I've been trying to avoid any news about this woman who recently gave birth to octuplets (which my spell check tells me isn't even a real word) because really, I just don't care. But, while flipping through channels today I discovered this hilarious new development. Apparently her doctor offered her the option to selectively abort a few of the fetuses so that they wouldn't, you know, kill her on the way out or something. She was told that having that many babies at once, they would have to spend a lot of time in intensive care. Well, the hospital has started tallying up the bill for that hospital stay. They estimate that the eight weeks of care will cost $2500 per day, PER BABY. For everyone who isn't a genius who did the math in their heads instantly just now, that works out to a total of just over...
ONE MEEEEEEELLION DOLLARS!
So yeah, since she apparently already has 6 other kids, this woman now has 14 children, no job, and one million dollars in debt.
I've done some stupid things in my life, but I take great comfort in the fact that I've never done anything this dumb.
Showing posts with label cautionary tale. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cautionary tale. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A Writer's Journey: Part 3 - Journey's End
Well. It's been three weeks, and here we are. I've held a lot of jobs in these past three weeks, and made several attempts at what those of the writing persuasion call "the Life." I tried writing for a nature magazine, but my article, "Marmots: the Silent Strangler of Small Children" received so much negative feedback that they had to let me go. So too was met my canceled-far-too-soon column in Highlights Magazine, "the Anarchist's Cookbook for Tots." Perhaps a more moderate success was my attempt at an advice column, entitled "Eli Says Shut the Fuck Up." Because of the profanity in the title and spaced every four words throughout the text, it was only picked up by the Seattle Sanguinerican; and though it received positive feedback from all four of the publication's subscribers, I unfortunately can't pay my bills with the rendered payment of "all our hopes and best wishes, man." And of course, the less said about my travelogue of the Mediterranean that landed me in front of the United Nations War Crimes Tribunal, the better.
I guess what I'm trying to say, internets, is that while I was dejectedly bouncing from failure to failure, occasionally popping into dark alleys to avoid Interpol agents before changing my face and name, all I could think about is the good times we had. Back before all this heartbreak and deadly games of cat and mouse, writing was fun. I used to love sharing my thoughts and opinions here, and I never once had to kill a stranger in cold blood to procure a counterfeit passport. So, in the interest of my emotional stability and personal safety, I'm returning to what I know.
The world of professional writing is an enticing and alluring one, but it is one best left to the professionals. But, I know there are people out there, people who are born to be professional writers, people for whom failure is an aphrodisiac, who thrive on self-destruction, and aren't afraid of having their fingers broken by men in suits in a sunless room deep in a small fortress that appears on no map, somewhere off the coast of Ibiza; and perhaps, perhaps there are some of those people reading this blog right now who have the requisite nerves of steel, or perhaps valuable state secrets with which to bargain, but have no idea what to write about. Well, fear not, potential example, for I, in my infinite compassion, have decided help you out.
What follows is a list of story fragments I have written, and each one is virtually guaranteed to inspire the next New York Times Bestseller. All you have to do is take the fragment, the "heart" of the story, if you will, and surround it on each side with a hundred pages or so of exposition and resolution. Simple, right? And because I'm such a generous guy, I will provide these royalty free. All I ask in return is that the dedication page of your book read, "To Eli Derbestershire, without whom none of this would be possible, and I would be a complete failure in every sense of the word." Again, a mere pittance, in exchange for what I'm providing you.
And now, the stories:
“I’m going to kill you!” the man shouted, pointing his finger at me. “I’m going to kill you until you are dead.” Then he walked away and I never saw him again.
--
Everyone knows that Jumbilaxes hunt in groups of three. That’s why I always carry a spare Junmbilax with me wherever I go. It worked perfectly until the day we stumbled upon two sleeping Jumbilaxes…
--
“Back in World War II, we used to use them as candleholders,” the old man explained. “Sometimes just for a bit of Sunday tea.” I had no idea what he was talking about.
--
It was Jackie’s 17th birthday. There it was in front of her, the only thing she had ever wanted. The complete destruction of the universe.
--
The smell drifted down through the darkness, between the dripping pipes down to the three frightened figures huddled on the floor. It forced itself into their nostrils, clawing its way through the walls of the nasal cavity, all the way to the olfactory center of the brain. “Bacon!” shouted the Professor, “Of course, it all makes sense now!”
--
My father used to tell me, a man only needs two things to be happy: the love of a good person, and a rockin’ personal theme song written by the Pretenders just for him. Now if only I could find someone to love me…
--
Lieutenant Belfast could not believe his eyes. The Captain, murdered, and right in front of him no less. Sitting back in his armchair and taking a sip of his Blue Hawaiian, he knew it was going to be one of those days.
--
74,000 people used to live in this town. Then they moved to that town over there.
--
“Wherefore!” shouted the man in the silly raincoat. He did not know wherefore.
--
Only a vampire could know how to use the Doomsday Machine, or so said the common wisdom. Wexley knew better, for in his experience most vampires were fucking retarded.
--
The guns finally fell silent. The soldiers, not knowing what to do, simply looked at each other. Was it a trap, a clever ruse to get them to peak out, maybe venture out in the open before beginning the barrage again? Or had the impossible happened? Had they finally achieved peace? Maybe the war was over. Maybe they could finally go home, and see their families for the first time in several very long months. The captain tentatively pulled himself over the edge of the bunker. It was unbelievable! The enemy was retreating! The men whooped and hollered, caps were thrown into the air, when suddenly, like a gunshot, from within their own ranks someone let out a tremendous fart. The captain looked up just in time to see the enemy artillery spinning back around to face them...
--
"Oh my god, is that a bear?!" the worried patron shouted. "No," I replied, "that is not a bear."
Shakily translated from a foreign language version:
"Oh my god, is that bear?"
"No," said man, "is not bear."
--
"How often does it do that?" asked the bank manager. "Constantly," replied Jenna. "It is always doing that?"
