Wait and Vomit

I sort of made this pact with myself that I wouldn’t publish anything when I was stabby. Sort of like hiding the phone when you’re drunk, you know? I don’t want to stabby-post and then regret it later. Which is why I’ve been remarkably silent this week.

Is it just me or have the last couple of weeks been weird? Allow me to review:

  1. Juan Williams gets freaked out by clothed Muslims.
  2. Brett Favre supposedly has a photogenic penis.
  3. Marie Claire doesn’t like fat people.
  4. Rand Paul supporters like to stomp people who exercise that whole free speech thing I thought Tea Partiers were so fond of.
  5. Christine O’Donnell kind of hooks up, kind of doesn’t, and is totally gross for not waxing.
  6. The vice-president of the Midland School District in Pleasant Plains, Arkansas resigned due to comments he made about the gays. Comments such as, “Seriously they want me to wear purple because five queers killed themselves. Theonly way im wearin it for them is if they all commit suicide. I cant believe the people of this world have gotten this stupid.”

Sigh.

I sort of saved everything up for today. I’m going to get all this out of my system at once. Then I’m going to go get a McRib. Because I’ve been craving one all week, and I have a feeling the restraint I’m about to show is going to use up a lot of calories.

Okay…

The only thing I have to say now about Juan Williams is that one wonders if naked Muslims would freak him out more than clothed ones. I mean, maybe we should pass a law that not only can’t those Big Scary Muslims  wear burqas and stuff, they can’t wear ANYTHING! Yeah, I like that. Because someone outwardly identifying as a member of THE SECOND LARGEST RELIGION IN THE WORLD is really scary. Juan, I want to applaud your honesty, but your bonehead is getting in the way.

And speaking of boneheads…Brett. Brett, what the hell? Do the names Monica Lewinsky and Tiger Woods not mean anything to you? If you wanted to take the focus on what a crappy season you’re having, congratulations! You did it. But you know what–I don’t want to single you and your Lil’ Brett out. I understand there are lots of guys out there who think that sending a pretty girl a grainy, crappy camera phone picture of their Johnson is just the thing to make her panties fall straight to the floor. Let me take this opportunity to say: YOU ARE WRONG. Now, get a pencil, because what I’m about to say is important. You ready?

Guys, really, your lady is being totally serious when she says she loves your junk.  Totally serious AT THAT MOMENT. We do not want an 8×10 glossy of it perched between pictures of our college graduation and the obligatory trip to Cabo with our girlfriends. You do not need prop it up on pillows like it’s a cute wittle puppy and make it say cheese. Taken out of context, your penis is ridiculous. While you may enjoy the sort of up-close, gynecological shots that would make doctors question exactly what part of the body is being featured, WOMEN DO NOT. Please, for the love of all that’s holy, stop taking pictures of your dick. Believe me when I say, in this case the camera DOES NOT add five pounds inches.

I’m coming back to Marie Claire in a minute. I’m still warming up for that one.

Dear Tea Party,

Thank you. Your ridiculous antics only help the moderates.  And while your concern for Rand Paul and his person is touching, you don’t get to beat up people with differing views. Ever.  You know those Brown Shirts you like bringing up? That’s what they did.

You are an amazing study in contrasts. You don’t want to pay taxes to support things like, oh, I don’t know, police, but then when some kid from the camp across the lake infiltrates your bonfire, what do you do? Scream for the police. I like how you talk out of both sides of your mouth and your ass all at once. Brilliant trick, that.

Love,

Suz

Now, Christine O’Donnell. Yeah. I hate doing this, but I have to say I feel badly for the woman. Some asshat who can’t even close the deal comes out and says, oh yeah, she was totally drunk, came on to me, I took her home for nookie, but intercourse is the only REAL sex there is, and she wasn’t having any of that, so we didn’t do it. And oh yeah, like MANY WOMEN, she doesn’t wax. So gross.

