Archive for the ‘Spoonful of Schadenfreuden’ Category

Blood Simply

December 13, 2007

This is going to be a rare public service announcement.  Don’t act so shocked.

I would like to urge all three of my readers to donate blood platelets  at your earliest convenience.

Cancer patients, those receiving  organ or marrow transplants,  victims of traumatic  injuries, and patients undergoing open heart surgery require platelet transfusions to survive.

Many of you know someone who has one of the above mentioned medical conditions.  If you have ever wondered how you could help.  This is it.

I try to give platelets once a month.  You are allowed to give up to 24 times a year.  It takes about two hours for the blood to get sucked out of your body, the platelets to get filtered out, and the blood to be put back in.  It’s very similar to what Keith Richards does before getting up in the morning.

They have a DVD library and televisions with headphones set up for you to enjoy while the apheresis  is taking place.  I was planning on a morning of watching The Big Lebowski and my precious bodily fluids draining out, but Sarcastro, Jr. is running a fever.   It’s sick kid duty for me!

Contact the Red Cross and see if you can help them out.


Sexual Confusion

August 28, 2007

It doesn’t really come as a big shocker that yet another elected official/watchdog of public morality turns out to be a closeted peter puffer. Allegedly. Whether Senator Craig likes dick or not isn’t really interesting to me. Here are my questions concerning this George Michaellian escapade.

When did the Minneapolis airport become a hotbed of illicit man-action?

Couldn’t Senator Craig gotten some numbers from Barney Frank or Jeff Gannon?

When did tapping your foot while taking a dump become the international sign for “glory hole”?

What does it mean to the perverted menace that stalks our public restrooms when you clear your throat or make that straining sound as you squeeze one out?

Shouldn’t the secret signal for getting gay in the public restroom be this sound?

UPDATE: Upon further review, it is pretty clear that Senator Craig’s story doesn’t hold water. As the details of this incident are coming out, you would have to be a complete stooge not to accept that he is lying. Normally, just having the word “Senator” in front of ones name is enough to be considered a premier prevaricator.

Innocent people don’t plead guilty and hide the entire sorry event from friends and family. Look at it this way, if you were minding your own business, dropping a deuce in an airport restroom, tapping your feet to the crazy beats in your head, and the cops arrested you for being a sex-crazed queer-o-sexual, wouldn’t you be angry at this abuse of power rather than ashamed? Most of the time, innocent people get indignant and outraged at a false accusation. They don’t sheepishly and quietly accept a plea hoping that their wives don’t find out about it (again).

This cat(amite) is supposedly a member of an exclusive club of the most powerful 100 politicians in the country–The United States Senate. Wouldn’t he just have to pick up a phone to have this cops badge thrown in the trash and his head mounted (damn, these jokes just write themselves) on his wall? Well, he would if he were innocent of whatever “crime” he committed.

Jack Shafer, writing in Slate has the best take so far,

I guess that loathe as I am to sympathize with Craig, I’m with the “why was this a crime?” crowd. Laws against public sex are understandable. Laws against merely soliciting someone for sex are something else entirely. Might as well sent the SWAT teams into singles bars too, then. Maybe the foot tapping and paper-snatching really are code for “let’s do it in the stall.” I don’t know. But Craig didn’t actually engage in the lewd behavior. Didn’t get that far. Aside from the peeping charge, which was thrown out, the only thing I can see that he’s guilty of is looking for a willing sex partner. And I can’t see how that is or should be a crime.

Field of Screams

July 24, 2007

WordPress has thwarted my attempt to get a poll loaded up here.  Better to blame the “nameless, faceless corporation” than to admit to my own shortcomings.  Here it is:

Which Would You Rather See? 

Barry Bonds break Hank Aaron’s home run record.


Barry Bonds drop dead at the plate of a massive, steroid-induced coronary. 

Pretend to vote now!

My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys

April 11, 2007

Welcome to the Golden Era of Manufactured Outrage! Add a couple of race warlords and a slow news week, and you have the recipe for a colossal waste of time.

Don Imus said something stupid and has apologized for it. Period. He doesn’t owe you anything. He doesn’t deserve to lose his job. His job, oddly enough, is to make outrageous and humorous comments about the day’s news, sports and pop culture. He takes potshots at a lot of people. Most of them deserve it. The Rutgers women did not.