--
"Maria, it's over between us. I could never love you now. I'm going to go sleep in the Corridor of Eternal Flame."
--
The promotion offered one full grown African rhino in exchange for 14 bottlecaps. One one level, Douglas knew what he was getting, but on another, more practical level, he was kind of a dumbass.
--
The TV came on by itself; its light played across the faces in the dark room. "Who wants to kill themselves?" it cheerfully inquired. The youths conferred amongst themselves, finally announcing that none of them did. The TV apologized for its intrusion, and turned itself back off.
--
Miley Cyrus stared deeply into her burrito, focusing all of her sad thoughts into it. She devoured it, confident that soon she would poop all her sorrows away.
I guess what I'm trying to say, internets, is that while I was dejectedly bouncing from failure to failure, occasionally popping into dark alleys to avoid Interpol agents before changing my face and name, all I could think about is the good times we had. Back before all this heartbreak and deadly games of cat and mouse, writing was fun. I used to love sharing my thoughts and opinions here, and I never once had to kill a stranger in cold blood to procure a counterfeit passport. So, in the interest of my emotional stability and personal safety, I'm returning to what I know.
The world of professional writing is an enticing and alluring one, but it is one best left to the professionals. But, I know there are people out there, people who are born to be professional writers, people for whom failure is an aphrodisiac, who thrive on self-destruction, and aren't afraid of having their fingers broken by men in suits in a sunless room deep in a small fortress that appears on no map, somewhere off the coast of Ibiza; and perhaps, perhaps there are some of those people reading this blog right now who have the requisite nerves of steel, or perhaps valuable state secrets with which to bargain, but have no idea what to write about. Well, fear not, potential example, for I, in my infinite compassion, have decided help you out.
What follows is a list of story fragments I have written, and each one is virtually guaranteed to inspire the next New York Times Bestseller. All you have to do is take the fragment, the "heart" of the story, if you will, and surround it on each side with a hundred pages or so of exposition and resolution. Simple, right? And because I'm such a generous guy, I will provide these royalty free. All I ask in return is that the dedication page of your book read, "To Eli Derbestershire, without whom none of this would be possible, and I would be a complete failure in every sense of the word." Again, a mere pittance, in exchange for what I'm providing you.
And now, the stories:
“I’m going to kill you!” the man shouted, pointing his finger at me. “I’m going to kill you until you are dead.” Then he walked away and I never saw him again.
--
Everyone knows that Jumbilaxes hunt in groups of three. That’s why I always carry a spare Junmbilax with me wherever I go. It worked perfectly until the day we stumbled upon two sleeping Jumbilaxes…
--
“Back in World War II, we used to use them as candleholders,” the old man explained. “Sometimes just for a bit of Sunday tea.” I had no idea what he was talking about.
--
It was Jackie’s 17th birthday. There it was in front of her, the only thing she had ever wanted. The complete destruction of the universe.
--
The smell drifted down through the darkness, between the dripping pipes down to the three frightened figures huddled on the floor. It forced itself into their nostrils, clawing its way through the walls of the nasal cavity, all the way to the olfactory center of the brain. “Bacon!” shouted the Professor, “Of course, it all makes sense now!”
--
My father used to tell me, a man only needs two things to be happy: the love of a good person, and a rockin’ personal theme song written by the Pretenders just for him. Now if only I could find someone to love me…
--
Lieutenant Belfast could not believe his eyes. The Captain, murdered, and right in front of him no less. Sitting back in his armchair and taking a sip of his Blue Hawaiian, he knew it was going to be one of those days.
--
74,000 people used to live in this town. Then they moved to that town over there.
--
“Wherefore!” shouted the man in the silly raincoat. He did not know wherefore.
--
Only a vampire could know how to use the Doomsday Machine, or so said the common wisdom. Wexley knew better, for in his experience most vampires were fucking retarded.
--
The guns finally fell silent. The soldiers, not knowing what to do, simply looked at each other. Was it a trap, a clever ruse to get them to peak out, maybe venture out in the open before beginning the barrage again? Or had the impossible happened? Had they finally achieved peace? Maybe the war was over. Maybe they could finally go home, and see their families for the first time in several very long months. The captain tentatively pulled himself over the edge of the bunker. It was unbelievable! The enemy was retreating! The men whooped and hollered, caps were thrown into the air, when suddenly, like a gunshot, from within their own ranks someone let out a tremendous fart. The captain looked up just in time to see the enemy artillery spinning back around to face them...
--
"Oh my god, is that a bear?!" the worried patron shouted. "No," I replied, "that is not a bear."
Shakily translated from a foreign language version:
"Oh my god, is that bear?"
"No," said man, "is not bear."
--
"How often does it do that?" asked the bank manager. "Constantly," replied Jenna. "It is always doing that?"
--
"Maria, it's over between us. I could never love you now. I'm going to go sleep in the Corridor of Eternal Flame."
--
The promotion offered one full grown African rhino in exchange for 14 bottlecaps. One one level, Douglas knew what he was getting, but on another, more practical level, he was kind of a dumbass.
--
The TV came on by itself; its light played across the faces in the dark room. "Who wants to kill themselves?" it cheerfully inquired. The youths conferred amongst themselves, finally announcing that none of them did. The TV apologized for its intrusion, and turned itself back off.
--
Miley Cyrus stared deeply into her burrito, focusing all of her sad thoughts into it. She devoured it, confident that soon she would poop all her sorrows away.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Cynicism Redux, Plus a Bonus Treat
If the Pope’s blatant, self serving game of Pass-the-Blame™ was the straw that broke the camel’s back, then this is the fiery four foot dildo that raped the camel to death and left it lying there in a pile of charred flesh and various bodily fluids. What I am referring to is a commercial by Amnesty International on why you shouldn’t tie a person down and force water down their nose and throat.