Once again a woman going out, getting a little drunk, and hooking up is a horrible, terrible crime against humanity and she shouldn’t be allowed in public—let alone run for office.  And the poor victim of this crime, some also-drunk dude who was denied his God-given right to pass through the lady’s Golden Gates, needs to tell his story so voters can see what a terrible choice it would be to vote for this disgusting woman who doesn’t even wax. I’m over this. Over.  You want to show this woman is unfit for office, do it by highlighting the fact she doesn’t seem to understand the First Amendment.  If your entire case for why she’d make a terrible member of Congress is that she wore a ladybug costume and gave you blue balls, yr doin it rong.

I want to skip over the fact that this dude in Arkansas is a homophobic nut for a second, and talk about grammar. Look, I know I play fast and loose with the rules of punctuation, spelling, and Englishy stuff like that there, but I have to tell you if I were representing my local school board, I might run my screeds through an editing program before I published them. I mean, really? REALLY?

And dude, look, you may not like them queers, but as a school board member, you represent them. Whether you know it or not, okay? And whether you like it or not, you have an obligation to ensure them queers get the same education as everyone else. You don’t want to wear purple, fine. I don’t like wearing red. I just fail to understand how wearing purple for a day ruins your life. Because that’s what you said.  You said, “We are honoring the fact that they sinned and killed thereselves because of their sin. REALLY PEOPLE…being a fag does not give you the right to ruin the rest of our lives.” Then, inexplicably, you say that you don’t care how people live their lives as long as they keep that shit to themselves.

I would ask the same of you, sir. Keep that shit to yourself. You want to be an ignorant, bigoted, hate-monger, keep that shit to yourself. Also? Clint McChance would be a great gay porn name. So you’ve got that working for you.

Now, back to Marie Claire.  Let me just fill you in on the off chance you don’t know why I’m giving Marie Claire magazine The Asshat of the Week award.  Deep breath. It seems Marie Claire ran a piece by a woman called Maura Kelly. Feel free to look it up. I’m not going to link to it because page hits generate ad revenue, but feel free to go on your own.  Ms. Kelly wrote a piece—one assumes while under the influence of various psychotropic drugs—that she said was inspired by her editor asking her if it made her uncomfortable seeing fat people make out on TV. “Because I can be kind of clueless,” she wrote, and I’m just going to stop there because I think it was really the only insightful part of the piece, and I want to be fair.

The point is that Ms. Kelly does not like fat people. They gross her out. They jiggle. They are unhealthy. They clearly don’t understand basic nutrition like EAT LESS AND EXCERICE MORE. Because the fatz makes you stupid, DUH. Now, don’t get her wrong! She’s got plump friends! But obesity is something people have a “ton” (See what she did there?!) of control over!

Then she goes on to critique another show—one of the Real Housewives franchise—even though she hasn’t seen it either! I think it’s important to say, at this point, what she’s keeping secret: Being thin and healthy (two words she seems to think are synonyms) makes you omniscient. It’s true. Because she’s thin-n-healthy, she doesn’t NEED to watch these shows to have an opinion about them! She’s just that good!

What’s grosser than watching a Fattie McFaterson waddling across an Applebee’s? THINKING ABOUT ONE HAVING SEX!! EWWWWWW!! And really, one could only imagine Fattie having sex because NO ONE FAT WOULD EVER REALLY HAVE SEX! Oh, but it’s okay because an anorexic or a drug addict are gross too! Really!

But Ms. Kelly did not write a piece about disgusting anorexics or drug addicts, and after working my way through her oeuvre, I can’t tell that she ever has. And I think one need only substitute “obese” for “gay”, “black”, “Mexican”, or any number of other descriptives to see how completely bogus her line of reasoning is.

Many people have questioned why Ms. Kelly’s editor let this piece run in the first place, and I think that’s a really naïve question. The piece generated hits. The piece generated buzz. The piece generated ad revenue. Fat-shaming and discrimination is tolerated. It is acceptable. Fashion magazines have been doing it as long as they’ve been around. I defy you to find any online article about obesity WITHOUT a comment either in the article or in the comments on the article, where someone does not say one or more of the following things:

  • Fat people just don’t have self control.
  • You’re only obese because you’re lazy.
  • I’m just worried about the kids.
  • I’m just worried about your health. I want you to be healthy.
  • You choose to be fat.
  • Fat people don’t have fulfilling social lives.