Although Imus may make racially charged comments on the air, his personal and philanthropic life is a testament to Imus has fallen into the Tarantino/Wigger trap. He is pals with Harold Ford, Jr. Bishop G.E. Patterson and Suge Knight. His affinity for blacks and black culture led him to believe he could say the same things a black man could say. Dave Chapelle can get away with it. Don Imus can’t. Hell, Imus should have called someone a “faggot”. He could have picked up a NAACP Image Award.

As for the good Reverends Sharpton and Jackson, in that Bible that they claim some familiarity with, it says something about cleaning the log out of your own eye before going after the mote in your neighbor’s eye. A Jewish fellow said that, I believe. Maybe he would feel at home in Hymietown? You know Reverend Thurmond Sharpton, maybe he could get work as a diamond merchant.

The worst part of this is that I find myself agreeing with Pat Robertson. Fuck.

When this hopefully blows over in two weeks, maybe CBS Radio will assign Andy Rooney as co-host on the Imus program.

They can call it Imus n’ Andy.


MSNBC has announced they will no longer carry the simulcast of the Imus in the Morning program. Their new slogan should read, “One Less Reason To Watch!” Now that Keith-O has taken a full tilt boogie to the unapologetic left, there aren’t any reasons to watch. Well, maybe Contessa Brewer and Amy Robach. But that’s it, I swear.

This isn’t surprising, really. The marketplace has spoken. With the sponsors bailing out, it isn’t personal, it’s business. Although, if I owned a radio station in Nashville, I would have Imus In The Morning as my morning drive time program. It is an intentionally funny program, unlike Steve Gill, Phil Valentine, The Morning Zoo, et. al.

Exposer of scammery K. Coble, said something recently that I can relate to this Imus brouhaha. In talking about how atheists interact with her and her beliefs, she said,

…they respect me enough to not speak derisively about a part of my life that is precious to me. Or if they do, they know that we all know where the boundaries are and that we put up with it as a joking term of our friendship.

What KC is saying is not to far from the op/ed piece in the LA Times by civil rights attorney, Constance Rice. Condi’s cousin has a fair take on this dust-up.

Although, the best take I’ve read so far is the teaser over at Deus Ex Malcontent.

If there has been a larger, more prominent non-issue to capture the attention of the media and subsequently be force-fed to the American public, I’m completely unaware of it.

There are caveats and subtexts and derivatives and offshoots of this whole row which are certainly worth debating, but the basic arguments that I’m about to make, as far as I’m concerned, are bulletproof; don’t even waste your breath claiming otherwise.

Among those arguments: that this miasma represents the widest gap in the history of modern media saturation between the size and importance of an event — and the size of the reaction that followed it; that the Draconian measures demanded by the professional victims claiming to have been severely injured by a washed up shock-jock’s very stupid joke — the Jesse Jacksons and Al Sharptons of the world — are nothing short of chilling, and represent a dangerous threat to freedom of speech and expression; that the reverent deification of the Rutgers Women’s Basketball team and its “dignified reaction” is both unjustified and just plain bizarre; that the selective demonization of one radio show host while failing to direct that same level of persecution at radio hosts who are not only racist and sexist, but who outright lie, is utterly unfair; and that, likewise, the failure to confront hip-hop artists who make entire careers and truckloads of money out of debasing women and setting civil rights advances back decades by acting like modern day minstrels renders this entire controversy moot.

I couldn’t have said it better myself. Clearly, if you have read this far, it is more than apparent I couldn’t.

The worst part for me is…no more Cardinal Egan.

A Message For All The Bloggers With A Case of The Sniffles

December 5, 2006

(Jumpcut video temporarily disabled)

FistTap: Big Roy.

When Does That Seinfeld DVD Come Out?

November 30, 2006

Maybe for the next season’s collection, they can add this as an easter egg.

(YouTube user has removed video, sorry)

Cruelly Funny

September 26, 2006

Comedy always works best when it is mean-spirited.

John Cleese


Bloody Shame

September 6, 2006

For what has been a beautiful week otherwise, the pleasant weather has been tainted by a layer of ugly name calling in the local spherical object relating to web logs.    Some of it deserved, some of it not.  I normally enjoy a healthy dose of hurtful conflict and bitter recrimination. 