In a desperate and tasteless attempt at being clever, the ad begins on a beauty shot of water being poured. The camera then pans downward, and we get a several seconds of high speed footage of a man being waterboarded. Yes, actually waterboarded, as in not a special effect or other type of trickery. That’s right, Amnesty-Goddamn-Motherfucking-International tortured someone to make a commercial denouncing the use of torture.
Okay, so Amnesty International decided that their message of anti-torture was so important that they tortured some guy to get it out there, but the question going through my mind is, why? Who are they trying to convince? Are they sending this tape directly to the White House? No, they are releasing it to theaters to run before the trailers. Meaning its intended audience is us, the general public. To say this caused me to sigh would be an understatement. To say it caused me to throw a pipe through the front windshield of my car would be an overstatement, but closer. Let’s just say it caused me to sigh so hard I might have changed the tides.
I’m guessing whoever came up with this idea doesn’t live in America. In fact, I find it hard to believe they live anywhere near the human race. I resent the idea that we need to be told that torture is wrong. I don’t know a single person who thinks waterboarding is all shits and giggles, and then everyone goes home happy. Even if you’re rabidly pro-torture, you still aren’t going to think it’s pleasant. Because that’s the whole point of torture, and every single goddamn person on the planet knows it. Releasing this for public consumption makes a very clear statement, and that statement is “you’re allowing this to happen.” Which is a heartless, terrible thing to insinuate.
You will notice that nowhere in here have I linked to the video. Don’t expect me to. In all honesty, I wish I hadn’t seen it myself. The idea of this running in movie theaters across the country is disgusting and insulting. If someone made me the offer that no one would ever see this ad again, but that Two Girls One Cup would run before every single children’s television program, I would take that deal. Because Two Girls One Cup at least appeals to somebody.
There is, however, another movie I will link to:
Make sure you watch it all the way to the end. Seriously. You won’t regret it.
Did you watch it?
Fuckers?
Ok, good. While my hat goes off to James Rolfe, aka the Angry Video Game Nerd, for restoring my faith in humanity, his latest video brings to the surface a dark secret, one which I can carry no longer. I just don’t see what the big deal with Super Mario Bros 3 is.
Sure, it’s inspired one of the best things I’ve ever read, but I still don’t get the appeal. It doesn’t feel anything like the original Super Mario Bros I fell in love with, and it’s way too long, especially since it has no save system. Super Mario World managed to capture every good point of SMB3, but also retain the tight, crunchy physics of the original. Plus the feather kicks the leaf’s ass any day of the week. The flying in that game is so deep, it’s amazing what a good player can do with it. It’s funny, the way people felt about SMB3, how it was a return to form after the weird experiment that was 2, is exactly how I felt about Super Mario World.
So to those of you who think SMB3 is better than World, you’ve got it backward. Sure, 3 did it first, but world did it better. You’re being blinded by nostalgia. Also, don’t look now, but all those licensed NES games you thought were so awesome when you were a kid are absolute garbage.
Final thought:
My DVR just updated its software, and during that process it decided to download the movie “Wild Hogs.” I don’t think I’ve ever hated DIRECTV more than I do right now.
In a desperate and tasteless attempt at being clever, the ad begins on a beauty shot of water being poured. The camera then pans downward, and we get a several seconds of high speed footage of a man being waterboarded. Yes, actually waterboarded, as in not a special effect or other type of trickery. That’s right, Amnesty-Goddamn-Motherfucking-International tortured someone to make a commercial denouncing the use of torture.
Okay, so Amnesty International decided that their message of anti-torture was so important that they tortured some guy to get it out there, but the question going through my mind is, why? Who are they trying to convince? Are they sending this tape directly to the White House? No, they are releasing it to theaters to run before the trailers. Meaning its intended audience is us, the general public. To say this caused me to sigh would be an understatement. To say it caused me to throw a pipe through the front windshield of my car would be an overstatement, but closer. Let’s just say it caused me to sigh so hard I might have changed the tides.
I’m guessing whoever came up with this idea doesn’t live in America. In fact, I find it hard to believe they live anywhere near the human race. I resent the idea that we need to be told that torture is wrong. I don’t know a single person who thinks waterboarding is all shits and giggles, and then everyone goes home happy. Even if you’re rabidly pro-torture, you still aren’t going to think it’s pleasant. Because that’s the whole point of torture, and every single goddamn person on the planet knows it. Releasing this for public consumption makes a very clear statement, and that statement is “you’re allowing this to happen.” Which is a heartless, terrible thing to insinuate.
You will notice that nowhere in here have I linked to the video. Don’t expect me to. In all honesty, I wish I hadn’t seen it myself. The idea of this running in movie theaters across the country is disgusting and insulting. If someone made me the offer that no one would ever see this ad again, but that Two Girls One Cup would run before every single children’s television program, I would take that deal. Because Two Girls One Cup at least appeals to somebody.
There is, however, another movie I will link to:
Make sure you watch it all the way to the end. Seriously. You won’t regret it.
Did you watch it?
Fuckers?
Ok, good. While my hat goes off to James Rolfe, aka the Angry Video Game Nerd, for restoring my faith in humanity, his latest video brings to the surface a dark secret, one which I can carry no longer. I just don’t see what the big deal with Super Mario Bros 3 is.
Sure, it’s inspired one of the best things I’ve ever read, but I still don’t get the appeal. It doesn’t feel anything like the original Super Mario Bros I fell in love with, and it’s way too long, especially since it has no save system. Super Mario World managed to capture every good point of SMB3, but also retain the tight, crunchy physics of the original. Plus the feather kicks the leaf’s ass any day of the week. The flying in that game is so deep, it’s amazing what a good player can do with it. It’s funny, the way people felt about SMB3, how it was a return to form after the weird experiment that was 2, is exactly how I felt about Super Mario World.