Oh, I could go on. I won’t, but I could. I find it interesting that when we show overweight people doing normal things, we’re glorifying obesity. And, as a friend pointed out, it’s questionable logic to equate overweight people making out with America’s obesity epidemic.

I don’t mind discussion. I think differing views are interesting. And I suppose that’s why it’s so hard for me to grasp why, “Yes, I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t agree, and let me tell you why…” isn’t a part of more public discussions. How is that difficult? I’ve said that a lot (and had it said to me), and it leads to some interesting talks. Occasionally–not often, but sometimes–I’ve both changed a mind and had my mind changed. Of course, it also requires that the other person listen and respond and not just wait and vomit.

I’m Way Stabby

I have nothing positive to say today. Between Tea Partiers stomping people, anti-choice nimrods, and good, old-fashioned pissiness, I’m over today. To cheer myself up, I’ve just watched two of my absolute favorite comedy sketches ever. Enjoy.

Queue Wars

So, here’s the thing. Tomorrow in the mail I will be receiving Robin Hood from Netflix. Ask me which version. Which version, you ask? No clue. Ask me when I put that in the queue. When did you put it in the queue, you ask? Never. I never put it in the queue.  Would you like to know why I didn’t put it in the queue? It’s because had I tried, had I even sat down at the computer with the thought of putting something in the queue, my adorable—generally mild-mannered—husband would have had his Spidey Sense activated and would then drop whatever he had in his hands, start sniffing the air, and come crashing through the roof of the house, all in an attempt to stop me from putting a season of Mad Men in the queue and thereby forcing out Sands of Iwo Jima. A movie he has seen 7,564 times.

The battle of the sexes has moved from boardrooms and bedrooms. It is now fought in the eerie blue light of the computer screen where the Netflix queue is displayed.

I have said this before, but I really think the solution to our economic woes is to put couples on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and tell them they are negotiating for queue positions. Our negotiations generally go something like this:

ME: I’ll give you disc 1 of the new season of Battlestar Galactica and Cahill: U.S. Marshall for disc 1 of Mad Men.

HUSBAND: Fine, but I want Jet Li’s Fearless in exchange for Vera Drake.

ME: Well, by the time we cycle around, it will be the weekend, you’ll be home, and we probably both want to watch Dr. Who. So, I’ll move it up, follow it with Mad Men because I can watch it during the day and turn it back around, and I’ll give you The Guns of Navarone for the first of the next week.

HUSBAND: Okay, but make sure you don’t get any of the Battlestar Galactica discs out of order. I have my lawyer on speed dial, remember.

ME: Uh-huh. And I could replace you with batteries.

HUSBAND: You. Wouldn’t. Dare. You couldn’t. After a week you’d be crawling over to my side of the bed like you were in the desert looking for water.

ME: Give me back disc 2 of Mad Men and you’ll never have to find out.

There are many divisions of labor in our house. I do not keep the books. We would all be screwed. He does not do the grocery shopping as he doesn’t know how to buy the right kind of toilet paper. Somehow, and I’m not sure how, he’s become the Gollum of Netflix. He’s Baron Von Queue. The King of the Queue, Ruler of All Movies and Keeper of the Order of DeeVeeDee. Somehow this rather (publicly) mild mannered, lovely man who counts Housekeeping among his favorite movies has turned into THE MAN WHO WILL ONLY WATCH A MOVIE IF IT’S AN HOUR AND A HALF OF BLOWING SHIT UP. In his defense, it could be blowing shit up in WWII. Blowing shit up in space. Blowing shit up while riding a horse. Blowing shit up with zombies. His is a non-discriminatory world of blowing shit up.

Look, normally I read articles like “My Husband Leaves His Undewear on the Floor!” and want to puke. I listen to couples we know and hear stuff like I wanted us to see “When In Rome” and all he did was fall asleep! and I get all yeah, I’d fall asleep too. As a defense mechanism for not having to watch that load of crap. Don’t misunderstand that this is some girly rant against any movie with blood and gore and blowing shit up. This is about the people we turn into when the Netflix queue is in play. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You see a whole other side of your queue partner, is what I’m saying.

Tomorrow, should you want to come over with some popcorn, I suppose HE will be watching Robin Hood. I will be in front of my computer streaming It Might Get Loud.