The most recent and egregious example reminded me of a recent Fred Reed column.   I expect better from you Aunt B.  Your insights are consistently better than the usual guilty white liberal bleating.  The following bit from Fred doesn’t necessarily directly address B’s problem with ACK’s post, but gives us an understanding of her motivations.

I found myself some time ago under social circumstances in a group that included an angry radical feminist, which is to say a radical feminist. Out of nowhere that I remember, she announced, “Men are sexist pigs.” Such assertions are par for the species.

It was not easy to know how to respond. She was clearly attacking. You don’t insult a group some of whose members are present unless you mean to offend. While I may have doubts about, say, the legitimacy of psychotherapy, I do not say while dining with a practitioner, “Therapists are swinish frauds.” While “sexist” might be regarded with sufficient straining as a political category, “pig” is a schoolyard insult. The comment was simply ill-bred. So are feminists.

I could have responded, “Women are useless bitches.” The problem is that I don’t think that women are either useless or bitches. A few are, yes. A few men are sexist pigs, and I don’t like them either. True, I don’t care for some of the attitudes that seem to characterize a lot of American women. This is far thinking that women are pigs or bitches.

Why do feminists go out of their way to be disagreeable? Much of human behavior is templated. Certain kinds of personality do certain things. They can’t help it. Common templates are the True Believer, the Hater, and the Victim. The salient point is that the template comes first, the content second and sometimes almost as an afterthought. They are like empty forms waiting to be filled in.

The True Believer needs to believe in something truly and, really, doesn’t much care what: Christianity, evolution, Islam, Marxism or market forces. He needs the certitude. He doesn’t need to hate anyone, however. For example, evolutionists do not.

The Hater does need to hate something. Sometimes the choice is obvious, as when a black in the slums comes to hate Whitey. Sometimes the choice is less explicable, as when a man who has suffered no direct or clear damage at the hands of Jews becomes virulently anti-Semitic. A defining characteristic of the Hater is that maintaining the grounds of his (or, most assuredly, her) hatred is far more important than truth, reason, or kindness. The hatred is an end in itself, an identity, the core of his (or her) being. All thought and balance vanish in the insistence on painting the hated in as bad a light as possible.

The Victim believes that all of his miseries and failures are the fault of others. Victims are often Haters as well. Feminists combine the two.

The need to hate is different from the possession of an opinion. A reasonable person might believe, for example, that Jews exert too much influence over American foreign policy and various domestic policies, but also grant without demur that Jews had contributed much to the economy, the sciences, and the arts. The details could be debated, but the position is not that of a Hater. The Hater in anti-Semitic form cannot go for ten minutes in private conversation without adverting with hostility to various crimes and conspiracies which he attributes to Jews, and can never concede that Jews every, however inadvertently, have done anything good. He is obsessive about it.

So are feminists.

A feminist sees men exactly as anti-Semites see Jews. This is because she is an anti-Semite—the same template, the same bottle but with different wine. She has a more hair-trigger anger (“Men are sexist pigs”) because she can get away with it, a more bellicose incivility for the same reason, but the same (watch, and see whether I am right) lack of humor, obsessiveness, and the characteristic basing of her personality on the hatred.

Haters seldom know much about those they hate. It doesn’t matter to them, and just gets in the way. As anti-Semites are clueless about Jews, so feminists are clueless about men. Anti-Semites know that Jews rub their hands and say “heheheh” and want to destroy Western civilization. Feminists know that men don’t have feelings and want to oppress women, and hurt them, and degrade them. Yet they (both) think they know the hated enemy. They both pour forth half-truths, thudding clichés, carefully selected facts, and abject foolishness, and both are blankly unable to see the other side’s point of view or to concede it any virtue at all.

I have known only a few such feminists well, though I have read many. They have struck me, without exception that comes to mind, as fitting a peculiar mold: bright, very hostile and combative, but physically timid and pampered, hothouse flowers really, usually from fairly moneyed families and often Ivy or semi-Ivy schools. Often they have done little outside of feminism and would be helpless out of an urban setting. They have no idea how anything around them works—what a cam lobe is, how a refrigerator makes things cold, or how a file-allocation table might be arranged. Their degrees run to ideologizable pseudosubjects such as sociology, psychology, or Women’s Studies. They seem isolated from most of life.