So to those of you who think SMB3 is better than World, you’ve got it backward. Sure, 3 did it first, but world did it better. You’re being blinded by nostalgia. Also, don’t look now, but all those licensed NES games you thought were so awesome when you were a kid are absolute garbage.
Final thought:
My DVR just updated its software, and during that process it decided to download the movie “Wild Hogs.” I don’t think I’ve ever hated DIRECTV more than I do right now.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
The Last Optimist
It seems the entire world has gone cynical.
And here I sit, seemingly the last person on earth with a positive outlook on humanity. Every day pop environmentalists decry our voracious rape of our planet, the news brays on about every violent or disturbing act, and men of the cloth berate the nature of their subjects in order to save their immortal lucre. The word human has become a dirty word, and that is deeply disturbing to me.
I’ve already established that I never really had faith in any god, and I believe when used in this way that faith is a very poisonous concept. But I’m not altogether opposed to the very idea of faith. In fact, I think faith is a very important thing for people to have, you just need to have faith in something real. For me, the easiest thing for me to latch onto was people. I believe in people. I believe that our species is doing just great, and that each day we’re better off than the day before. We’ve cured deadly diseases once thought incurable, we can cross continents in a matter of hours, and we can communicate with people on the other side of the world nearly instantaneously. We’ve raised our species’ life expectancy by 50 years. Suddenly, turning water to wine or making a whole bunch of fish and bread doesn’t seem so impressive. Not to mention that unlike those stories, I’ve personally witnessed humanity’s miracles, and so can anyone.
So I was understandably disinterested when while flipping through the radio the other day I came across coverage of the Pope’s visit to the US. After all, someone like Mark Twain can put more insight into a single sentence than that old coot has ever come up with in his entire life. But, every other station was on commercial break, so I continued to listen. And I have to say, of all the misanthropes out there, the Pope is by far the most vile.
As with all matters of the Catholic church, it was only a matter of time before the topic of molestation came up. The Pope did a spectacular job of covering his own ass, and placing the blame entirely on the priests who committed the acts. Now, I’m no big fan of molesting children, but let’s face it, those guys were as much victimized as the kids. When under stress, like say the stress of living your life with no form of sexual release, the mind finds it much easier to rationalize things. These priests have been taught that if they break their vow and defile themselves with women, that they will burn in hell for eternity. Children, on the other hand, are a loophole, more of an indiscretion than unpardonable sin, and they can be forgiven for that. Now that’s what I call a broken system, one where having consensual sex with an adult is a worse crime than raping a child.
And here’s why the Pope is the biggest cynic in the world: he can make this whole stupid, scary situation go away just by saying the following words, “I decree that priests can have girlfriends.” But he doesn’t say that, and one begins to wonder why. Actually, that wondering person is rhetorical, because I know exactly why. Because priests have been celibate since the church was founded, shit, it’s even in the Bible. To admit that they’ve been wrong for almost two thousand years would severely undermine their base of power. Admitting your organization is fallible when your whole claim to fame is based on divinity is definitely going to cause some upheaval. Sure, the Catholic church has had a lot of fuckups in the past which they’ve had to apologize for, but they’ve never had to go back on one of their core doctrines before. The Pope is scared shitless of this reaction, so instead he continues to ruin lives so he can keep wearing his fancy hat. If you’re not grasping the severity of the situation, I’d like you to note that following sentence contains absolutely no hyperbole. If you have the opportunity to end a great deal of suffering just by speaking a phrase, and you don’t, that makes you among the worst people in the world.
It only lasted a few minutes, but after hearing it I felt completely drained. It was depressing. Worst of all, I could feel myself starting lose my humanistic optimism. Because this was starting to feel like a pattern. I remembered when the Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo scandals broke, and in a fit of ass covering, the sole guilt of these terrible practices was dumped on a bunch of innocent soldiers who were just carrying out their orders. I thought of how Utah leads the nation in unreported rape cases, because nobody wants to contradict the crazy old men who were considered prophets who said that a woman should choose death before surrendering her “honor.” It becomes very hard to remain hopeful of human nature when so many people independently do the same terrible things.
All the same, I refuse to accept it. Maybe I’m completely wrong, maybe the true nature of humanity is ugly, rotten, and evil. But I can’t live my life believing it. Because thinking this way is poisonous and abusive. You know how when you know someone believes in you, it makes you want to do your best so you won’t let them down? Well, I’ve decided that I’m going to be that person for the entire human race. So, against all evidence to the contrary, I’m going to believe in people. And even if it doesn’t do any good, then I’m still going to do it anyway, because I’m going to be way happier than the cynics. Because to me, the world is a more beautiful place than they can even imagine. And you may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us, and the world will be as one.
And here I sit, seemingly the last person on earth with a positive outlook on humanity. Every day pop environmentalists decry our voracious rape of our planet, the news brays on about every violent or disturbing act, and men of the cloth berate the nature of their subjects in order to save their immortal lucre. The word human has become a dirty word, and that is deeply disturbing to me.
I’ve already established that I never really had faith in any god, and I believe when used in this way that faith is a very poisonous concept. But I’m not altogether opposed to the very idea of faith. In fact, I think faith is a very important thing for people to have, you just need to have faith in something real. For me, the easiest thing for me to latch onto was people. I believe in people. I believe that our species is doing just great, and that each day we’re better off than the day before. We’ve cured deadly diseases once thought incurable, we can cross continents in a matter of hours, and we can communicate with people on the other side of the world nearly instantaneously. We’ve raised our species’ life expectancy by 50 years. Suddenly, turning water to wine or making a whole bunch of fish and bread doesn’t seem so impressive. Not to mention that unlike those stories, I’ve personally witnessed humanity’s miracles, and so can anyone.
So I was understandably disinterested when while flipping through the radio the other day I came across coverage of the Pope’s visit to the US. After all, someone like Mark Twain can put more insight into a single sentence than that old coot has ever come up with in his entire life. But, every other station was on commercial break, so I continued to listen. And I have to say, of all the misanthropes out there, the Pope is by far the most vile.
