner, gave me a toothy grin, then proceeded to groom himself by licking his arm while emitting odd cat-like sounds. End of dream.
I ate about fifteen pounds of leftover turkey last night, by the way.
ADDENDUM: Ooops. Totally didn't even think about the fact that if I delete my Open Letter to O.J. Simpson post, folks coming from
Slate will be greeted with a big ball of empty nothingness...Sorry. I am, most certainly, a giant dick.
Nancy Pelosi in da House!
And
Rumsfeld is resigning.
My sweet Lennon. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday gift.
Stay tuned for more in-depth punditry from Ms. Lori…Only, not today. I’ve a frighteningly bad cold, and so began
drinking self-medicating at noon.
You know how it is.
Whenever I Feel Like Running Out into Busy Traffic...
...A compulsion I‘ve had since childhood, a little voice from below always saves me from myself…
Boy: Mommy, I like the way you smell.
Me: Thank you, sweetheart!
Boy: Yeah, you smell better than Daddy.
Me: I do?
Boy: Uh huh. Daddy smells like bugs, but you smell pretty.
Me: Daddy doesn’t smell like bugs -- he smells like oatmeal.
Boy: Well, I think boys smell terrible, and girls smell good! Girls smell yummy! ***
Boy rubs tummy, licks his lips, and goes “mmmm yuuuuum“***
Me, horrified and appalled, yet enchanted: You will not be dating until you reach the age of twenty-five, son.
Boy, finger up nose: Mommy, can I have a waffle with sip [syrup]?
Scodd
A conversation between me and the boy yesterday:
Boy: Mommy, who makes all the butterflies?
Me, charmed: Why, butterflies are made from caterpillars [delete entire caterpillar to chrysalis to beautiful butterfly explanation].
Boy, bored out of his skull: No, Mommy! I mean who
makes the butterflies? Who, Mommy?
Me, slightly amused: Okay, well, I think that God might just be behind all of this butterfly business, then…Yes?
Boy, aggravated: No! No, no no! You mean SCODD makes the butterflies! SCODD does!
Me, confused as hell: Scodd? What's "Scodd"?
Boy: You know! Daddy's friend who was here when it was hot out and then it rained, and we had to play in the house, and then we ate potato chips and dip?
Me, brain whirring like a Mac: Sco…? ***
light bulb moment*** Oh! Oh, for Christ's…You mean Todd? [My husband's business partner] The man with a little boy named Zach?
Boy: Yes! Scodd!
Me, belly-laughing inside my head: But, honey, what makes you think Todd makes the butterflies?
Boy: Daddy told me! I asked him where butterflies come from, and he told me Scodd makes them.
**************************************************************
Note: You would be correct in assuming that our family is not a particularly religious one...
Who the Hell is Krista Allen?
And what about my man-twins?
I demand man-twins!