None of this is characteristic of women in general. I used to belong to a group called Capitol Divers, of Washington, DC. About a third of the members I’ll guess were women. We dove the deep wrecks off North Carolina, chartered the Belize Aggressor for a week near Central America, and so on. It wasn’t lightweight diving. Sometimes we were in the open Atlantic in seas a lot higher than recommended, or ninety feet down at night on a wreck or, I remember, at 135 in the Blue Hole of Belize. (Cap Divers was a bit of a cowboy outfit.)

The women were fine divers, treated as equals by the men because they in fact were equals. Nobody thought about it. In a lot of aggregate time with them over the years, I never heard a single, “Men are sexist pigs.” The pattern is one that I’ve noticed anecdotally but widely. Women who are good at things that men respect are respected by men, and they tend to like men because they have things in common. They are not templated neurotics. Feminists are.

If you do not believe that haters are all the same people, wrestling with internal demons rather than trying to solve real problems, make a point of talking to them or, failing that, reading them. Remember though that a hater is not someone who recognizes an unpleasant truth about a particular group. A woman who says that men are much more given to violence is stating an obvious fact. So is a white who recognizes that low academic achievement among blacks is a problem. Neither is a hater.

No. You want the ones with the grinding all-encompassing hostility. “The kikes are destroying America.” “The niggers are destroying America.” “Men are sexist pigs.” These people are fascinating. Talk to them. Care is needed, particularly with feminists, to keep them from exploding before you can conduct an examination. But do it. Note that many are well educated. They can be polished. But the fundamental difference between a radical feminist and a Jew baiter is…is….

Wait. I’m thinking.

Sarcastro’s Back!

August 31, 2006

And he’s referring to himself in the third person!

 Clearly, the question that has been burning up the blogosphere, as well as the print and broadcast media, has been "Where’s Sarcastro?"  After all, how much Katrina One-Year-Later, phony JonBenet Killer, King Polygamy, War on Terror, Racially-motivated Reality Show stories can America really be interested in?

I caught all of those compelling news stories while splayed out on the living room floor.  Saturday, The Mrs. and I were cleaning out the garage in preparation for merging households.   Out of the fucking bleu, I was felled as if shot from a book depository.  Sadly, it was not even a shooter from the grassy knoll by the clubhouse and swimming pool.  It was a damn slipped disc/lower back spasm.  Readers of Exador’s sob story about his back and Knuck’s similar tale may already be familiar with this.

In fact, when my back suddenly squeezed me like I was in a vise, all I could think of was how that bastard Exador had put the hoodoo curse on me.   After beating my fist on the wall of the garage for a minute, I staggered into the house.  Once the pain subsided enough for me to think clearly, I crawled on my hands and knees up the stairs to the living room.  Then I spent the next 44 hours laying on the goddamn floor.

Sunday morning was the worst.  The pain turned excruciating and started coming in waves.  Like a woman in labor, I would get ten or fifteen seconds of respite before being seized up in unbearable spasms.  The next time some broad mouths off that we men can’t handle the pain of child birth, she’ll learn a new meaning of the phrase, "ugly encounter".

No, I didn’t go to the doctor.  I couldn’t walk until sometime Monday.  All I could do was stiffly roll or drag myself from place to place.  Peeing in a McDonald’s cup, while lying on my back,  was a chore I don’t care to repeat.  All a doctor could do is tell me to rest and prescribe a bunch of pills that I could get from friends with far less hassle.  By Wednesday, I could walk without a cane.

Big shout out to The Mrs. for nursing me back to what passes for health.  It is her job, after all. 

I did get a lot of reading done.  As well as a lot of no-premium-cable-channels daytime TV watching.   So expect more book reviews, including Barry’s Cherries.  Also, there will be an unexpected update to the Bobbie’s Dairy Dip story.

Love and Death

July 6, 2006

I awoke to the Beach Boys appearing on Imus this morning. More accurately, it was Mike Love and six guys who aren’t named Wilson. Man, do they sound bad. First off, they are all in their mid-sixties. The appellation "Boys" hardly applies any more. "Fun,Fun, Fun" for these guys pretty much consists of being able to have a healthy bowel movement. In fact, you can expect Metamucil to start using Beach Boys songs in their ads, any time now. I’m betting on "I’m Waiting for the Day" or "God Only Knows".