As with all matters of the Catholic church, it was only a matter of time before the topic of molestation came up. The Pope did a spectacular job of covering his own ass, and placing the blame entirely on the priests who committed the acts. Now, I’m no big fan of molesting children, but let’s face it, those guys were as much victimized as the kids. When under stress, like say the stress of living your life with no form of sexual release, the mind finds it much easier to rationalize things. These priests have been taught that if they break their vow and defile themselves with women, that they will burn in hell for eternity. Children, on the other hand, are a loophole, more of an indiscretion than unpardonable sin, and they can be forgiven for that. Now that’s what I call a broken system, one where having consensual sex with an adult is a worse crime than raping a child.
And here’s why the Pope is the biggest cynic in the world: he can make this whole stupid, scary situation go away just by saying the following words, “I decree that priests can have girlfriends.” But he doesn’t say that, and one begins to wonder why. Actually, that wondering person is rhetorical, because I know exactly why. Because priests have been celibate since the church was founded, shit, it’s even in the Bible. To admit that they’ve been wrong for almost two thousand years would severely undermine their base of power. Admitting your organization is fallible when your whole claim to fame is based on divinity is definitely going to cause some upheaval. Sure, the Catholic church has had a lot of fuckups in the past which they’ve had to apologize for, but they’ve never had to go back on one of their core doctrines before. The Pope is scared shitless of this reaction, so instead he continues to ruin lives so he can keep wearing his fancy hat. If you’re not grasping the severity of the situation, I’d like you to note that following sentence contains absolutely no hyperbole. If you have the opportunity to end a great deal of suffering just by speaking a phrase, and you don’t, that makes you among the worst people in the world.
It only lasted a few minutes, but after hearing it I felt completely drained. It was depressing. Worst of all, I could feel myself starting lose my humanistic optimism. Because this was starting to feel like a pattern. I remembered when the Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo scandals broke, and in a fit of ass covering, the sole guilt of these terrible practices was dumped on a bunch of innocent soldiers who were just carrying out their orders. I thought of how Utah leads the nation in unreported rape cases, because nobody wants to contradict the crazy old men who were considered prophets who said that a woman should choose death before surrendering her “honor.” It becomes very hard to remain hopeful of human nature when so many people independently do the same terrible things.
All the same, I refuse to accept it. Maybe I’m completely wrong, maybe the true nature of humanity is ugly, rotten, and evil. But I can’t live my life believing it. Because thinking this way is poisonous and abusive. You know how when you know someone believes in you, it makes you want to do your best so you won’t let them down? Well, I’ve decided that I’m going to be that person for the entire human race. So, against all evidence to the contrary, I’m going to believe in people. And even if it doesn’t do any good, then I’m still going to do it anyway, because I’m going to be way happier than the cynics. Because to me, the world is a more beautiful place than they can even imagine. And you may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us, and the world will be as one.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Anarchy For Dummies: Weighing In on Gun Control
I do not own a firearm, nor do I have any plans to ever purchase one. I do not trust myself to operate a firearm safely, so I just don’t want to have one around. I don’t see the point of hunting, and I don’t shoot recreationally. I like John Woo movies, but that’s pretty much the extent of my personal appreciation of guns. Given this, I don’t think I could possibly be labeled as a gun enthusiast, or whatever euphemism or pejorative your personal preference would dictate. I mention this because I have a rather strong, perhaps even unique, stance on gun control, and I don’t want to be dismissed out of hand. My stance is this: there should be no gun control whatsoever.
Pro-gun lobbyists have their points about defense and protection, and the anti-gun lobby has its points about safety and crime. These arguments don’t really intersect in any meaningful way, so this line of inquiry is mostly moot, becoming little more than an overblown shouting match. Like most people, I think one side has a better argument in this regard, but my opinion isn’t really important. Facts are important. Watching people argue their opinions on gun control is a lot like watching a debate between Coke and Pepsi; it’s a matter of personal preference, and not likely to be resolved in this way.
Perhaps realizing this, both sides scramble to find an authority to support their claim. And when discussing possible legislature in this country, there is no higher authority than the Constitution. Thus arises the battle over which side is supported by the Second Amendment to the US Constitution.
Before going any further, let’s take a look at the text of this troublesome clause. The Second Amendment, in its entirety, reads, “A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the People to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” The point of contention here is that some people feel that “shall not be infringed” can be interpreted to mean, “can be infringed if you feel like it.” Some people think that it only applies to the military, despite the fact that it protects “the right of the People to keep and bear arms.”
Now, maybe you think I’m not being fair. Maybe you think there’s some subtle nuance I’m missing in the wording, or that something is lost in the translation due to antiquated language. I’ll be the first to admit that the Constitution is not perfect. That’s not just a figure of speech, I mean that you’d actually be hard pressed to find someone who thinks the Constitution isn’t perfect. Despite this, no document is going to be completely relevant to its people 200 years later. In this case, however, it may be more relevant than ever.
Maybe the reason there is so much quibbling over the wording is the fact that it seems to equate the militia and the people. One side or the other of this debate feels the need to emphasize one aspect, either militia or people, over the other. To attain a deeper understanding of the meaning of the, one must evaluate the cultural context. Militia and people are equated in the document because in the 18th century, they were the same thing. One notion that is mistakenly made is that their usage of the word militia means the same thing as “military.” This could not be farther from the truth. When the Constitution was in the process of being ratified, there was great concern over the power of the federal government going unchecked, which is why the Bill of Rights was drafted. Representatives were nervous about the possibility of a large national army gaining too much power, so they insisted that the citizens be permitted to fight back should the occasion arise. The dangers of excessive force were still fresh in their minds.
Historically, the most fascist governments are the ones that earned their power on the good will and confidence of their people. The banner of freedom can easily be made to prop open the door to tyranny. Our country was never meant to meddle outside its own affairs. We were never intended to be a major player on the world stage. Our current policy of expansionism requires a large military force, a force which has no problem placing a towel over someone’s face and forcing water down their throat. How long can such a force maintain our best interests? It is not unreasonable to think that in 50 or 100 years that power could be turned inward to suppress its own people. This is the real reason the framers of the constitution sought to arm the people of their country, to protect citizens from their own government.
It has been pointed out that countries that have strict gun control have not slid into fascism, but none of these countries have the most powerful military in the entire world. Australia, Canada, Spain, Germany, these are not the countries you think of when you hear the phrase “military might.”
The idea of overthrowing the US government is certainly not a popular one, and I’m not suggesting it. The first amendment is still alive and kicking in this country, though privacy has certainly taken a hit. And while I hope that our freedoms continue to be protected, we shouldn’t just assume they will. Obviously the decision to enact violence is not one to be taken lightly. We should take our cues from the early days of our country, which suffered years of abuse and pursued every possible peaceful resolution before finally taking up arms. However, if the government fails us, and we have no options left but to organize a militia, I’d like for them to be armed with something better than single shot hunting rifles.
Thomas Jefferson once wrote, “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots & tyrants. It is it’s natural manure.” This quote has been taken out of context and used to justify just about every war our country has entered since these words were published after his death. What Jefferson actually wrote those words in regards to was Daniel Shays’ rebellion in Massachusetts. He felt that the revolutionaries had been misinformed, however he applauded their resolve. Their passion served as a warning to the government that its people were not complacent, and would not allow themselves to be suppressed. A progressive government is one that fears its people.
I’m not a frightening person, and I don’t know any one person that the government would be afraid of. But if the power structure ever grows too big and threatens to trample us, we will stand united against it. And if that fails, we’ll stand united with some really big guns.
Pro-gun lobbyists have their points about defense and protection, and the anti-gun lobby has its points about safety and crime. These arguments don’t really intersect in any meaningful way, so this line of inquiry is mostly moot, becoming little more than an overblown shouting match. Like most people, I think one side has a better argument in this regard, but my opinion isn’t really important. Facts are important. Watching people argue their opinions on gun control is a lot like watching a debate between Coke and Pepsi; it’s a matter of personal preference, and not likely to be resolved in this way.
Perhaps realizing this, both sides scramble to find an authority to support their claim. And when discussing possible legislature in this country, there is no higher authority than the Constitution. Thus arises the battle over which side is supported by the Second Amendment to the US Constitution.
Before going any further, let’s take a look at the text of this troublesome clause. The Second Amendment, in its entirety, reads, “A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the People to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” The point of contention here is that some people feel that “shall not be infringed” can be interpreted to mean, “can be infringed if you feel like it.” Some people think that it only applies to the military, despite the fact that it protects “the right of the People to keep and bear arms.”
Now, maybe you think I’m not being fair. Maybe you think there’s some subtle nuance I’m missing in the wording, or that something is lost in the translation due to antiquated language. I’ll be the first to admit that the Constitution is not perfect. That’s not just a figure of speech, I mean that you’d actually be hard pressed to find someone who thinks the Constitution isn’t perfect. Despite this, no document is going to be completely relevant to its people 200 years later. In this case, however, it may be more relevant than ever.
Maybe the reason there is so much quibbling over the wording is the fact that it seems to equate the militia and the people. One side or the other of this debate feels the need to emphasize one aspect, either militia or people, over the other. To attain a deeper understanding of the meaning of the, one must evaluate the cultural context. Militia and people are equated in the document because in the 18th century, they were the same thing. One notion that is mistakenly made is that their usage of the word militia means the same thing as “military.” This could not be farther from the truth. When the Constitution was in the process of being ratified, there was great concern over the power of the federal government going unchecked, which is why the Bill of Rights was drafted. Representatives were nervous about the possibility of a large national army gaining too much power, so they insisted that the citizens be permitted to fight back should the occasion arise. The dangers of excessive force were still fresh in their minds.
Historically, the most fascist governments are the ones that earned their power on the good will and confidence of their people. The banner of freedom can easily be made to prop open the door to tyranny. Our country was never meant to meddle outside its own affairs. We were never intended to be a major player on the world stage. Our current policy of expansionism requires a large military force, a force which has no problem placing a towel over someone’s face and forcing water down their throat. How long can such a force maintain our best interests? It is not unreasonable to think that in 50 or 100 years that power could be turned inward to suppress its own people. This is the real reason the framers of the constitution sought to arm the people of their country, to protect citizens from their own government.
It has been pointed out that countries that have strict gun control have not slid into fascism, but none of these countries have the most powerful military in the entire world. Australia, Canada, Spain, Germany, these are not the countries you think of when you hear the phrase “military might.”
The idea of overthrowing the US government is certainly not a popular one, and I’m not suggesting it. The first amendment is still alive and kicking in this country, though privacy has certainly taken a hit. And while I hope that our freedoms continue to be protected, we shouldn’t just assume they will. Obviously the decision to enact violence is not one to be taken lightly. We should take our cues from the early days of our country, which suffered years of abuse and pursued every possible peaceful resolution before finally taking up arms. However, if the government fails us, and we have no options left but to organize a militia, I’d like for them to be armed with something better than single shot hunting rifles.
Thomas Jefferson once wrote, “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots & tyrants. It is it’s natural manure.” This quote has been taken out of context and used to justify just about every war our country has entered since these words were published after his death. What Jefferson actually wrote those words in regards to was Daniel Shays’ rebellion in Massachusetts. He felt that the revolutionaries had been misinformed, however he applauded their resolve. Their passion served as a warning to the government that its people were not complacent, and would not allow themselves to be suppressed. A progressive government is one that fears its people.