Speaking of icons with a history of drug abuse whose best days are behind them, Rush Limbaugh and his pharmacological habits have been in the news lately. Rushie decided to go on a "boys weekend" in the Dominican Republic with the crew of the show "24". He brought along a suitcase full of Viagra, and got tagged by Customs for not having a valid prescription. Given Rush’s previous misadventures at Walgreen’s, this does not constitute the meeting the standard of "smart move".

I’m not going to insuinate that there is something gay about going on a tropical vacation with a bunch of guys and some boner pills. That probably wasn’t the case. Although, it isn’t uncommon for people to find creative ways to get their OxyContin fix, Rush probably isn’t at the point where blowing the assistant director and the sound guy in order to score some Oxy is his only option. He is loaded with money, after all. He can pay someone to blow his opiate connection in order to score some hillbilly heroin.

Which brings me to my wildly outlandish theory of Rush’s trip to the beach. His connection to the crew of "24" comes from his rumored relationship with supporting-player Mary Lynn Rasjkub. She used to date the painfully liberal comedian David Cross. Evidently, her standards vary widely. Hell, if she next nails Yao Ming, Gary Coleman and The Dalai Lama, she gets to yell "Bingo!" But I digress.

There is only one place in the Dom. Repub. that I can think of where you would go with an exclusively male retinue and a bucket full of blue pills. For the defiantly straight man, that would be the Viking’s Exotic Resort. For those of you who are reticent to click that probably NSFW link, let me just say it is Fantasy Island for guys whose only fantasy is to get laid. They ship in a bunch of girls from Eastern Europe and South America and let nature and commerce take its course. The idea is so good, I wish I thought of it.

Getting back to Rush’s dilemma, I’m not saying that is where he really was, but it has to work better than the truth. The author-itays have decided not to press charges. I guess public humiliation is punishment enough. Although the speculative spectacle of Rush going to the pokey and renouncing his previous support of the War on Drugs makes me drunk with wistfulness.

Speaking of someone else who dodged a stay in the Crowbar Motel, Kenny Lay died the other day. Conspiracy theories abound how this former Titan of Industry cheated the jailer. He was looking at a theoretical life sentence as a guest of the Federal Prison System (a division of AOLTimeWarnerCartoonNetwork). One former Enron employee is already demanding an open casket to make sure the man who ruined their lives is really dead.

Kenny-Boy died of a supposed heart attack in his modest Aspen vacation home. For a guy who pled that he had a negative net worth after the fall of Enron, he sure knew how to score some primo real estate. He must have gotten one of those "Carleton Sheets No Money Down" courses from the TV informercial. All I know is, if had hundreds of millions of dollars that I had gained through illicit and questionable means, I would have had a damn get-away plan that at the very least involved faking my death and spending my remaining days anonymously on some quiet island instead of in prison. Hell, I hear they are pretty discreet at the Viking’s Exotic Resort.

Whether he is dead or not, former investors and employees of Enron now have a place to express their displeasure with the guy who steered them into a retirement full of working at Wal-Mart. You can fully expect that his family will have a tasteful and private funeral. After that, you can fully expect the nightly watering of his grave by the aforementioned former investors and employees.

On the topic of micturating on graves, the misguided do-gooders at tcask are having some terribly inappropriate memoral service for executed murderer Sedley Alley. Their memorial will hopefully be going on at the same time as the WKRN party. Nothing brings down a party like a bunch of anti-death penalty activists. Like we won’t have enough sermonizing Sociology majors there. The tcask deal starts at 7, so the beer-full bladders will gather to piss on Sedley’s grave at 8:30.

The line forms behind me.

The second item in the liberal creed, after self-righteousness, is unaccountability. Liberals have invented whole college majors— psychology, sociology, women’s studies— to prove that nothing is anybody’s fault. No one is fond of taking responsibility for his actions, but consider how much you’d have to hate free will to come up with a political platform that advocates killing unborn babies but not convicted murderers. A callous pragmatist might favor abortion and capital punishment. A devout Christian would sanction neither. But it takes years of therapy to arrive at the liberal view.   P.J. O’Rourke.