I’m not a frightening person, and I don’t know any one person that the government would be afraid of. But if the power structure ever grows too big and threatens to trample us, we will stand united against it. And if that fails, we’ll stand united with some really big guns.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
A Curious Old Thing
For years, almost too long to count, it stood upon hallowed ground. Its predecessor usurped, a gnarly old leather thing done in by too many years of torture, the work of feline adversaries, the newcomer began its reign of nearly a score. But time is unkind to such things, and soon the champion grew ragged and tough. It had become a legend of the room, but in the end such things are of little consequence. Not in cruelty, not in wrath, the reaper came; an angel visited this gray path and took the thing away. It was stolen off in secret, to lead a life of temporary exile before being tossed aside as the garbage it was regarded as. In its place sat not just one, but two pretenders to the throne.
When at last came the end of the thing’s brief banishment, instead of fading away as planned, it returned in triumph. The two usurpers were tossed aside and the thing reclaimed its place of honor upon the rusted plain. But this was not the moment of joy it seemed to be.
Its subjects, tired of the twin bumbling charlatans that had replaced the thing, welcomed it back with open arms; but in its glory they hated it all the more. During its displacement, it had grown weaker still. A treasonous bile was building just below the surface, as they continued to honor it with their presence, while at the same time flirting with newer and better things. At last it was almost replaced, but fate stepped in to spare the thing. With two failed attempts to unseat it, its tyrannical grip was absolute. Finally, its subjects’ mettle hardened by defiance, the thing was overthrown.
Now it sits alone in darkness, divided against itself. Exposed to the cold and the elements, it awaits its fate. Will it be delivered to a new domain, until the very fibers of its being finally yield to the wretched claws of age? Or will it be carried away to parts unknown to anguish in obscurity until the cold, bitter end? It is not my place to judge, though that does seem to be the position I have found myself in. Here I sit, upon the tarnished crimson plains, looking out at another world, a distant lonely world. Its dark winds tease upon my face, and they are cold. Looking out, I cannot help but feel a longing for that master which for so long supported me and those closest to me. It does not deserve this. Yet it was I alone who violently plucked it from its place of resting, throwing it to the merciless winds of circumstance. The emptiness is staggering, as I await the thing’s replacement. Though I look to the future, I refuse to close that portal to the outside world. I want to feel the chill upon face. The cold seems to be personified by its ill will, impotently slashing at my face with all the fury of a handful of feathers. Once it is carried away to its own fate, I will be glad, but I will not look away, I will not turn away. I will feel it. I will make myself feel it.
By the way, I totally got a new couch today.
When at last came the end of the thing’s brief banishment, instead of fading away as planned, it returned in triumph. The two usurpers were tossed aside and the thing reclaimed its place of honor upon the rusted plain. But this was not the moment of joy it seemed to be.
Its subjects, tired of the twin bumbling charlatans that had replaced the thing, welcomed it back with open arms; but in its glory they hated it all the more. During its displacement, it had grown weaker still. A treasonous bile was building just below the surface, as they continued to honor it with their presence, while at the same time flirting with newer and better things. At last it was almost replaced, but fate stepped in to spare the thing. With two failed attempts to unseat it, its tyrannical grip was absolute. Finally, its subjects’ mettle hardened by defiance, the thing was overthrown.
Now it sits alone in darkness, divided against itself. Exposed to the cold and the elements, it awaits its fate. Will it be delivered to a new domain, until the very fibers of its being finally yield to the wretched claws of age? Or will it be carried away to parts unknown to anguish in obscurity until the cold, bitter end? It is not my place to judge, though that does seem to be the position I have found myself in. Here I sit, upon the tarnished crimson plains, looking out at another world, a distant lonely world. Its dark winds tease upon my face, and they are cold. Looking out, I cannot help but feel a longing for that master which for so long supported me and those closest to me. It does not deserve this. Yet it was I alone who violently plucked it from its place of resting, throwing it to the merciless winds of circumstance. The emptiness is staggering, as I await the thing’s replacement. Though I look to the future, I refuse to close that portal to the outside world. I want to feel the chill upon face. The cold seems to be personified by its ill will, impotently slashing at my face with all the fury of a handful of feathers. Once it is carried away to its own fate, I will be glad, but I will not look away, I will not turn away. I will feel it. I will make myself feel it.
By the way, I totally got a new couch today.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Pants, the Silent Killer
The detective pulled up, skidding his car across 3 lanes of traffic and into the side of an old brick building. His engine sputtered a few last words of regret before giving up the ghost and bursting into flames. The detective slammed the door, bending over the more convenient of the two engine block halves and lighting his cigarette on the flames. After taking a long drag, he sighed.
"This city is a piece of shit, and so's everyone in it." He paused, enjoying a moment of clarity. "Myself included," he added. He stubbed out his cigarette in the eye of a nearby St. Bernard, and began warming up his voice. "But," he mused, for no other reason than he enjoyed the exposition of his own life, "if I can win that talent competition tonight, I can be rid of this sorry little shit hole forever."
There were some things he would miss though. The old barkeep with the moldy eye, the bimonthly grope fest down at Synecdoche Lane, and all the lunches at Merv's Burger Joint, where the smiles were always free. Maybe the city wasn't such a bad place after all, but time had not been kind to the old detective. The years had hit him like a station wagon full of underage Nicaraguan love slaves. He had grown to loathe the city, and it loathed him back. Besides, he had already quit the force, taken his badge and shoved it straight down the chief's throat. He could probably get his job back after the surgery, but that would require him to muster more humility than he had.
So, his last hope in front of him, he hitched up his lucky singing pants and tightened his belt. There wasn't a bum in this city with a better singing voice than him, and he knew it. What he would have to watch out for were those cocky stunt performers, but he could see to that.
The first thing he saw as he entered the dressing area was a sword swallower practicing his act. The detective knew that nobody gave a fuck about sword-swallowing, but just to be safe, he brought his knee straight up into the fucker's gut. The sword swallower lurched forward, the blade that previously had filled his esophagus now protruding out his back. He collapsed onto the floor, either dead, or dead tired. One down.
Next up was the young upstart martial artist, doing all kinds of standing flips and flinging around a metal chain in a most impressive manner. The detective had to stop and think about this one for a moment. He looked around the room, his eyes finally resting upon a gargantuan fellow, tearing phone books in half while chewing down a giant concrete block. He called out to the chain fighter, "Hey kid!"
"What do you want, old man?"
"See that big guy over there? He, uh, he said your mom is a fag."
This remark caused a massive fight between the martial artist and the strong man. Such fights usually bored the detective, so he sat down and read a novel while all around him the foundation of the building was nearly shook loose. Finally, he heard a massive ripping sound, and looked up to see that both fighters had torn out each other's spines. They stood there, dead, still standing and unblinkingly staring each other down. Now there was only one act remaining that posed any threat to the detective. The juggler.
He approached the juggler, who was juggling some chainsaws that happened to be on fire. "Nice day we're having," the detective said. The juggler nodded at him cordially. Suddenly, the detective sprung his cunning plan into action! He drew his service revolver, and shot the man in both his kneecaps.
Finally, it was time to go on stage. The old man was rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He knew he had the talent, and with his lucky singing pants on, there was no way he could lose. As the opening strains of Strangers in the Night began to play, he ran out on stage, and at that one shining moment, everything was perfect. His singing was perfect, the crowd was swooning, and all eyes were on him and his stunning pants.
But as luck would have it, the detective's pants, like everyone else, hated him with a passion, and in the midst of his moment of pride, his pants betrayed him. As he hit the refrain, the detective could feel his pants noticeably tighten. At first he blamed it on the excitement, and the massive hard on he was getting from it, but the pants continued to tighten. He did his best to ignore it, but by "love was just a glance away," his voice had become a squeaky travesty. People in the audience began to boo, taking it as an insult against Frank Sinatra. Unable to continue singing, the old detective simply looked on in horror, finally collapsing on the stage. As the instrumental score blared on wordlessly from the loudspeakers behind him, his vision began to fade. He could no longer feel his pants tightening, the feeling had gone long ago. Defeated, he closed his eyes, leaned back, and with a slight whimper, died in a pool of his own shame.
"This city is a piece of shit, and so's everyone in it." He paused, enjoying a moment of clarity. "Myself included," he added. He stubbed out his cigarette in the eye of a nearby St. Bernard, and began warming up his voice. "But," he mused, for no other reason than he enjoyed the exposition of his own life, "if I can win that talent competition tonight, I can be rid of this sorry little shit hole forever."
There were some things he would miss though. The old barkeep with the moldy eye, the bimonthly grope fest down at Synecdoche Lane, and all the lunches at Merv's Burger Joint, where the smiles were always free. Maybe the city wasn't such a bad place after all, but time had not been kind to the old detective. The years had hit him like a station wagon full of underage Nicaraguan love slaves. He had grown to loathe the city, and it loathed him back. Besides, he had already quit the force, taken his badge and shoved it straight down the chief's throat. He could probably get his job back after the surgery, but that would require him to muster more humility than he had.
So, his last hope in front of him, he hitched up his lucky singing pants and tightened his belt. There wasn't a bum in this city with a better singing voice than him, and he knew it. What he would have to watch out for were those cocky stunt performers, but he could see to that.
The first thing he saw as he entered the dressing area was a sword swallower practicing his act. The detective knew that nobody gave a fuck about sword-swallowing, but just to be safe, he brought his knee straight up into the fucker's gut. The sword swallower lurched forward, the blade that previously had filled his esophagus now protruding out his back. He collapsed onto the floor, either dead, or dead tired. One down.
Next up was the young upstart martial artist, doing all kinds of standing flips and flinging around a metal chain in a most impressive manner. The detective had to stop and think about this one for a moment. He looked around the room, his eyes finally resting upon a gargantuan fellow, tearing phone books in half while chewing down a giant concrete block. He called out to the chain fighter, "Hey kid!"
"What do you want, old man?"
"See that big guy over there? He, uh, he said your mom is a fag."
This remark caused a massive fight between the martial artist and the strong man. Such fights usually bored the detective, so he sat down and read a novel while all around him the foundation of the building was nearly shook loose. Finally, he heard a massive ripping sound, and looked up to see that both fighters had torn out each other's spines. They stood there, dead, still standing and unblinkingly staring each other down. Now there was only one act remaining that posed any threat to the detective. The juggler.
He approached the juggler, who was juggling some chainsaws that happened to be on fire. "Nice day we're having," the detective said. The juggler nodded at him cordially. Suddenly, the detective sprung his cunning plan into action! He drew his service revolver, and shot the man in both his kneecaps.
Finally, it was time to go on stage. The old man was rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He knew he had the talent, and with his lucky singing pants on, there was no way he could lose. As the opening strains of Strangers in the Night began to play, he ran out on stage, and at that one shining moment, everything was perfect. His singing was perfect, the crowd was swooning, and all eyes were on him and his stunning pants.
But as luck would have it, the detective's pants, like everyone else, hated him with a passion, and in the midst of his moment of pride, his pants betrayed him. As he hit the refrain, the detective could feel his pants noticeably tighten. At first he blamed it on the excitement, and the massive hard on he was getting from it, but the pants continued to tighten. He did his best to ignore it, but by "love was just a glance away," his voice had become a squeaky travesty. People in the audience began to boo, taking it as an insult against Frank Sinatra. Unable to continue singing, the old detective simply looked on in horror, finally collapsing on the stage. As the instrumental score blared on wordlessly from the loudspeakers behind him, his vision began to fade. He could no longer feel his pants tightening, the feeling had gone long ago. Defeated, he closed his eyes, leaned back, and with a slight whimper, died in a pool of his own shame.
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